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 Copyright © 2024 Shelby Stokes

The content in this book contains explicit sexual content. This book is intended for mature audiences only. Please keep away from minors.

All rights reserved

The characters and events portrayed in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.

No part of this book may be reproduced, or stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without express written
permission of the publisher. If it is sold, shared, or giving away, it will infringe on the copyright of this work and violators will be prosecuted to the fullest extent of the law.

ASIN: ​ B0CRK26W1S

Cole: Alphas Of Penrose Hollow. An Anderson Brothers Novel

Cover design by: Pisky Designs - piskydesigns.co.uk

 Contents

Copyright
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
Afterword
 Alphas of Penrose Hollow
An Anderson Brothers Novel

COLE

by Shelby Stokes

The following story contains sensitive themes that are not suitable for all readers.

Trigger Warnings:
Rape - Threat of.
Mental illness
Severe violence
Death
Slavery
Abuse – physical, mental, emotional, verbal.
Child abuse – discussed, not described.
Kidnapping – forceful deprivation of/disregard for personal autonomy.
Dismemberment.
Incest – discussed, not described.
BDSM – Flogging/Shibari/Spanking

Please keep yourselves safe.

 Dear Reader,

Not all pathways to Heaven pass through the fiery depths of hell: safer options exist. But for those deemed worthy, for the steadfast and resilient souls, the hard road
reveals a bounty even more exquisite.
Despite being a perilous journey, amidst scorching heat and billowing smoke, it offers a kaleidoscope of sights; flickering flames that dance and illuminate the path, casting
eerie shadows upon the rugged terrain.
With every breath, the air attempts to smother them. It resonates with the cacophony of crackling fire, mingling with the distant echoes of tormented souls. Their lungs will
forever carry the scent of sulphur, a pungent reminder of the trials they’ve endured.
Yet, as the worthy navigates this treacherous realm, a profound sense of purpose courses through their veins. It carries strength, fuelling them with an unwavering
determination. And when they emerge, triumphant, into the ethereal realm of Paradise, the experience will elevate and enrich their souls. And it is in that moment that their
journey yields its reward.

So, for those of you who are still with me, take a seat and fasten your bonnets securely.
Like Avery, it is time to take the first step, turn the page, and settle in for a bumpy ride.

Shelby Stokes xxx

 Chapter One
Are You The Shovel Or The Shit?

