Loving A Wolf: Books 1 & 2 Read online

  Copyright © 2018 Danica St. Como

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book only. No part of this book may be reproduced in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author.

  Please do not participate or encourage piracy of copyrighted material in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  ISBN (EBook): 978-1-949771-03-9

  ISBN (Print): 978-1-949771-15-2

  Cover Artist: Fiona Jayde

  Formatting: Tamara Cribley www.DeliberatePage.com

  Published in the United States of America

  This book is a work of fiction. While reference may be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously; any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  WARNING: This book contains sexually explicit scenes and adult language and may be considered offensive to some readers. This book is intended for adult readers only, as defined by the laws of the country in which the book was purchased. Please store your book or files where it/they cannot be accessed by under-aged readers.

  DISCLAIMER: Please do not attempt any new sexual practice without the guidance of an experienced practitioner. The author or associates shall not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury or death resulting from use of the information contained in this title.

  LOVING A WOLF

  A frightened, abused young woman on the run for her life is pulled into the world of shape-shifters.

  After a chance encounter with a wolf clan’s Alpha heir apparent, Vincenzo Velladelorian, Olivia Cortinovis finds herself mated, marked, and—impossibly—pregnant. When she panics, goes on the run again, the Alpha and his half-brother track her down, convince her—and her best friend—to return to Montana with them to Villa Vella, to meet the family. Once there, she must overcome the pack’s disapproval, plus learn to adapt to her new surroundings—and her new mate. But before she and her unborn child can be truly safe, she must deal with the past.

  And the past comes with a surprise no one saw coming.

  Contents

  Book 1, Genesis

  Prologue

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Book 2, Essentia

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Chapter Fourteen

  Chapter Fifteen

  Chapter Sixteen

  Chapter Seventeen

  Epilogue

  About the Author

  Other Titles by the Author

  Book 1, Genesis

  Prologue

  Olivia hid the last fully-loaded Smith & Wesson five-shot revolver in the kitchen’s dishtowel drawer.

  Come for me now, you bastard.

  She’d practiced shooting at empty ravioli cans. She’d taped paper shadow targets to trees. Set empty mac and cheese boxes on rocks and fence posts. Practiced until her fingers and wrists cramped in agony. Body shots, head shots, didn’t matter—she could handle them all.

  Thank goodness the single-story cabin had only four rooms. Front door and back door had solid deadbolts; no basement, no attic. Four rooms, four weapons. Guns loaded—no kids to worry about—no safeties to deal with. Enough firepower to stop a man long enough for her to fire again, without knocking her on her ass when she pulled the trigger.

  Come for me now, you bastard. I’m ready.

  Chapter One

  A curse flew from Vincenzo Velladelorian’s lips as he rode up to the log cabin, then set the kickstand on his chassis-lowered Ultra Ground Pounder. Since the summer tourist season was still months away, when the hell had the second cabin been leased? With only two rentals at the end of the long, quiet, isolated road, he’d decided while he was choking down interstate dust to lease the other dwelling as well. It had taken him longer than expected to reach the little burg. So early in the season, he didn’t think time would be an issue—apparently normal people planned vacations ahead. Fuck.

  The decision to take a more circuitous route from Montana to this backwater burg—by way of Cleveland—had not figured in his original plans. However, no one would search for him in upstate New York, on the outskirts of the small, quiet lake community of Chicaqua. No one to guess he’d ridden north and east instead of the more likely south and west. The rental notice had appeared in one of the freebie real estate pamphlets tucked into a truck stop newspaper rack. The location of the cabin suited him perfectly. No one could track him.

  Vin dismounted, shucked out of his leather jacket, stretched, rolled his stiff shoulders to relieve his aching muscles. He hung his helmet on a handlebar, shook out his heavy mane of black hair. Pushed back his Ray-Bans to keep his unruly forelock out of his eyes.

  He loved his family, he really did, even though they made him fuckin’ nuts. But after the last frustrating conversation with his even more frustrating brother, Vin had smashed his very expensive, does-everything-except-cook-breakfast smartphone against the hot asphalt on which he’d been parked. Therefore, no communication. No Internet. No GPS. No urge to converse with anyone in the near future. No business dealings that couldn’t be handled by various corporate staff members in his absence. No parents. No siblings. Hallelujah.

  More importantly, no breeding-age women with their biological clocks ticking louder than Big Ben. Females who might decide totally on their own that his genes were worth harvesting, simply because of who and what he was.

  If he decided to get laid while he was in Podunkville, he would just be one more guy at a local bar looking to get lucky for the night. Anonymous sex. Mindless fucking. No strings attached. Suitable for his purposes. Remaining unattached was the only way to fly.

  The nondescript green vehicle parked across the drive—some sort of crossover, part car, part SUV, four-wheel drive—had some age on it, but wasn’t rusted through, like so many of its ilk. Looked like Texas tags from where he stood. Don’t Mess With Texas. Shit, what if the other tenant wasn’t just planning a short rental, but was staying until summer? What a cramp in the ass that could turn out to be.

