The Billionaire Werewolf's Princess. Michele Hauf
It soared high, the wispy tail of its form spilling black, oily fog over Ry’s head. He swept the substance aside to keep an eye on the creature. Out the corner of his eye he again saw the fabric between realms glimmer. Always, they arrived in pairs.
“This is crazy,” the woman said. She stood and wobbled. Drunk? Had to be. “I need a cab. I can’t find my pocket. My skirts are tangled... Hey, that thing is swooping toward you!”
Ry averted his attention from the crazy lush sight of the most gorgeous woman he’d ever seen to the sparkling black void that aimed for his throat. Its curved, sharp talons wrapped about his throat. Gagging, Ry stumbled backward. Slipping his sword arm back and thrusting the tip up, he managed to stab the thing, but not in the substantial main body, instead only in the wispy tail. It released him and, with a twist of its misty shape, soared toward its approaching partner.
“That way!” Ry pointed down the street. “Go!”
“What are those things? And why are you so angry with me? Can a girl get a break?” She now stood in the street not ten feet from him. “I have only ever tried to please people. And what do I get? Dumped at the ball. Todd is such an asshole.”
“Fuck Todd!” Ry said hastily.
“Right?”
One of the collectors took note of the woman. She wouldn’t have time to get to the street and out of FaeryTown.
Ry raced for her, grabbed her by the arm and shoved her between the dust den and another brick wall. She screamed and landed on her hands and knees, which he regretted, but only so long as it took for him to turn and dodge the lunging collector.
Now he was angry. And the twinge of a shift crawled across his scalp. His werewolf did not like these nasty things from Faery. Ry’s upper body, of its own volition, shifted. T-shirt tearing at the seams, his shoulders grew wider and his head assumed wolf shape.
Growling, Ry marched toward the collector and led it back to the center of the street. He swung his sword repeatedly. When it shot upward into the sky, hovering above him, Ry positioned himself below, waiting. In his peripheral vision he could see the other collector approaching the alley where he’d shoved the woman.
The creature above him dropped like a rock. He thrust up the sword, and it pierced the collector’s heart. Ichor spilled over Ry’s fur and wolf-shaped head and down his arms and paws. Without a death scream, the thing dissipated into black faery dust.
But the next sound sent a chill up his spine. The scream was not that of annoyance, drunkenness or a jilted woman. It was of fear—and pain.
The collector slashed a razor talon across the woman’s décolletage. She fainted. And the thing turned to gnash its teeth at Ry as he approached. Sword thrusting as he ran, Ry caught the creature as it lunged toward him. More black dust and the eerie, quiet dissipation of the collector in the air before him.
On the ground was a scatter of pink fabric. A sparkly rhinestone shoe peeked out from the fluff. The woman’s chest bled where the collector had scratched her.
Shaking off his werewolf with a seamless shift back to human shape, Ry bent over her. “Damn it, how did you manage this?” He touched two fingers to the side of her neck. The collectors’ bite was deadly to humans, but he wasn’t sure about their talons. The things were literally bags of floating poison.
He felt a heartbeat, but it pulsed and then slowed. Quickly.
Instinctually, he knew. “She’s going to die.”
And that did not sit well with him. This was his beat. He was responsible for any and all who got in the way of his efforts to keep the collectors off the streets. And she was an innocent. Just like those he was trying to protect.
Lifting her into his arms, Ry rushed down the street, deeper into FaeryTown. He knew no more collectors would arrive tonight. There were never more than two nightly.
“Sorry to make your night worse, Princess,” he said as he turned, heading toward the faery healer he had once or twice used for his own injuries. “We’re going to have to talk about how you were able to breach FaeryTown.”
She moaned in his arms and muttered something about Todd not deserving her.
“Todd’s a jerk,” he said. “Any man should be proud and honored to have your company.”
Unless she was a pill. Hell, even the pretty ones could be tough to deal with. But damn, she smelled great. Sweet and soft, like something he wanted to taste.
Giving his head a shake to chase away that random thought, Ry kicked the door to the faery healer’s home. This was not a situation he wanted to be in right now. Standing on Hestia’s doorstep? She wasn’t going to be happy.
“To the devil with you!” a voice hollered from behind the door.
To be expected. They had a history.
But the woman in his arms would soon be history if he didn’t hurry. Ry kicked the door again, and the chains on the other side broke, the door slamming inside against the wall. He rushed across the threshold and down the tight, narrow hallway to the healing room where Hestia helped so many of her afflicted species. He laid the woman on the bed of leaves and vines that immediately coiled and twisted to embrace her arms and one exposed shoeless foot.
Ry turned to the fuming faery behind him. Her skin tone was a shade of cotton-candy pink, which she accented with a green slip of a dress. She was tiny, compared to his hulking height, and yet her annoyance hit him like a punch to the gut. If violet eyes could ever burn with the flames of hatred, hers did.
“I know, I don’t deserve your help after the last time,” he began. “Please, Hestia, she’s an innocent. Got caught between me and a collector. See that scratch on her collarbone?”
The healer bent to inspect the woman. She then licked the wound with a snake-long tongue. Shaking her head, she announced, “She will die.”
“No. You can heal her. I know you can. Do this, and I promise I’ll never ask for another healing from you again.”
Hestia looked him up and down. Lately, with his battles against the collectors, he took on a lot of injuries that challenged his innate ability to quickly heal. And she knew it. And the last time they’d spoken? She had nearly died to save him from a fatal wound. And she might have thought he cared for her more than he really had. It had been a fling. Apparently, though, she had thought differently.
“You willing to pay for this?” she asked. “Lots of mortal realm euros?”
Money meant nothing to him. And he had far too much of it. She could ask for untold riches and it would be like handing over a few bills to her.
“One million,” she said.
He nodded eagerly. “I’ll send a courier with the cash as soon as the banks open tomorrow.”
She eyed him cautiously. For as much as she hated him—and had every right to—she had to know he was good on his word. But she tilted her head and asked, “What does this one mean to you?”
“Her? I hadn’t met her until five minutes ago. I don’t want an innocent to die because she got in my way.”
The healer nodded, then pointed over his shoulder. “Very well. Go stand out in the hallway. It will take some time.”
The beautiful man with impossible muscles—he wore an oddly tattered shirt that revealed oh, so many tight, bulging muscles—held a sword and fought weird black creatures that flew in the air about him. In the middle of Paris.
And as Indi was lying there on the ground, watching with her mouth hanging open, she thought, for a moment, the tall, handsome man...changed. When he looked at her, his head was shaped like a wolf’s.