Cole

A TORMENTED SCREAM filled the abandoned factory: the savage shrieks, a stark dichotomy to the classical music
filtering through the speakers. Macabre. That’s what it was. A symphony to the dramatic and sickening slashes of red against
the white-plastic sheet on the concrete floor. It was a paradox of grotesque beauty, and Cole was in his element.
Ready to part flesh once more, the overhead spotlight cast a glint on Colton’s sword, reflecting in his manic grin and
creating an eerie spectacle. It was a sight to behold; cultivating Cole’s own darkness as he smirked in approval. He was glad
that they found a permanent space for the Wetwork.
The rundown building was fifteen miles away from town: a long-forgotten unit in the middle of nowhere, hidden from
view by a thicket of pine trees surrounding the perimeter. With the help of discrete contacts, it took little time to upgrade one of
the undamaged chimneys into an induction furnace, so body disposal was no longer an issue either. That the space always
seemed to smell like a wet dog ass-fucked a badger was inconsequential.
With his weapon slack in his grip, Colton air drummed and pirouetted to a metal rendition of “Ave Maria”. Cole’s
blood surged with exaltation as the marks weary whimper harmonised with the surrounding chorus. The heavy-set, naked and
balding man sat in a wooden seat; a reinforced item that, to the unacquainted observer, appeared to be the sort of shit you could
pick up for a tenner from any DIY store. That little deception was the first rung on the torture ladder; lulling their prey into a
false sense of security. The chair looked like it would shatter the second it fell back and struck the concrete, freeing the
bindings.
Cole chuckled at the illusion, watching contentedly as the cretin continued his attempts to gain freedom. Gavin Bray’s
whine turned into a wail; his failure and pain were clear, and the man appeared half-crazed as it erupted from his mouth.
Shoulders straining, his arms pulled behind him; secured with natural jute to the wood-encased metal poles that formed the
backrest of his seat. The moaning maggot attempted to yank at his bindings once more; his gaze franticly seeking escape or a
stay of execution, but the centimetre-thick twisted rope held strong — the chair didn’t budge.
‘Gavin, poor Gavin,’ Creed crooned, lightly gripping Cole’s shoulder as he stepped out from behind him. The middle
Anderson sibling ran his fingers through his short, jet-black hair as he made his way towards the mark. The openness that
emanated from his masquerade made everyone feel at ease in his presence. ‘Sometimes, you’re on top of the world, and other
times, rotting in the gutter. What’s it going to be today? Are you the shovel or the shit?’ But Mr Bray didn’t get to give an
answer — not that any of them expected one.
The current musical interlude was ending, and the youngest Anderson was yet to finish playing. ‘Pray for us sinners,’
he sang as the mark wailed, the Kodachi sword slipping out of Gavin’s stomach with a squelch. Cole scoffed as he admired
Colton’s aim. Every time his brother took a shot, it miraculously avoided hitting any vital organs. None of them wanted to give
their prey a quick death, but his surgical precision was a gift that set him apart.
Cole was the oldest, and the most like their father to look at, but that was where the similarities ended. That degenerate
was a sorry excuse for a man, and his thirst for supremacy warped his mind; ruining his family long before their mother loved
her sons. When he was born and his powerful energy signature emerged, the sperm donor forcefully violated his own wife,
driven by the desire to conceive another child. Creed arrived — alpha as expected — then Colton nine months later. But the
combined power that their father demanded came with a steep price tag.
A sob, broken and filled with despair, pulled Cole back to the present. ‘I don’t know his name,’ Gavin wheezed, saliva
dripping from his gaping maw, his eyes now swollen shut.
At some point, his youngest sibling seemed to have abandoned the idea of using his weapon and resorted to utilising
his knuckles. With a raised arm, Creed outstretched his hand, signalling for him to pause as he prepared to strike another blow.
‘C’mon,’ Colton hissed, bouncing from foot-to-foot. The unwelcome, though temporary repression of his enjoyment
darkened the brightness of his frenzied gaze.
With a huff to highlight his annoyance, he removed the black band from his wrist and raked his hands through his
shoulder-length hair, letting out an exasperated sigh before tying it away from his face. Removing the Marlboro Lights from the
back pocket of his jeans and retrieving two from inside the packet, his frustrated gaze met Cole’s. But the darkness within him
had already retreated into the shadows, leaving only the glare of his irritation as he placed a cigarette behind each ear.
Cole cracked his neck and shifted his six-foot-four frame as he mirrored Colton’s displeasure. He was not a good man;
none of them were. Mercenaries hired out to the highest bidder. The Andersons and their team of men called themselves The
Brethren. Lone alphas and betas who didn’t have packs to call their own, and rogues abandoned by their family. Each member
willingly submitted to the unquestioned authority of the three brothers.
They were ruthless wolf-shifters who weren’t afraid to take out the trash — like Gavin the fucktard. But they didn’t
kill and maim for shits and giggles. They checked every job that found its way onto the table against their fair yet strict Code of
conduct.
While their focus wasn’t always on the ethical, honourable or moral codes, they never worked to make the rich-men
richer. They dealt with rapists and robbers. The sort of scum that plagued the good citizens of Penrose Hollow. The prey of the
day was a revolting, morally bankrupt individual. A kiddy-fiddling, granny-killing, walking cadaver. He deserved everything
they delivered and the rest that was yet to come.
With a huff, Creed released a breath, his waning patience on full display. Among the three brothers, he had the warmest
smile and the most welcoming demeanour. Around him, The Brethren felt a deep sense of comradery, as if he possessed an
irresistible magnetism that pulled them towards him. ‘Where did you get the pictures, Mr Bray?’ he tried again, holding up the
deviant’s phone to show the man the exact photos he was referring to, but Gavin just shook his head, sweat, and blood
splattering against the white-plastic sheet beneath his chair.
Cole was sure the rolls of polythene kept growing. The heavy-duty membrane must be six-times the size of what they
once used. They all got a little artistic with torture, but Colton took it to another level; woe betide the fool who crossed his
path if his brother wasn’t bathed in blood with a severed head in his hands by the time they were finished.
He chuckled softly; his youngest brother’s dramatic flair never failed to entertain him, but a hacking racket of grunts
caused him to frown. Gavin was laughing. Despite the swelling, Cole could make out his eyes as they rolled back in their
sockets. The mark clamped his mouth shut.
A sigh vibrated against Cole’s lips as his shoulders slumped in defeat. He knew they wouldn’t be getting any
information from him, though not because the man was loyal; he suspected Gavin didn’t have any knowledge regarding the
upper echelon who orchestrated the trafficking of children.
Creed turned to face Cole; his eyebrows raised in question. They were a Pack, despite all of them being alphas. Blood
and a painful upbringing kept them from tearing each other’s throats out in a fight for dominance. They each had a voice in
every aspect of their work, but often, both younger brothers deferred to him and his position as the oldest Anderson.
Cole released an involuntary sigh, his coverall swishing as he stepped forward from his spot a few feet to the left of
Gavin. Colton raised his hands out as another song reached its climax; his bare-chest covered in blood and his deep-tenor
resounding through the large space as he went back to dancing around the bleeding mark.
The vulgar scent of excrement and piss invaded Cole’s nostrils, making him grunt. His gaze followed the rich-red
liquid running freely from the multiple lacerations covering Gavin’s torso. The faint shine of his skin had taken on a grey
pallor, and if the wheezing gasps escaping his exerted lungs were any sign, then Mr Bray didn’t have long before he breathed
his last.
Knowing molecules of shit would taint the mark’s final breath gave him a spring in his step. When you lived in a world
like his, you had to celebrate the small wins.
Rubbing his chin in a show of irritation, Cole let out a dramatic huff. His baby brother needed a lesson in patience, so
he’d attempt once more to get something out of the mark. Though the man was a hired kill, the images they found on his mobile
had nothing to do with the contract. It linked him to the child trafficking The Brethren had been digging into. Yet so far, they’d
come up with no leads.
‘There are pictures of naked children on your phone. Who sent them? This is your chance at redemption, Mr Bray,’
Cole clarified, his voice even despite his irritation and disgust. ‘You’re already dead, but I’m an understanding fellow, so if
you have any last confessions before you meet your maker, now’s your time to ask for forgiveness.’
Salvation for a paedophile’s soul?
He scoffed, unable to contain his contempt. Gavin left a sickening trail of victims in his wake; the youngest being only
nine years old. Children whose innocence he stole; their lives forever tainted by his sick depravation. So, no. Redemption was
not on offer. Cole didn’t know if there was a God, and if there was, he suspected there would be more than a single entity:
nearly eight-billion souls to shepherd were too-tall-a-task for one, surely?
He struggled to put stock in anything he couldn’t see himself, but he had faith that there was a special spot in hell, or
whatever version of it existed, reserved for monsters like Gavin.
A mournful groan escaped the mark, his head flopping forward; the ropes binding his hands to the chair was the only
thing keeping him upright. The brothers had been at it for two hours and boredom had long since set in.
Cole rolled his eyes, dragging his forefinger across his neck; smirking as the maniacal grin returned to Colton’s blood
splattered face. It widened when the opening notes of Carl Orff ’s “O Fortuna” boomed out from the speakers.
‘Velut luna.’ Colton curtsied. ‘Statu variabilis,’ he bellowed, stretching out the words, prancing on the balls of his feet
like a Maypole dancer as he reached for the Katana on the portable table to his right.
The brothers kept many tools of the trade locked away in the underground storage den they found built into a section of
the factory’s foundations. The youngest Anderson had fixated on weapons of a Japanese origin today, including the five
different Tanto swords he had already used.
Creed sniggered, and Cole’s smirk morphed into a rare, full-blown smile as Colton made his way back to Mr Bray like
a spider. As he held the sword deftly between his hands, he executed a swift kick, connecting his right foot with the mark’s
face. Gavin gasped; his head forced upright as he moaned.
A snap sounded out as Creed put on a pair of black-latex-gloves. His fingers traced the Kusarigama, dragging across
the attached chain. Cole thought it looked like a miniature scythe; it wasn’t a good all-rounder weapon, but it was flashy and
made an excellent talking point during the psychological pre-torture warm-up.
His brother changed course and reached for the garden shears.
Cole rolled his neck; all the tension in his body evaporating while he watched Creed lift Gavin’s flaccid penis. A wail
of agony erupted perfectly in time with the song when he pruned the offending appendage. Blood gushed out in spurts from the
raw, mangled stump like a geyser as Creed dropped the useless lump of flesh to the floor.
Other than wanting the man’s painful death, cutting off his dick was the only request their client had made.
A ferocious roar escaped Colton’s lips, marking him as a natural predator ready to strike down his helpless prey.
‘Mecum omnes plangite,’ he thundered, the Katana swift as it arced towards the bottom-feeder’s neck.
As a thud reverberated through the factory, Cole casually wiped away the warm specks of blood that splattered across
his cheek. Mr Bray’s head rolled across the sheet, coming to a stop just before him.
‘Beautifully done,’ Creed congratulated as Colton retrieved his severed trophy from the floor, holding it tight to his
chest as he danced his way back to the mark. He removed a cigarette from behind one ear and put it inside Gavin’s mouth,
softly stroking the lifeless cheek as the music continued to play. ‘I’ll call Donovan and Deacon for a clean-up. You know how
much he enjoys the flames.’ Creed chuckled, stepping up to undo the bindings keeping Mr Bray’s body bound to the chair.
Cole smiled, his head shaking in amusement. Deacon enjoyed the scent of burning flesh even more.
Every member of The Brethren had their own eccentricities. No one came into the fold with a clean slate, and he
wouldn’t judge any of them for how thick their own layer of grime was. He was a firm believer in doing whatever it took to
survive in this unforgiving world.
Creed’s eyes gleamed with intensity as he laid Gavin out on the sheet, capturing a photograph of his mutilated corpse
as proof of the kill.
‘Hold your horses,’ Colton mumbled, his own cigarette clutched between his teeth as he played hopscotch with the
splatters of blood.
Cole didn’t know why he bothered trying to avoid it. It clung to his body like a second skin. His brother’s muffled
giggles filled the room, blending with the squelching sound of each step he took. The metallic scent of copper was a welcome
reprieve from wet dog and badger, but he still felt a mixture of frustration and exasperation as he wondered how Colton always
ended up in this messy predicament.
Who was he kidding? He experienced more than a tinge of amusement as he watched his little brother place his prize
back down on the floor. The sound of Creed’s boisterous laughter filled the space, blending with Cole’s chuckles, while Colton
positioned the head under Gavin’s armpit, ensuring his motionless arm cradled it securely.
Cole turned and removed his coverall. ‘Send the picture and tell Polly to waive the fee,’ he instructed.
The Mechanic who hired them would sell his house and his soul to get revenge on the man who raped his daughter, but
he wouldn’t need to because this one was on The Brethren.
Rot might beget rot, but he and his brothers intended to use their twisted minds for good wherever they could.
‘I’ll see you both back at the club,’ he added, throwing the disposable clothing on top of Mr Bray.
 Chapter Two
She Has Teeth