  Vin unbuckled one of the motorcycle’s oversize leather saddlebags, then removed an armload of belongings, mostly clothes. The cabin was fully furnished, so he didn’t need much other than his kit bag. He’d come out to gather the other half of his stuff when he heard a screen door slam.

  He looked up, then groaned. A woman. With his brother’s last argument about the opposite sex, family, and ancestral responsibility still fresh in his memory, he didn’t need the presence of a female to make his otherwise fucking miserable day perfectly fucking miserable. He entreated Lucifer, the Morning Star, the moon’s light-bringer, to promise him that the female wasn’t on her honeymoon, or hadn’t dragged along a herd of whiny, demanding kids.

  He observed for a long moment. No guy unpacking the car for her, so shit-can the h
oneymoon idea. No high-pitched voices screeching from the interior of the vehicle, so shit-can the rug-rats, as well.

  Maybe she was a naturalist or something, come to study the flora and fauna, scope out the wildlife in the isolated section of woodlands. He couldn’t hold back a grin. I could certainly show her some authentic wild life. Nix that. No need for rock-the-world sex games. He’d just quietly bide his time until she left for wherever the hell she came from.

  He’d make sure his name was next on the lease agreement, then leave the other cabin empty. No one would care, as long as the rent was paid and the building wasn’t used for kindling. Then he could settle in for the duration—until he felt the need to move on again. Maybe to New Hampshire. No helmet laws in the Live Free Or Die state.

  Still, as he watched the woman bend at the waist to lift her rolling luggage carrier from the cargo area of the vehicle, he allowed she wasn’t hard on the eyes, not from that angle. Slender, of medium height, she was definitely underdressed for early March in the Northeast. However, the cut-off jeans revealed what appeared to be an amazing ass. When she stood, a snug black tank top embellished with a large red-sequined butterfly showcased perky, upstanding tits.

  She was young, maybe mid-twenties, with smooth, tanned skin, and long legs that ended in scuffed black western boots. Giant retro sunglasses hid her facial features; hair tucked under a vented raffia Stetson finished the ensemble. Go, cowgirl.

  The female was downwind. The breeze came up from behind him, which prevented further conjectures regarding her identity.

  Shaking his head, he dumped all such concerns, then carried the rest of his gear into the cabin. No time for fraternizing with the neighbors, even though his body had reacted immediately with a heavy thickening behind the zipper placket of his jeans. After all, it had been a while since he’d been intimate with anyone. Not even with himself. Besides, she was more Giovanni’s type than his, and Gio was over two-thousand miles away, thanks be to all the sweet saints on a fucking kayak. Vin had no desire for dalliances of any description, no desire for more complications in his life.

  At this time of the year, it would be only a few hours until sunset, followed by blessed full dark.

  The woods are lovely, dark, and deep,

  But I have promises to keep,

  And miles to go before I sleep,

  And miles to go before I sleep.

  He did love Robert Frost.

  Olivia hadn’t seen her large, totally buff neighbor, with his mass of lush black hair and his black-lash-trimmed bright blue eyes, for most of the week. Not seeing him didn’t bother her in the least. Yeah, right. Okay, so maybe she’d missed out on the sigh factor when he worked outdoors in worn but snug jeans and dusty biker boots, usually with nothing more than a tight T-shirt to ward off the chill of the March air.

  He cleaned up fallen branches and other after-winter debris from around the cabin. Sometimes he tinkered with his heavily chromed, pearlized royal purple Harley Davidson clone. She did manage to catch a glimpse of him once without his shirt. Being a secret admirer and loyal follower of the Inked Boys Club, she ached to get close enough to check out what looked like tribal tattoos covering his right arm from wrist to shoulder, as well as across his right breast. He was definitely a bad boy, which meant he was hand’s off, not her type at all.

  Who am I kidding? I don’t even have a type. At least no one who isn’t just a hot photo on the Internet. Hand’s off? Whose hands? No one’s bangin’ on my door for a date. Then again, being unavailable to the dating scene is fine with me. Best way to avoid complications is not to be available.

  When they actually made casual eye contact, he’d just nodded his head, summarily dismissing her, then went about his business.

  She was good with the silent treatment. Keeping to herself meant less reason to make up stories to satisfy curious—and, let’s face it, just plain nosey—people. Still, with his piercing sapphire eyes, with his oversize musculature flexing under his darkly-tanned skin as he worked, he did add a little zing to her isolation. Usually, her only interest in men was insuring they were at least an arm’s length away, preferably two lengths or more.

  After she’d bolted from her former jailer, Olivia had quickly discovered that seclusion combined with inactivity led to depression. Plus, it gave her too much time to think. Thinking led to more depression.

  To regain her emotional health as well as physical strength, she’d developed a routine. First, a grueling forty-five-minute indoor workout using an easily portable set of resistance exercise bands. After working up a sweat, she’d cool off, then, regardless of the weather, run at least three miles a day. If she found a longer track or jogging path, she stretched the distance.

