Soft Shatter (Wolven Moon Book 1) Read online

  contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Dedication

  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

  chapter Eighteen

  chapter Nineteen

  chapter Twenty

  chapter Twenty-One

  chapter Twenty-Two

  chapter Twenty-Three

  chapter Twenty-Four

  chapter Twenty-Five

  chapter Twenty-Six

  chapter Twenty-Seven

  chapter Twenty-Eight

  chapter Twenty-Nine

  chapter Thirty

  chapter Thirty-One

  chapter Thirty-Two

  chapter Thirty-Three

  chapter Thirty-Four

  chapter Thirty-Five

  chapter Thirty-Six

  chapter Thirty-Seven

  chapter Thirty-Eight

  chapter Thirty-Nine

  chapter Forty

  WOLVEN MOON SERIES

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  SOFT SHATTER

  Dany Rae Miller

  Copyright © 2014 Dany Rae Miller

  All rights reserved.

  ISBN:

  ISBN-13:

  To The Hubs.

  His unwavering support makes me believe.

  chapter one

  A WITCH WALKS into a strip club.

  It sounds like the beginning of a spectacularly bad joke. And it very well could turn out that way given the knot in my stomach.

  This is about finding Val. Finding Val. Finding Val.

  I lift my chin, paste what I hope is a confident smile on my face and reach for the door.

  I’ve been in bars after hours. The filthy, cheap décor becomes blatantly obvious when the lights are turned up. Then, there’s the stench. Without warm bodies radiating cologne and perfume, the empty spaces reek of spilled alcohol and stale cigarette smoke that lingers on old fixtures.

  This is not the case at the Denver Dollhouse. In the vestibule, at three in the afternoon, a soft vanilla scent almost makes me think I’m walking into a spa.

  The giant chandelier is a modern work of art — bands of copper hammered into loose ovals, nestled inside one another. Small milky crystals drip from the copper.

  Standing directly beneath it and looking up, the shape is evocative of female genitalia. The pinkish tinge of the copper looks like flesh and the milky color of the randomly scattered crystals could easily be interpreted as drops of ejaculation.

  Wow. I feel a blush on my cheeks. It’s porn elevated to sophisticated art.

  The coral pendant around my neck heats. Good or bad, something momentous is about to happen. I rub it, hoping for good.

  I smooth the black tank dress that feels too tight and short, and tuck stray hairs back into the bun on my head. Then, with a deep breath, I grip a long ruby red handle and open the hammered copper door to the inner sanctum.

  Inside, the walls, floor and ceiling are a matte black, as are the tables and chairs. Touches of hammered copper and pops of ruby are sprinkled throughout. It’s stunning, clearly well maintained — and seemingly empty.

  “Hello?” I turn to look around the club. “Is anyone here?”

  After a moment, I spot an elegant man sitting at a table on the other side of the bar. Two more hulking men stand guard at the left and right of him.

  At first glance, the man sitting looks totally relaxed, lounging back with one elbow on the arm of the chair. He’s worrying his lips with a knuckle of his index finger, though, as he silently studies me.

  Shit. It’s Enrique Cruz himself.

  “Miss Gentil?” He finally speaks. His voice is throaty deep and smooth as honey.

  “Yes.” I answer, but stand rooted to the spot, my determination and courage abruptly having disappeared. I stare, wide-eyed, at one of the most notorious alpha males in the United States.

  Back and forth, his knuckle scrubs side to side on his mouth. The movement and the brazen head to toe appraisal of me increases my heart rate to a thunderous tempo.

  This is for my sister.

  Val is the only thought keeping me from turning tail and running. I strengthen my posture, pulling my shoulders back and head up. After I do that, the man stands and saunters in my direction, his gaze on me the entire time.

  Two can play this physical evaluation game. I openly take audit of him. He can’t be more than 30 — much younger than I’d expect a wolf nation prime to be. He’s tall, a few inches over six feet.