Cole

COLE’S BLOOD THRUMMED through his veins; a heady mix of satisfaction and righteous hunger pounding a steady beat
inside his chest. He and his wolf were still riding the high that came from delivering that cold, hard vengeance.
It wasn’t justice, and it wouldn’t give the young girl back her innocence, but it was one less demon on the board.
The office door creaked open slightly after a single, polite knock, dragging his attention from the computer as Lewis’s
head popped into view, his hand swiftly moving in a thumbs-up gesture. ‘All tonight’s bands have arrived, and the bar staff are
finishing filling up stock.’
‘Thanks Lewis. Go to Creed if you have any issues tonight.’
The beta wolf tilted his head, acknowledging his words with a nod. ‘Understood, boss.’
With a soft click, the door closed, and Cole’s eyes darted back to the screen, meticulously checking the members’ only
bookings for the night. Spotting the last two available rooms, he wasted no time in reserving one for himself, filling the
otherwise silent office with the steady rhythm of his typing.
An itch had been niggling him all day, so he’d already messaged a submissive, hoping to scratch it.
He cracked his neck; the sound echoing through the room as he let out a relieved sigh. In his line of work, he had to
keep a thick layer of apathy around his heart and head. The sort of monsters he dealt with exposed him to heinous crimes.
Despite his psychological impenetrability, he unveiled a vulnerable side during those sessions, exploring the depths of his
emotions.
There was a plethora of enjoyment to be had by curating and sharing a temporary emotional bond with a submissive,
reading her mental and physical cues to give her what she needed. Leading her to sub-space was a heady experience that
brought with it a heightened awareness of her heartbeat, her breathing, her peace. And in-turn, an understanding of who he was,
because underneath the heartless killer, Cole wasn’t as cold as he made out.
His enjoyment of BDSM had nothing to do with losing himself; it was about being in control. It allowed him to soften
his heart: a safe place to let his guard down. All the subs he played with knew he wouldn’t offer more than his palm and his
flogger — his cock if they were both inclined — but taking care of someone soft and warm smoothed over the cracks in his
shadowed soul. It was his small piece of comfort in his otherwise dark and harsh world.
His focus was abruptly pulled away by the electronic trilling of his mobile, a smile instantly lighting up his face as
Cheryl’s reply flashed on the screen. Anticipation grew like a wildfire, his mind racing with thoughts of her arrival in just a
few hours. The day’s burdens lifted from his shoulders as he switched off the computer, leaving his office with a sense of
relief.
He pushed open the fire door, stepping out onto the ground floor, a sense of pride overwhelming him as he took stock
of the club’s incredible transformation since they first got it.
They’d opened Encore six years ago after buying and renovating the old Lofty Mine warehouse. Just on the outskirts of
Penrose Hollow, the previous owner used it for storage when the mineral extracting site was still in use. No one had taken care
of the dilapidated building until the brothers purchased the land.
The area was famous for mining tin and copper, but those mines closed a long time ago, and most of the outlying
factories and warehouses no longer operated. Things weren’t looking great for the town, but a few years back they announced
that a new mine was extracting battery-grade lithium carbonate.
It gave the area a much-needed economic boost. That led to the opening of a high-rise office, housing a branch for a
telecommunication company. Houses and schools popped up, a shopping centre with cafes, and just like that, sleepy Penrose
Hollow was back in favour.
The town had a few traditional pubs scattered about, but there was no place else for the locals to unwind. Unless they
fancied a bus-ride to the next closest club, twenty-miles away. Encore opened every evening, catering to different crowds
depending on the day.
Night had yet to fall, and it would be another hour before they let in patrons — two before they started reaching
capacity — but music was already pumping out through the speakers as Thursday’s live bands continued to set up.
Cole headed towards the foyer that led to the front entranceway, nodding in greeting to a bass guitarist running through
frets on one of the small stages to his right, but his gaze snapped to Polly, his numbers girl, as she barrelled through the large
double doors.
The diminutive woman had a fair complexion, her auburn hair usually pulled back in a tight bun at the nape of her neck.
She always seemed on edge, never making eye contact with him, instead choosing to stare down at her feet whenever they
crossed paths.
But right now, she was in disarray, tendrils escaping the crow’s nest on top of her head, and twin angry red circles
stained her cheeks. A scowl hardened her elf like features, a whiff of anger filling the air.
For the past two years she had been handling The Brethren’s books, her magical loopholes ensuring the government
saw as little of the brothers’ hard-earned cash as possible. She knew what their work entailed, at least enough to handle the
financial side of the brotherhood, anyway.
Cole held out his hand, leaning to the left a little to catch her gaze. ‘Woah, where’s the fire?’
Her steps faltered as she came to a skidding stop. Pushing her thick-rimmed glasses back up the bridge of her nose, she
replied with a poultry, ‘Sorry.’ She didn’t look at him, but kept her eyes cast down, that anger morphing into fear as she gripped
the edge of her beige cardigan.
He frowned, his gaze scanning her body as she bent in on herself. ‘Are you finished for the day?’ He knew she liked to
get home before it got dark. In fact, he thought she had already left.
She pulled at her clothing, chewing her lip. If it wasn’t for the distinct scent of her wolf, he would have doubted she
was a shifter. She lacked the steel spine that came as standard amongst their species. Being easily spooked, she seemed to
gravitate to the corners of a room, preferring the seclusion of her own company.
He had a permanent image in his head of her curled up in a reading chair, her nose in a book, a mug of hot chocolate
balancing precariously on the armrest. It had always struck him as odd that she required glasses because wolves had perfect
vision. Cole had assumed she was the runt of a large litter, but her background check showed no siblings.
Finally, she gathered herself enough to say, ‘I, um, forgot something,’ as she danced from foot to foot, the scent of her
anxiety increasing.
That wasn’t too abnormal, though. He was her alpha, but that seemed to be her default mode. She was the same with
all of them, his brothers, and the other members of The Brethren.
‘No worries. Take it easy, Polly.’
With a nod, she brushed a strand of loose hair behind her ears as she partially bowed, and part crumpled into the wall.
She edged past him, her body tense, her entire being pulsating with an innate fear that made Cole’s guilt grow. He had tried
everything to make her feel comfortable around him and his brothers, but she remained as timid as a frightened mouse.
The same one that had stumbled into the club two years ago, searching for a job, but clearly in dire need of a pack, and
an alpha to provide her with a sense of security.
They were far from a traditional pack. There was no shared land with tight-knit housing. No mass hunts and howling at
the moon. They were just a group of shifters, all straddling the line between their lupine and human natures in varying degrees,
all willing to fight to the death to defend their brothers and sister.
That’s not to say that it didn’t take a while for some to get used to her; she was the only female after all, and her
eccentricity made them hesitant. But it worked, and every member now accepted her into the fold.
Cole knew that Colton, who had a tendency to watch her from the shadows, probably didn’t help her skittish nature.
Perhaps she would be more at ease with other females being brought into the pack. However, they had so much on their plates
that they didn’t have time to consider it, let alone discuss it.
At the moment, this was the way things stood.
A smile slowly emerged on his face as he pushed open the double doors, knowing that his little brother’s peculiarities
were as steadfast as Polly’s sensitivity. Over time, they would discover how to coexist and build a harmonious relationship, he
was sure of it.
He chuckled, the sound carrying through the airy layout of the foyer as his feet carried him on autopilot towards the
hidden stairway.
His destination was the upper level he split with his brothers. They divided the space into four sections, creating a
sense of organisation and structure. A shared open-planned kitchen and dining area, perfect for entertaining guests, if the
occasion should ever arise. There was a communal lounge with two leather sofas, and three spacious bedrooms, each equipped
with its own Ensuite. More than enough privacy to live together comfortably.
Cole wanted to eat and have a shower before changing for the evening’s festivities.
Mentally ticking off the checklist for his evening plans, Cole continued his path to the private exit when the front
entrance opened, the cool, late summer breeze drifting in through the space.
His steps faltered as his wolf stirred; a tingle started at the base of his spine.
He frowned at the oddity, his gaze snapping to the girl striding towards him.
Head down, pitch-black hair in a mess beneath the cap obscuring her face, she ambled through the door. A baggy, dark-
blue hoody concealed her figure, and a hint of unease bled through as she repositioned her backpack, then toyed with the strap
on her shoulder.
Was it a nervous trait? A note of innocence, perhaps.
Cole didn’t move as she strolled towards him, but he planted his feet as he readied for the collision. His blood surged
with excitement as her shoulder crashed into his elbow, her gasp as she tightened her grip on the backpack to stop it from
falling chiming in his ears.
He forced a trace of irritation into his stance. ‘Watch where you’re going,’ he said as an unfamiliar scent drifted into
his awareness.
She must be new here. Cole didn’t bother with the day-to-day dealings — the hiring and firing of bar staff was Creed’s
department — though he knew all those currently employed, and the bit of scruff before him was unknown, yet a pleasant
curiosity on his radar.
How unexpected.
Her reply was a grunt, the sound low and menacing, sending a thrill up his spine. Evidently, he’d get no apology. A
smile crept across his face, a malicious expression that should have set off alarm bells in her mind. As it stood, she simply
didn’t care to look up. He couldn’t determine whether it was because she believed he wasn’t worthy of her attention or if it
was purely too much effort to articulate her thoughts.
All he knew was that the desire to touch her again overwhelmed him, leaving him with no other choice.
He gripped her arm gently, feeling the subtle heat seeping through her clothing and into his palm. ‘What was that?’ he
asked. There was a thickness in his throat, and he heard the hoarse quality of his voice despite his attempt to portray
annoyance. He frowned as an odd pull in his gut demanded he close the distance, but his confusion was side-lined as her body
froze, tensing up in his grip.
Though he couldn’t be sure if it was the raspy edge of his tone or his forceful handling, he revelled in the reaction. It
was a display of submissiveness that got his cock stirring in his trousers.
She opened her mouth, but her anger seeped out of her skin, shattering his faulty assumptions as she seemed to fight to
contain a growl. ‘I’m sorry.’
Cole’s lip twitched in amusement.
Hmm. She has teeth. A wolf in sheep’s clothing.
‘Speak up, girl,’ he said, feeling an oddly aggressive desire to provoke and challenge her.
Her head tilted towards him, her gaze still hidden from view, but the ring of gold hugging her bottom lip caught the
fluorescent light from above. Cole’s cock hardened further. It was eager to feel her insolent tongue as it darted out, touching the
hoop briefly before disappearing.
A sigh escaped her perfectly formed mouth, making her own annoyance clear as a fake smile curved her plump lips.
She repeated, ‘I’m sorry.’ Though the words were sweet enough, there was an undeniable venom behind them, which he
seemed to enjoy more than the idea of her prostration.
She was not like the woman he fucked. Not at all. Her fiery spirit burned brightly within her, a force that would
demand he submit. He never would, yet he found he was rather enjoying the dance.
His tongue swiped his teeth, his blood pumping fast through his veins. Something about the bit of scruff niggled at his
senses. The thrill of knowing he was affecting her, just as she affected him, filled him with delight. ‘Good girl,’ he said, his
chuckle barely concealed.
Her body turned taut at his approval. Cole gulped and the saliva pooling in his mouth threatened to breach his lips. A
flash of intense heat spread up his neck, matching the blush of her cheeks.
Well, well. Aren’t you all kinds of interesting?
With a sudden jolt, she tore her arm free from his grip. He begrudgingly stepped aside as she barrelled past and said,
‘Weirdo,’ before pushing her way through the internal double doors.
Cole watched her over his shoulder. His curiosity peeked as she disappeared from his view.
He rubbed his chin, feeling a faint tickle on the tips of his fingers. The memory of touching her lingered.
He licked his lips, a strange sense of longing building in his chest. ‘If only you knew, Cupcake.’
 Chapter Three
He Had An Overwhelming Urge To Kneel Before Her As She Raged