  To maintain anonymity, she dressed in a loose brown-and-beige running suit that concealed her form. Her dark strawberry-blonde hair was coiled and tucked under a plain brown baseball cap, no logo or insignia. When she ran, a pair of Nike Rabid sunglasses hid her too-noticeable bright green eyes. She’d tried colored lenses, but they burned, leaving her eyes red and tearing.

  With only two cabins at the end of the unpaved two-mile-long country road, she guessed the utility company couldn’t justify the cost of running power lines. Propane powered the cabins, but neither television nor Internet service was available.

  Truthfully, she no longer missed the conveniences of civilization. Internet cafés and public libraries worked well enough when she needed to do research, like scouting new locations. Inexpensive and easily-available burn phones made calls possible when absolutely necessary—to the only friend she had. Over the last four years, she’d been amazed to learn how much a person could comfortably do without. Rather liberating, actually.

  After exercise, books were the only other vice necessary to prevent Olivia’s brain from turning into warm tapioca. Hauling books on the move, even paperbacks, wasn’t feasible—then she discovered the wonders of the handheld reading device. She’d splurged and purchased a fairly good one, thrilled to discover she could carry an entire library in her shoulder bag. Her best friend in the whole world had opened an account with a major online bookseller that Olivia could access at will, so she retained what little of her sanity remained by losing herself in other worlds.

  She hungrily consumed fiction of any almost genre. As long as she had somewhere to plug in the charger for the device, she was a happy camper. The e-reader also made a good flashlight as she moved around the cabin at night, padding quietly through the rooms in a tank top and shorts or sweat pants, or a gray ankle-length jersey nightshirt with red lettering—Good Morning, I See The Assassins Have Failed—combined with zebra-striped Hello Kitty slippers.

  The two cabin dwellers didn’t mingle. No “hi neighbor” chats, no sharing casseroles—not that Olivia was much of a cook—no hoisting brews on one porch or the other. They each left on different days: she for groceries and the library, he for parts unknown. He never asked her to pick up milk and bread, she never offered. The arrangement worked well. At first, she’d worried about people prying, but with the hunky biker being her only neighbor, she was as good as alone at the end of the lane.

  Without television, computer, or even radio, Olivia learned to embrace the quiet. No Facebook, no Twitter, no Match dot com. Nothing. Under the shelter of the extended roof that protected the wraparound porch, she sat on the old wooden swing nearly every evening, clear weather or stormy, wrapped snugly against the lingering chill that refused to give up to warmer spring temps.

  If she stayed up late enough, just about pumpkin-coach time without the white mice, the drawn-out metallic squeal of old door springs would disturb the evening’s peace and quiet, as her neighbor apparently departed his cabin by way of the rear of the dwelling. He’d leave about midnight, return between two and three the following morning. His arrival was signaled by the same squeaky spring as he slipped through his back door.

  She never saw any hint
of illumination after he returned home. The cabins faced each other at an angle, so she didn’t actually see him leave or return—she heard the door, surmised the rest.

  It became a game of sorts for Olivia, a harmless diversion. She learned to avoid the wooden porch swing at night, since that creaked nearly as badly as the wood-framed screen doors on both dwellings. She settled instead on an artisan-crafted chair constructed of birch logs, its joints cleverly lashed together by some sort of natural fibers, with thick seat cushions. Wrapped in a heavy, tightly woven shawl to protect against the nip of the night air, she would sit in the dark, listening. It seemed an innocent enough pastime.

  As much as she believed in the live and let live philosophy, the big man’s nightly excursions finally got the better of her. She broke her own rule. By the light of a three-quarter moon, she waited about fifteen minutes after the squeak of the back door signaled his departure. She snuck around to the rear of his cabin, padding along silently in her Hello Kitties.

  His back porch, covered over in the same fashion as the front, proved the twin of hers, with its own birch chair. However, laid across the chair was a pair of jeans and a T-shirt. She touched the jeans. Not damp, so he wasn’t air-drying them. She brought the garment to her face, sniffed. The fabric felt soft, well-worn, the scent masculine and outdoorsy. Clean, not heavily cologne-scented or overpowering. She inhaled again. Nice.

  She used her reading device screen as a flashlight. No boxers or briefs. No wallet, watch, or jewelry. Biker boots tucked under the chair. Although sorely tempted, she wasn’t brave enough to actually sneak into the man’s cabin, so she tiptoed back to her own. Safely indoors, she stripped to her nightshirt, slid into bed. Unable to slow her racing pulse at her unusual boldness, sleep didn’t come easily that night.

  Where did he go every evening? He’d left his clothes and boots—why? Was he running around naked? A pervert? A Peeping Tom? Nah, a perv or a peeper didn’t make sense. He hadn’t flashed her—didn’t even speak to her—and there were no other neighbors.