  A perfectly tailored black jacket and crisp white shirt, open at the neck, cover broad shoulders and thick biceps. Jeans that have seen better days hug long, muscled legs and trim waist.

  Curly jet black hair falls across his forehead and brushes the collar of his shirt. A shadow of a beard draws attention to sexy bow-shaped lips and a shallow cleft in his chin.

  I’m appalled that I’m attracted to him — really attracted to him. A slight quirk of his upper lip betrays his amusement with my returning assessment. Fucking alpha thinks he’s all that.

  The quintessential sexy bad boy, he could be a cover model for GQ.

  Gorgeous.

  And, let’s not forget, deadly.

  Stopping three feet away, he continues to scrutinize me. Long lashes frame dark — almost black eyes. They’re unblinking as they rove over my face coming to rest on my eyes.

  Shit. He’s a beautiful man. And familiar somehow. Yes, I’ve seen his picture. That’s not it, though. I know him. I know those eyes, but from where?

  “Miss Shavone Gentil?”

  “Yes.” The sound comes out raspy. I clear the frog from my throat. “Yes. That’s me.”

  “Enrique Cruz.” He holds out his hand.

  I accept it expecting a professional handshake. Surprising me, he lifts my hand to his mouth and softly presses his lips to the back.

  “It’s a pleasure,” he murmurs with a soft hispanic accent. He kisses my hand again, longer this second time.

  Unsure how to reply, I remain silent. And swallow, hoping to contain the growing lump in my throat.

  Gently lowering, then, releasing my hand, his gaze keeps scanning my face.

  “You are beautiful, Miss Gentil.”

  I swallow, again. And, again, I don’t know what to say. Saying ‘thank you’ to such a compliment seems strange. It’s just makeup. Then again, I was the one who applied it. “Thank you.”

  Cruz walks around me, judging me from every angle. “In this dress, you are lovely. You have a lithe and athletic physique.”

  Glad he likes it. I worked hard on this body lately.

  “You are dazzling.” Cruz sighs as he halts in front of me and gives an apologetic smile. “Unfortunately, a beautiful face only goes so far at a gentlemen’s club. Clients of this establishment prefer more voluptuous bodies.”

  Shit. I lost weight and toned up specifically for this. I force a smile. “Have your clients said as much?”

  “No,” he barks.

  I start at the emphatic sound. He scowls, surprised, I think, that I dare question him.

  “Then, how do you know? Your clients may welcome the diversity of a different female shape.” I keep my voice soft partly because my lungs are struggling to work and partly in hopes he’ll reconsider and
give me a chance.

  “This club isn’t a democracy, Miss Gentil. I make the decisions.” The hard voice matches the black glint of his eyes. “You’re too willowy to work here.” He insultingly waves a dismissive hand. “You may look good in street clothes, but you’re not our type.”

  Who the hell do you think you are rejecting me, you ass?

  For just a moment, my anger overrides the fear, and it shows up in my tone. “Men find me attractive, Mr. Cruz. Not all men mind you, and perhaps not you, but enough men, I can assure you that.”

  “Is that so?” He smirks, walking around me, ogling me once more. It’s disconcerting and annoying at the same time.

  “Are you nervous?” His eyes dance with amusement.

  The son of a bitch is laughing at me, at my anger.

  “Or are you always this contrary? If so, this certainly is not the job for you. Men are pigs.” He looks around his club and back at me. “And in here, they do not hide their chauvinistic tenancies. A mouthy doll simply will not do.”

  Shit. I’m blowing this. Desperate to salvage it, I reign in my attitude.

  “I apologize. I am nervous. Please, Mr. Cruz. I’d just appreciate fair consideration.”

  “Would you?” He cocks his head to the side. “Is your résumé complete, Miss Gentil?”

  “Yes, of course.”

  He raises his eyebrows. “Well, according to your résumé you are completely inexperienced in this line of work.”

  “I’ve waitressed.”

  “Not at an establishment such as this.”