Cole

THE CLUB BUZZED with pulsating music and a contagious energy as Cole walked through the foyer doors, nodding to the
bouncer on duty.
Ethan’s stone-cold mask morphed into an enigmatic grin. ‘You smell that?’ he asked. ‘Pheromones and perfume.
Fucking delicious,’ he chuckled.
Cole smirked, his gaze drifting to the strobe lights that danced across the black glossy surfaces, casting colourful
reflections. Smooth marble and glass invited fingertips to glide and explore, and the violet velvet booths enveloped patrons,
providing a luxurious and intimate environment to unwind.
The staff moved with precision, their shirts a vibrant indigo pop against the sleek black backdrop. While the bass
thumped through the floor, reverberating through the mass of bodies, already succumbing to the sense of euphoria that hung in
the air.
Encore was a sensory playground, charming all who entered.
Fluorescent purple and soft-yellow lighting immersed the circular space in a warm glow. But the main stage, drenched
in the captivating crimson hue from spotlights, dominated the scene, while two smaller set-ups stood on either side.
The brothers had constructed the entire ground floor around dancing, drinking, and music — your standard nightclub.
One of Creed’s regular bands was finishing their last song as Cole slipped through the throng of revellers like a ghost.
Reaching the Members Only alcove, he hopped the velvet rope. Nodding to Elliot, another bouncer, in greeting, he took the
spiral staircase two steps at a time.
The smell of lemon furniture polish and whiskey worked its usual magic as he reached the landing, his mind finally in
the right place for a little one-on-one with Cheryl.
A sardonic snort escaped him. ‘Who are you kidding?’
It had taken a lot more than the scent of whisky to get him there. A freezing shower and a hard-fisted wank couldn’t
completely erase that tasty morsel and her fragrance out of his system. The unknown female had a powerful allure that
enchanted his wolf, who had been restlessly pacing inside since she left his orbit.
Cole undone another of the buttons on his dark-grey shirt, his skin burning up as he strolled across the black-carpet of
the first floor. In contrast to the mesmerising décor of downstairs, this level exuded an air of sexy decadence with its dark
wood and sumptuous furnishings.
Running his hand along the top of a red-leather wingback chair, he nodded at his honorary brother. ‘So far?’ he asked.
Donovan winked. ‘So good,’ he answered.
His friend was a man of few words, but still his first choice when potential Dominants needed monitoring, like the two
here tonight, still going through Cole’s strict approval process.
Beyond being a nightclub, Encore was a safe place to practise BDSM. This floor was for consenting adults who
enjoyed certain types of erotic play. A substantial portion of which was currently lining the iron railing running the length of the
level, allowing the perfect view of the large stage below.
The practices within BDSM were extensive, but Encore wasn’t a place for a Dom who required a complete power
exchange. Cole wouldn’t risk having any members who might abuse the control they held. He began this part of the business as
a healthy outlet for some of his men. It kept a little balance in their otherwise brutal existences.
His gaze scanned the far corner: the spot allotted for the dancer cages Creed wanted to install. It would mean ripping a
section of the wall down and losing two of the rooms, but Cole was slowly coming around to the idea.
The quotes given by companies happy to carry out the work were reasonable; the one his brother picked was free to
start next week. He doubted those who held a membership would mind having a portion of the upper level boarded off during
construction.
The lower crowd cheered as the band finished and he spotted Creed at the centre of the men and woman lining the
railings. Some members wore leather, the subs who had partners wore collars, but most of them had opted for smart yet
comfortable attire.
He pulled his gaze back to his brother, noticing how his large hands gripped the rail as he looked down at the stage —
a smirk lifting his mouth. His six-foot-three frame was imposing but somewhat softened by his open-expression and lazy smile.
He was a switch, so craved both giving and receiving a bite of pain, and his short-trimmed hair and clean-shaven face meant
finding partners to satisfy his hedonistic pursuits easy.
Curious, Cole made a beeline for the middle Anderson brother, wondering who held him so enraptured.
‘What’s got you so engrossed?’ he asked, gripping hold of the railing as he stopped beside him.
Creed shook his head, his smirk merging into a full-blown smile. Devilish grey eyes flitted to Cole as he nodded
toward the heavy-metal band on the main platform.
A slow drum-solo sounded out as his gaze landed on the centre of the stage, the breath in his lungs catching as
unbridled lust rumbled through his body. Like a man dying of thirst, he drank in the sight of the dark-haired beauty slowly
swaying on a stool: the gentle gyration of her hips set a steady thrum in his veins. He scratched his chin, his fingers demanding
a distraction.
The low lighting made her hair look crimson-red as it swished sensually across her bare-arms. Black material
deprived her of sight as she hit the snare and the hi hat, her feet working the bass drum in a slow and sexy beat as other band
members took their places.
He recognised Dwight, the lead guitarist. He was the manager of the band, one of the clubs’ regulars. The tall, well-
built man whispered something in the dark-haired beauty’s ear. She nodded; her hands stilling the snare as the opening keys of
Avenged Sevenfold, “Critical Acclaim,” set the crowd alight.
Cole felt the world drifting away, the siren at the drums demanding his full attention. He shook his head, forcing his
gaze elsewhere as he swallowed against the tightness in his throat. He wiped his suddenly slick palms against his trousers;
opened his mouth and coughed to loosen the vice-like tension holding his vocal cords.
Licking his dry lips, he forced words out. ‘New drummer?’ he asked.
The enchantress drew his gaze once more; her pull insistent.
Christ, he was thirsty. All the moisture in his body seemed to have escaped through his hands. His mouth felt barren,
desperate to quench the hunger burning in his gut.
If Creed noticed that his brother now sounded like a forty-a-day smoker, he didn’t show it. ‘Jason has an injury or
something,’ he said, not bothering to look Cole’s way. ‘Dwight brought her to replace him for a few weeks. I’ll get a temporary
contract sorted later.’
With a sigh, his shoulders slumped, his gratitude for the distraction manifesting in a physical release. ‘How’s Dwight’s
induction going? Deacon thought he had some promise.’
The lead guitarist was a hulk of a man. Like most members of The Brethren, he was an alpha and had all the right traits
for the brotherhood’s darker line of work.
Creed rubbed his chin. ‘The man’s got the balls for it. Quite a few of the boys click well with him. He’s held a Master-
level membership here for the past twelve months, so that’s helped sway things in his favour. I’m not entirely convinced that
he’d be capable of baring his neck, but Donovan wants to take him under his wing, so unless you have any concerns, we should
let him shadow the duo.’
Cole nodded in approval. Deacon and Donavan were good people and enjoyed the Wetwork. They weren’t as
colourful as Colton with handling contracts, but it would be a baptism of fire for Dwight. It was a great way to assess his
mettle.
‘What’s with the blindfold?’ he asked, his saturnalian gaze drawn back to the woman.
Creed chuckled. ‘Fucked if I know. Coolest thing I’ve seen in a while, though.’
Cole grunted as she rolled her head, loosening up her neck, her long, dark-hair cascading around her in silky waves.
His gaze zeroed in on her plump mouth as it opened, watching intently when her tongue swiped across it, leaving a hint of
moisture that caught the light.
Guitar chords kicked in and his breath hitched as the cymbals crashed once, twice, her teeth worrying at the gold-hoop
that decorated her lower lip.
His steel-like cock twitched as she raised her hands.
 Her. Little Cupcake.
The memory of the bit-of-scruff hidden by clothing two-sizes-too-big evaporated.
She wasn’t a girl at all: she was a goddess.
From his vantage-point Cole noted the dark-denim shorts hugging her thick, toned thighs; the frayed edging mimicking a
lover caressing her skin. They were the type of legs built for power and for gripping a man’s head — as he feasted on her.
The sleeves of her Slipknot t-shirt rolled up to her shoulders. The black cotton hugged her breasts but allowed just
enough freedom for them to sway like a tempting treat, with a tantalising hint of creamy skin shown at the base of the V-neck.
Toned arms raised before a third, fourth, and fifth strike. Cole’s fingers gripped the railing tighter. With a flourish, she
spun the drumsticks in her hands before striking the hi-hat and ride cymbal, instantly filling the air with an electric energy as
her feet worked the bass drum and the toms came into play.
The strobe lights flickered on and the speakers blasted. The crowd screamed as the goddess became a feral mass of
powerful movements. Her hair whipped around her as she let loose the beast inside, emphasising the astonishing muscle
memory in her arms, legs, feet, and hands.
Damn, he had an overwhelming urge to kneel before her as she raged. She was perfection. By the gods. However,
Cole didn’t submit to anyone.
The lead vocalist began, but he tuned everything out. His entire focus narrowed down to the dark-haired beauty
wreaking havoc on his blood stream. The drumsticks, cymbals, and toms became extensions of her as her head nodded, dipped,
and shook. Her powerful legs worked like a blazing fire had been lit beneath her. Cole couldn’t help but envy the stool.
He shivered, shaking his head, trying to dislodge the fantasy of images he’d conjured up, but it was no use. He bit his
cheek, thinking about how her ass would look with her upper body bent low as she offered the creamy globes up to his flogger.
His frame swayed in rhythm with the emotions that flickered across her face — anger, peace, and excitement. They
changed with such speed that Cole questioned whether whiplash should be a valid concern as he continued to watch her,
completely engrossed.
He was desperate to see her eyes as she bounced and ground on the stool, his cock so painfully engorged as the images
in his head morphed into her riding him with the same aggressive strokes.
An itch? Fuck it to hell. He’d never been so turned on.
Creed said something, but he barely mumbled a non-response as he continued his lecherous peeping towards the raging
goddess below.
‘Cole?’ his brother chuckled. ‘Most of the files on Gavin’s phone are password protected, so I’ll courier it to the
Twins to see if they can track who sent the Paedo those pictures.’
And if that wasn’t enough to unhitch the tent in his jeans, then Cole didn’t know what was.
The Galloway Twins — the most infamous brothers to be thrown out of Scotland — were worth each penny of the
hefty fees they charged. Anyone with a hint of computer skills could be a hacker these days, but those boys remained two of the
best. Tuned into every new piece of software before it even hit the market. Observant, patient; their guess work was akin to
actual psychic abilities.
Though Creed could get a lower-ranking tech wizard to hack the phone, the Galloway Twins were trustworthy wolves
and discreet.
He rubbed at his neck, stretching out the taut muscles. ‘Good thinking,’ he said.
It was then that he noticed Colton towards the end of the railings. His little brother’s gaze was distant, devoid of focus,
and his usual demonic smile was nowhere to be found.
Cole gave up on the attempt to relieve his tension and swore under his breath. Everyone assumed that the manic-
grinned lunatic was who they should fear, but they were wrong. When the youngest Anderson brother lost himself — when the
gleam of his eyes became dull, his jaw slack — that’s when people needed to scarper.
All three men dealt with beatings from their dad growing up, but the sperm donor imbedded something insidious into
the ones he dished out to Colton. Blamed for killing their mother when she gave-birth to him, and after years of sickening abuse
as punishment, Colt’s mind became fractured.
The trauma and pain of his first shift at sixteen snapped whatever tether was keeping him sane. His wolf mauled their
father to death; the beast inside him was a monstrous and blood-thirsty hound that would have killed both Cole and Creed if
they didn’t hit him with a dart from a tranquilliser gun.
 Colton never allowed that animal out again, and twenty years of forcing the predator inside to stay bound had changed
him. The light-hearted brother he once knew was gone; a psychopath stood in his place.
A sigh sounded as his previously thrumming blood turned to ice in his veins. The lunatic meant that the youngest
Anderson was present, but the vacant expression on Colton’s face implied he wasn’t in the driver’s seat, and that spelled
trouble.
Creed followed Cole’s line of sight, his shoulders tensing as he looked between his vacant gaze and the goddess
below before stating, ‘Sorry, bro, but cancel your plans. We’ll need to watch him tonight.’
 Chapter Four
The Heady Feeling That I Craved Like A Junkie

Avery

AS I TOOK a deep breath, I could smell a hint of boozy perspiration permeating the air. Even with all the perfumes and other
body odours clambering for my attention, there was something distinctive about the scent of liver-processed alcohol emanating
from the skin.
The lively crowd below, leaping and tossing themselves around with the enthusiasm of pinballs, electrified the aroma
and ambiance. I didn’t dislike it; it was more of a mild indifference. But the energy in the club was so glaring that it was
impossible to ignore. My weary limbs were bouncing with adrenaline, and the foggy cells in my brain were back to firing on
all cylinders.
Actually, this wasn’t so bad.
I couldn’t contain my amusement at my backpedalling, and a snort slipped out. Though I cherished my cousin, I had
reservations about agreeing to help him out by substituting for Jason. It had been a tiring day at work, and all I wanted was to
go for a late-night run and then get some much-needed sleep. While I often played drums with the band when we hung out back
at the warehouse that Dwight and I called home, I’d never actually performed in front of an audience.
‘Why can’t you do it?’ I groaned; his imploring gaze already weakening my resolute refusal.
He ran his fingers through his shoulder-length dirty-blond hair, pulling it together in a topknot. ‘You know we don’t
have another lead guitarist available, so I won’t be able to handle the drums tonight. I’ll owe you forever,’ he pleaded with
an exaggerated pout, his pale-blue eyes wide as his gaze begged me to agree.
‘What, exactly, is that worth?’ I asked with a raised eyebrow, my curiosity piqued.
‘What if I cooked for two weeks?’ he suggested, stepping closer to me.
I frowned, looking up at him, wincing as my neck throbbed with an ache. ‘Two weeks? You just said you would owe
me forever.’
His eyes rolled, and his lips twitched as he fought to conceal a smile. ‘You can play the drums blindfolded.’
My mental health was thriving, so I didn’t think I needed it, but the promise of experiencing the euphoria I craved was
strong and overrode the concerns of potential drawbacks. I assume that meant I wanted it. Despite my ability to cope and find
refuge in familiar comforts and routines, I couldn’t rely on tomorrow’s good graces, so topping up the fuel tank was a smart
move.
Two months had passed since my last episode, and the weight of it seemed like a distant memory. The only way I could
navigate through life was by taking each day as it came, without expectations. I just had to hope that when another flashback
struck, it wouldn’t have any negative consequences for anybody else. How I hadn’t physically scarred Dwight was beyond me.
I’d lost track of the countless times I’ve come back around, only to find my cousin with scratches and blood covering his arms
and face. Thank the gods he healed fast and didn’t take no for an answer.
Distinguishing between what I wanted and what I needed proved to be quite challenging. I couldn’t truly grasp their
essence. Dr Jemerson says wants are desires and preferences, whereas needs are based on survival and well-being. And that
understanding this helps to prioritise and make informed decisions about what is necessary for a fulfilling life. For most
people, I think that thought process is instinctual, so they don’t even realise it is happening. But I have to pause, contemplate my
options, and pray that I’m making the correct choice.
However, today it didn’t matter. Whether I wanted or needed to seek the exhilarating rush, the outcome was beneficial.
Because as we merged into Slipknot’s “Psychosocial”, my body was practically purring with excitement. And the energy
thrown out from the crowd had somehow become my personal stash of Catnip.
I snorted again, realising that I’d been missing out on it all this time. I suppose I should have known. At seven, I learnt
to play the piano, and at nine, Dwight taught me guitar, but the drums became my addiction when I was sixteen. My cousin, not
knowing what to do to fix me, shoved drumsticks in my hand and told me to “get at it”.
Between him, the sound-proofed attic at Aunty Carol’s, and online tutorials, I’d discovered a healthy outlet for my
issues. Focusing on the detailed technique helped pull me away from the mind-numbing lockdown I sometimes found myself in.
The repetitive movement was predictable, soothing, and grounding. I could bury the painful memories while I focused on my
arms, legs, feet, and hands: the feel of the drumsticks between my fingers.
Coping. That’s what my therapist said.
I needed to find ways of managing and work to handle the pain. To use healthy methods to process the traumatic event,
while learning to deal with all the potential triggers associated with it. And there lies the issue: I don’t remember everything —
even after fourteen years.
My mind blocked out the worst of it. Initially, I only recalled running away from something or someone in blind terror.
After six months of therapy, I started getting flashbacks; terrifying shards of glass prompting hidden details to emerge from the
void. Piercing through my armour and lancing the psychological wounds. A new trigger presenting itself preceded each painful
recollection.
Turpentine: that was the first stimulus to activate a memory. Loading up junk into Aunty Carol’s car for a tip-run, I lost
my footing while heading back into the shed and knocked over a box that was balancing on a rickety base unit. Glass smashed
on the floor, my eyes taking in the paint-stained remains of an old pickle jar as I inhaled the potent scent of the White Spirit
spilt at my feet.
My lungs froze as a terrifying apparition of choking on the fumes hit me. Sounds of screams and sniffling whimpers
pierced my eardrums as my shaking palms ghosted over the shadowed recollection of cracked and irritated skin.
I wish I could say that coming round after blacking out to find Dwight’s concerned face watching me only happened
once. Or that waking from a nightmare, my throat aching from screaming, was a thing of the past.
Dr Jemerson emphasised the importance of self-soothing as another powerful tool in my arsenal against PTSD. To
fully appreciate the other senses, I took it a step further and deliberately ignored one of them. Teaching myself to play the drums
blindfolded was the best thing I could ever have done. It was one of only a few things that kept me tethered, like running and
the freedom of my motorbike. It was powerful enough to drag me back from the depths of perdition when memories pulled me
under.
I sometimes wondered if remembering everything would make life better or worse. I knew someone bad took me at
fourteen. Held against my will, I’d lived through the nightmare of being kidnapped for six weeks. At least, that’s what the
police told me. A runner came across me at dawn; wondering naked through vast woodland; covered in blood that wasn’t my
own. Other than being frozen, exhausted, and malnourished, I didn’t have a mark on me.
The doctors kept me in hospital for two days, getting my fluids built-up and assessing my mental health, before
releasing me to the care of Aunty Carol.
Not my mother: even then she didn’t bother to show up. My dad was never in the picture, and mum couldn’t cope with
me. I don’t think I was a naughty child, but parenthood wasn’t for everyone. So, her sister took me in when I was six, and the
three of us were inseparable. More so after my abduction: Dwight deeming himself my protector.
I shook my head, clearing out the unpleasant reminder of my absent parents.
The scent of beer, sweat, and whiskey filled my lungs as my limbs worked instinctively. The booming bass shook my
entire being, the force of it resonating deep within me, as my smile grew wider, almost to the point of discomfort. I bit my lip,
my teeth scraping against the gold-hoop as it hugged the plump flesh.