  “A girl has to start somewhere.”

  He crosses one arm over his chest, holding up the other arm. The knuckle is back at his lips. The silence is long. I try hard to stop my constant swallowing and consciously deepen my breathing. I don’t want to hyperventilate.

  Eventually Cruz sighs and relents. “Very well.” He indicates a ruby-red, velvet curtain. “The dressing rooms are through there.”

  The older of the burly guards who has been regarding some spot on the far wall flicks a quick narrow-eyed glance at Cruz.

  Dressing rooms? Does Cruz think I’m a stripper? No wonder there’s a problem.

  “Oh, Mr. Cruz, I’m not a dancer. I’m applying for a waitressing position.”

  “I’m well aware of that, Miss Gentil. Dancer or not, in here all female employees are dolls, and so you must be in an enticing ensemble. Fair consideration entails me assessing how you look in our garments.”

  Of course a strip club would have a uniform. I should have anticipated this.

  “Do you have a problem with that?” A pompous expression on his handsome face, Cruz tilts his head, expecting me to have one.

  I swallow to moisten my throat. “No. Of course not.”

  He snorts smugly. “You don’t sound very certain.”

  “I’m certain that I don’t have a problem with that.” I pronounce each syllable fully.

  With impatience, he indicates the curtain, again. “The first dressing room on the left has a selection of sizes and styles. Choose what you like, whatever you believe suits you.”

  He gracefully arches his arm toward the doorway. “Now, please, Miss Gentil.”

  My confidence reasserts itself. Turning on my heel, I put a touch more sway to my hips as I walk to the curtain he indicates.

  Instead of a homogeneous uniform for every girl, it appears that each server can wear a costume of their choice. The costumes are, of course, lingerie — expensive, beautiful, well made lingerie, but lingerie nonetheless.

  I approach a garment rack labeled with my size and slide the hangers.

  Voluptuous, huh?

  I select a scooped-neck white top that ties under my size C breasts. My necklace hangs just right in the neckline. The cups on the top are a shiny silk. The bodice is sheer, short and flyaway, leaving my abdomen bare. Perfect. It makes my bust look bigger while highlighting my small waist and stud belly ring — a gift from Dillon before he left for the Marines.

  For a bottom, I try a cute ruffled white bikini panty. The ruffles make my derriere appear a bit rounder. A bonus is that my ass cheeks are covered.

  Moving to an impressive shoe rack on the other side of the room, I find the shelf with my size. I choose classic kitten-heel slippers in white silk with fluffy marabou trim across the toe. The mules are very comfortable. I could easily endure an entire shift in them.

  I turn to look into the mirror over the vanity.

  Hair up or down? I decide to leave it up in the bun. It’s how’d I’d like to wear it during work. Certainly more comfortable while I rush around a club.

  Standing back, I examine myself in the full length trifold mirror. I look like a girl romancing her man. Not sleazy at all.

  Is this voluptuous enough for Cruz and his sleazy clients? I hope so.

  I close my eyes and breathe to gather my courage.

  This is for Val.

  Deep breathing isn’t helping. I need a bigger boost of confidence. From my purse, I take a tiny candle and a mini lighter to do a quick spell.

  “Spirits, ancestors, guardians of the east, the south, the west and the north, elements of rich Mother Earth, may I borrow your power for my self worth?”

  I spin the thumbwheel on the lighter.

  “With this candle I now ignite, with this chant that I recite, lend me thy magick might.”

  I place the candle on the makeup counter.

  “I call upon thee to lend me courage, to soothe my nerves and my poise to nourish.”

  The little flame on the tea candle flashes taller for five seconds or so as the ancestors acknowledge my request.

  “Thank you for hearing my plea. So mote it be,” I whisper and close the spell. “If it cause no ill, do as you will.”

  When a spell is successful, any candle used snuffs itself out. This time, it flickers a little, but stays lit.

  No.