This was it: the heady feeling that I craved like a junkie. The sweet spot acted as a catalyst, causing my neurons to
ignite and excitement to surge. The edge of the abyss beckoned me, and I could feel the thrill of flight surging through my body.
I ran at it full tilt, feeling alive and a little unhinged as my soul prepared to soar. There was nothing quite like the heart-
pounding feeling of adrenaline coursing through my veins as I sailed off the cliff.
Not that I didn’t chase the other reaction just as ardently. My fight response was hearty and on-par with any red-
blooded man. Dwight had been sparring with me for years, but only recently did he agree to allow me to try it blindfolded.
Those first few sessions had been interesting, but I was getting the hang of it, and I couldn’t wait until our next spar-date.
Just like now, I put myself in a sort of trance; one where I didn’t seem to require my eyes to see. Every nerve and fibre
of my being felt what was going on around me.
The sweet tang pumping out from the smoke machines mixed in with the multiple colognes and perfumes rising from
the heated bodies below me. A tightness pinched my chest as the heavy fog irritated my lungs, but I ignored it, revelling in the
sweat pouring down my back.
I felt the dancers’ ragged breaths and thundering heartbeats: like lover’s fingers playing against my flesh as they
jumped and slammed into each other aggressively, shouting along to the lyrics, losing themselves to their own highs as they
chased after their preferred state of mind. There was no judgement here, just individual souls escaping the humdrum.
 I knew my method of processing was skewed because I no longer felt emotions the way most people did. My reactions
to events weren’t normal, and sometimes I didn’t understand what emotion I was feeling at all. But in moments like this, or
when I pushed my bike way past a speed limit, forced my limbs to push through the pain of sparring with Dwight, I felt things in
such a way that it was intoxicating. I understood it; relished in it. It was that very issue that made me lean on Dr Jemerson’s
tips. Following her guided techniques that should trigger an understanding of how I should be feeling. I doubt she meant them to
work that way, but that’s how I used them.
I didn’t need any of that now, though. I soaked up everything as the crowd roared. The tiny hairs on my skin stood on
end and my toes tingled. My heart threatened to beat out of my chest as the adrenaline searched for somewhere to go. I wanted
to run off the cliff and dive into the deep sea. My entire body felt like it was vibrating, threatening to explode, but I gasped as
muscular arms wrapped around me.
I let out a squeal as Dwight’s familiar scent filled my nose. He lifted me off the stool and I tried to relax into his
embrace, but my limbs were trembling, and my heart was still jittering. A sense of power surged through me. Like I could
simply pick him up, holding him over my head, spinning his massive frame on the tip of my finger.
He chuckled as I squirmed. ‘How did that feel?’ he asked, rocking me like a child, despite my attempts to escape.
I laughed, giving up the fight as I pulled off my blindfold and removed my wrap-around headphones. ‘That was
amazing,’ I said, as the next band kicked off their set from one of the smaller stages.
‘You were amazing,’ he countered, smiling as he settled me on my feet. ‘Are you going to stay for a round?’ His hopeful
expression faded as I shook my head. He already knew I needed to go home; my shift started early tomorrow. ‘It was worth a
try.’ He chuckled, ruffling my hair. ‘Do you need me to come with you?’
‘I’ll be fine. Don’t be too loud when you crawl in though,’ I warned as he took my hand and led the way off the stage
and along the gangway around the edge of the dance floor, my smile of gratitude giving freely as intoxicated revellers shouted
out their appreciation of my drumming skills. Colour rose to my cheeks at all the attention, but I refused to allow my
embarrassment to wipe away my happy-high.
The music continued to pump adrenaline through my veins as we stopped beside the rest of the band at the base of a
roped-off spiral staircase. Patrick, the overly friendly bass guitarist, stepped towards me and tucked a strand of hair behind my
ear, drawing his hand back quickly as if my skin burnt him. ‘Hey gorgeous.’ He lifted his fingers to his mouth, blowing air on
the tips. ‘We might have to keep you around,’ he chuckled, sucking the pad of his forefinger. ‘That set was pure fire.’ He winked
and licked his lips suggestively, his eyebrows dancing above his penetrating gaze.
My smile was genuine, but his playful flirting, as usual, sailed right past me. I discovered that the most painless
approach to adopt with him was to go with the flow and let him play the part of a lovable rogue. I feigned a lady-like faint,
saying, ‘Scoundrel.’
He groaned. ‘I haven’t seen your lovely face for ages. The need for a fix has built up. So god damn bad,’ he said, biting
his lower lip as his hand reached towards me.
I bat his wandering fingers away, laughing. ‘You saw me last week.’
I suspected that my unattainability only added to the attraction. Women came and disappeared with him as quickly as I
went through knuckle tape. Not that I had a problem with one-night stands. In fact, I preferred them. Sex for me was a purely
physical act. No feelings, no promises to call. When I had an itch to scratch, I met that need with a skilled and willing Wham-
bam; thank you, Stan.
Patrick was attractive. Blue eyed and blonde-haired, he stood tall and well-built, and exuded a swagger and
confidence reminiscent of a seasoned guitarist like McCartney. But the horizontal wizardry he offered just didn’t get my motor
running, and I had no desire to be another notch on his bedpost.
He hummed, lifting my free hand. ‘Too long.’ He placed a kiss on my knuckles, his fingers fondling the silk still held in
my grip. ‘See you later, Avery.’ He winked and ran his hands through his shoulder-length hair as he headed for the bar.
Dwight shook his head, smiling indulgently as I waved goodbye to the rest of the band. ‘If I didn’t already know that he
wasn’t your type,’ he murmured, his voice trailing off into silence. I rolled my eyes as he escorted me through the revellers
hanging back from the dance floor. He opened the heavy fire-door that led to the staff rooms, ‘Say auf wiedersehen.’ His
terrible German accent caught me off-guard.
I laughed out loud as I turned around. He lifted his right hand, raising his thumb above his fist as his finger pointed
straight at me. Instead of making the usual firing sound, he just winked.
‘You watched Inglorious Basterds again?’ I grabbed hold of the door handle and he chuckled. I’d lost count of how
many times he forced me to sit through watching it. It was his favourite film.
 Dwight lovingly kissed my forehead and gently squeezed my hand, smirking as he pulled the strip of silk out from my
grasp before shoving it in his back pocket. ‘Straight home, Killer.’
I clicked my tongue against his retreating form; I didn’t want to know what he had planned for my poor blindfold. ‘Yes,
Klepto.’
His muffled chuckle hit me as I turned, but my arms erupted in goosebumps, causing me to pause in my tracks. An
alluring scent danced through the air, tickling my nose and capturing my focus. I couldn’t help but stand up straighter because of
it.
I wheeled back around, my gaze scanning the dancefloor, flitting from one blurred body to another; a curious feeling
that I was being watched washing over me. An odd tugging, fluttering at the base of my spine before pulling right through my
centre, demanded my attention.
I muttered to myself, scolding my mental peculiarity as I attempted to ignore the persistent sensation. But it lingered, an
unsettling sense of trepidation filling the air.
 Chapter Five
An Odd Sense Of Kinship

Avery

RIGHTING MY CAP, I looped my hoody through the handles of my backpack, settling them both against my back as I stepped
out from Encore into the cool evening air. Despite it not being cold, I was glad I changed into my jeans.
Night had settled into that strange lull where the buzz of activity had faded, leaving behind an eerie stillness. The
expectation of drunk partygoers flooding the pitch-black road at kicking out time lingered. The nightclub wasn’t on the main
thoroughfare, so there were no streetlamps. There was also no moon to guide my way, and the neon glow from the sign above
the entrance was too weak to provide any meaningful illumination.
It didn’t bother me in the slightest, and the sound of my humming filled the air as I walked towards my vehicle,
contemplating a midnight jog. I was still riding the high, so I needed something to help settle the quiver in my limbs, and I
doubted a shower would cut it.
Turning the corner, I found myself in a poorly lit alleyway that provided a shortcut to my destination. The car park
ahead had some lights, which made the tunnel less creepy.
But I didn’t get more than three steps into the alley before a soft whisper tickled my ear, alerting me to someone’s
presence. I whirled around, fists ready to fly, but my movements froze, a gasp getting lodged inside me as a large hand flew for
my throat.
Death loomed before me; darkness incarnate. His overly sharp nails dug into the tender flesh of my neck, but that
became overshadowed by the piercing intensity of his eyes. The whites seemed fully engulfed in black as his unfocused gaze
drifted from my hair to my lips, dipping down to the pulse at my jugular before getting lost in the surrounding air.
My body was immobile, yet my lungs calmy continued working. I expected the panic that should have gripped me…
however, all I felt was a sense of peace, and a little pinch of confusion.
I studied him, his raven hair hanging in loose waves that danced across his wide shoulders. He was tall and cast a
shadow over me, emphasising his imposing presence. Muscles strained against his grey shirt, showcasing their power, but he
had a leanness to his frame. It was as if the gods had built him for speed. This I could believe; he appeared so fast and had
caught me in his clutches before I had time to blink. And I knew, in a rational sense, that I should feel fear. With the unstable
man threatening my throat, terror should have risen to the surface by now.
I exhaled slowly, trying to process the situation. Off the top of my head, I could think of three effective moves to
escape his hold, so why wasn’t I utilising them? I inhaled, a pleasant tang of salted-smoke and charred-cherries filling my
lungs. Maybe my training played a role. The care home had many patients with dementia who could be violent and grabby, so I
underwent safety courses when I started four years ago.
That just didn’t feel right, though. There was something else going on. Perhaps my body couldn’t produce any more
adrenaline? I somehow tapped out my supply, and with it, my instincts have floundered. With an internal nod of my head, I went
along with Dr Jemerson’s three-step plan for situations that induced fear, anyway. Surely that would wake up my survival
instincts?
I evaluated my surroundings. I was just a couple hundred feet away from the club, with only about fifty feet left to
reach my car. It was late at night and no one else was around.
Nope, still nothing.
What do my instincts say? That the dark-haired man with obsidian eyes and a hand gripping my windpipe meant me no
harm.
Yep, I’m officially broken.
I needed to make an appointment with the good doctor.
Death whispered, his voice barely perceptible as his gaze returned to my face, occasionally drifting to my hair.
Apply common sense. I should be screaming for help; using the moves Dwight taught me to get free.
Seriously? Nothing?
 Was my warped way of processing emotions so messed up that when The Reaper came calling, I smiled and invited
him in? Because everything about this man screamed, run!
It was entirely possible that I had a growth on my brain that needed looking at. I couldn’t even put it down to my love
of danger. While your average Fred bent over backwards to avoid it, I found I revelled in it. Sometimes running right at it, a
hungry beast within; a craving inside that built until it forced me to feed it.
But I truly didn’t sense any threat. My instincts said this man that was shrouded in darkness wouldn’t hurt me. His mind
was elsewhere at the moment, and I just needed to remain calm. Though I’d have to question how I knew I wasn’t in any danger
later, for now I left my hands loose at my hips.
I took in the wildness of his features, the arched dark eyebrows; the left cut through with a jagged scar. There was
something about the stranger that kept the panic at bay, an inexplicable connection that made me feel at ease: an odd sense of
kinship.
‘Pretty,’ he said.
His warm breath tickled my eyelashes as his grip tightened. A soft finger reached up to my warm cheek. I expected a
sharp sting like the one on my throat, but his blunt nail moved down to my jaw before his fingers drifted their way up to my
cap.
He removed it, the sound of it hitting the alleyway floor a piercing howl to the quietude that had settled around me.
‘Silk.’ He toyed with the dark length of my hair; his grip on my neck loosened as he lifted his loot to his nose and
inhaled. ‘Honey.’
Another voice boomed, ‘Colt.’
My heart raced, pounding against my chest as if trying to break free. The deep resonance of the tenor reverberated
through my being, sending shivers down my arms and causing a tingling sensation to spread throughout my entire body. It was
as if every nerve ending had come alive, charged with the intensity of that voice.
I closed my eyes, allowing myself to surrender to the onslaught of bewildering emotions that surged within me. The
gravelly aftertaste lingered, creating a bittersweet sensation that was exhilarating. It bombarded my senses, leaving me in a
state of both fascination and confusion, unable to fully grasp the emotions coursing through me.
But my mind didn’t care. It replayed the sound, over and over, weaving a spell that tingled up my spine as if a gentle
breeze were caressing it. My legs, steady and strong when threatened with Mr Death, who still held me in his grip, now felt
like they had turned into jelly. The sheer strength of that voice had swept me off my feet, leaving me floating in a sea of
pleasure and vulnerability.
Suddenly, the sights and sounds of earlier this evening came rushing back to me, as if I were reliving the moment all
over again. I’d heard that deep tenor before.
 Chapter Six
Their Little Brother’s Psychotic Disposition Did
Not Endear Him To Normal Folk