  Every spell I’ve cast concerning my sister has been blocked. Every. Single. One. I don’t know why.

  My eyes get misty. “Mom, if you’re among the spirits, hear me. Answer me, please. Do I need to use black magick to find Val?”

  The flame shoots almost to the ceiling.

  “Should I take that as a no?”

  The candle wick spits fire sideways like a sparkler and goes out.

  chapter two

  WATCHING SHAVONE STRUT away with her head held high was a singular pleasure. The image is permanently imprinted into my brain right next to a young witch determined to survive. I’ll cherish both, cherish her until the day I draw my last breath.

  My resolve to discourage her wavered the second I caught her scent. The beast in me clawed inside, begging me to keep her near.

  “Enrique.” My younger brother attempts to divert my attention from the curtain.

  “I know, Antonio. Please don’t lecture me.”

  “The French will start a war if you hire her.” Uncle Emmanuel chimes in with his gravelly voice.

  “Is that so? What if they’ve sent her, hmmm?” I’ll kill them, each one with my bare hands if they have done such an abominable thing.

  “They wouldn’t use a Soft witch like that,” he says. “They’re that honorable at least.”

  I snort. “Are you certain? I’m not.”

  I watch the curtain eager to see what she chooses to wear, eager to see my heart’s desire in lingerie. I get aroused just imagining her nude on the other side of the wall.

  “If she is here on her own accord, they aren’t living up to their duty as wolves. Either way, my Shavone is in trouble.”

  “She’s not yours,” Uncle Emmanuel insists.

  Nonsense. She is mine — whether she recalls our connection or not. We were kids. There was nothing sexual about it. We were heart to heart, soul to soul, survivor to survivor. Even as a child, though, my wolf recognized her immediately. I knew she was destined to be my mate.

  Someday. When the protection of the sisters is finished — then, she will be mine. Complet
ely. In the meantime, I will continue watching over my Shavone the best I can within the confines of the Alliance order.

  Shavone is here, bravely on the trail of her missing adoptive sister. The cowardly pack assigned to protect her? Nowhere to be seen. Just as they failed Valerie, they are failing Shavone.

  I close my eyes and inhale. Her wonderful scent lingers around me, filling my nostrils and lungs. I lick my lips — the taste of her hand, her hand for fuck’s sake, makes my mouth water wanting to take her here and now, mark her as mine. My wolf agrees wholeheartedly.

  “The Norse have called a meeting,” Antonio says.

  “When?”

  “Next week.”

  I nod. “Put it in my calendar.”

  What is taking her so long? I walk to the curtain.

  “Miss Gentil? Are you alright in there?”

  “Yes. I’m finished.” She steps around the dressing room wall into the corridor just as I pull the curtain aside.

  My lungs seize. The artistry I was expecting can’t compare to the astonishing sight before me.

  Starting at her small feet, sweetly decorated with feathers, my stare slides up her shapely legs to her flat belly. I linger there on the green stone in her navel. The emerald is a nice gem, but not good enough for her. When she’s mine, I’ll buy her the finest diamond to adorn that sexy spot.

  Shavone’s tits are perfect, well-rounded and a nice handful. The nipples harden under my gawk, pleading for my tongue to bathe them in carnal worship.

  Fuck. Down wolf, down.

  The pulse in her throat beats rapidly, her luscious mouth parted slightly. Finally, my eyes lock with hers, to the extraordinary gray that haunts my dreams.

  With the minutest shake of my head, I wake myself as if from an hypnotic state. Those bewitching eyes of hers fill with womanly satisfaction.

  Yes, Niña, you affect me — in ways you can’t even comprehend.

  I offer her my hand, palm up. “Please.” It’s not a request. She rests her delicate fingers on my hand — the touch jolts us both, a confusing frown darkens her eyes.

  You recognize your wolf, don’t you? Deep down, on a instinctual level you know that I am yours.

  Closing my fingers around hers, I lead her through the threshold and into the well-lit main room.