Cole

COLE OVERLOOKED THE irrational boot of jealousy that kicked him in the guts as Dwight lifted the drummer off the
stool; her squeal of laughter was the sweetest sound as it reached his ears. The lucky fucker pulled the beautiful woman into a
hug, rocking her as she peeled off the blindfold.
He also ignored the conversations that picked up around him as he tracked the dark-haired beauty. Led by Dwight, and
with her cheeks flushed, they headed through the club. Desire to see that bloom close-up rode him, and he squinted, desperate
to glimpse her eyes. But she was too far away, and for the first time he felt incensed at the soft and sensual lighting — it did
nothing to aid him.
A few seconds passed as he considered jumping the railing. Maybe he’d have better luck catching her gaze from the
ground floor. He pondered the question of what colour her eyes might be. Her light skin and dark hair spoke of blue irises, pale
like frost on a cold winter’s morning. He mentally scoffed and rubbed his chin, eyes darting in concern that someone might read
the thoughts flitting through his brain.
What was it about that woman that tugged at him so fiercely? It wasn’t merely her attractiveness that captivated him.
He’d met countless beautiful women in his life; the radiance that seeped from within them only highlighting their physical
allure. But something about the Drummer spoke to Cole; called to his wolf. Even now, out of sight, he felt an invisible rope
tugging at his gut; demanding he find her. The wolf would settle for nothing less than reciprocal attention.
‘Fuck, where is Colton?’ Creed muttered under his breath; his voice filled with tension.
Sodding hell.
So much for monitoring him. In his current unhinged state, the younger Anderson was unpredictable. A hint of mania
touched both Creed and Cole, but their little brother’s psychotic disposition did not endear him to normal folk. The boy didn’t
play well with others. Cole scanned the lower level, dread filling him as he turned, hoping to find his little brother skulking in
a corner upstairs, or sat in a wingback, all the while knowing that it was doubtful.
Creed pointed to the club entrance. ‘There. What are the chances that he’s calling it a night and is now on his way up to
the apartment?’ he asked, his gaze holding Cole’s.
He didn’t answer, though his features spoke of how unlikely that scenario was. ‘Come on.’ His legs took long strides
as he headed for the spiral staircase. ‘Let’s track the fucker down before he causes a scene.’ He grunted, ‘Again.’
The brothers made their way outside and Cole breathed in through his nose, discounting all the normal scents that
lingered in the late-night air as he hunted for his youngest brother’s particular notes of smoke and seared cherries. He attempted
to open the pack link, but the little shit had his head locked up, like it was Pentonville Prison.
Cole’s gaze darted to the small alleyway at the far end of their property’s boundary. The dark pathway veered off to the
left, a cut-through leading to a carpark hidden on the other side of the tall granite wall that enclosed the western side. Even
though they were silent to the world, he could still discern the crisp sound of Creed’s footfalls behind him as they dashed
towards the path.
Rounding the opening of the alley, he tensed up, and a shiver ran down his spine as they stumbled upon the unsettling
scene.
What kind of fresh hell was this?
Cole’s breath hitched, and a fire scorched his lungs as the rest of his body froze. Colton had the goddess caught, with
his right-hand drifting, almost reverently, through the long-dark-strands of her hair, but that wasn’t what unsettled him. No, that
little disturbing nugget was the partially shifted hand wrapped around her throat; his extended, sharp claws on the cusp of
drawing blood.
Colton didn’t let his wolf out. Ever. But what was more alarming was the fact that shifters could not part shift. It was
all or nothing. His little brother should not be able to isolate his nails and turn them into the three-inch claws that were on the
limit of crossing a line. The brothers didn’t hurt innocents. They hunted the monsters that did. If he came round to find he’d hurt
the drummer, Cole wasn’t sure how his brother would handle it.
He felt an overwhelming urge to rush to the woman’s rescue, as if it was instinctive. To protect her. That was normal.
Laying down his life so that she might survive — not so much. He tensed, an internal battle beginning. His wolf’s feral desire
was palpable as it envisioned tearing off Colton’s arm and wielding it as a weapon to end his brother’s life.
That thought terrified Cole. He wanted to de-escalate the situation, not harm his brother. However, his wolf planned to
go straight for the kill. No questions asked. He demanded the complete eradication of any threat to the female. Like an alpha
protecting his kin, his instincts were spot-on, but his wolf urged him to shield the one person in the alley who wasn’t part of his
pack.
Creed clutched Cole’s forearm, his fingers digging into the flesh. ‘Shit.’ The word escaped his brother’s lips with a
harsh breath.
Yes. What in the actual…
He inhaled deeply. Then again, willing his wolf to trust him. He knew that the one and only time Colton had shifted, the
crazed beast left a bloody massacre in his wake, but he had to bring him around without irreversibly harming him.
‘Colt.’ He tried to sound reassuring, but his wolf’s deep desire to save the tasty morsel pushed at him hard, so it came
out as a growl.
He grimaced, his internal battle a struggle. The predator inside could sense they had lost the youngest Anderson
brother to his mind, and the usual ways of bringing him back would not work. He shook his head. That’s not true: it would
effectively bring him around, but Colton might end up tearing out the Drummer’s throat. Only through violence could he find the
strength to claw his way back from the depths.
Cole’s wolf simply wouldn’t allow it. For whatever reason, he had developed an attachment to the siren. If they didn’t
figure it out soon, his hold on his own beast would snap.
‘What have you got there, brother?’ Creed asked, his tone suggesting he was unconcerned, but the tightening grip on
Cole’s forearm told him otherwise. He was terrified that Colton would harm the woman. ‘May I see?’
‘Pretty,’ Colton said, either not hearing Creed or ignoring him. It was most likely the former.
Cole studied the girl as his brother continued to pet her hair, his nose dipping down to her neck and scenting her now
and then. Her hands hung loosely at her side, her shoulders low and relaxed as she kept herself still.
Smart woman.
Yet he had a strange desire to comfort and coddle her. He. Not his wolf. What the fuck was that all about? His gaze
drifted up to her face; her skin seemed ghost-white, her plump, striking-red lips standing out against it, but her eyes pulled him
in on that invisible rope. He was right. A blue, so pale, they almost looked lilac; her focus moving steadily from Creed to Cole,
before softening on Colton as he continued his single word whispers to her.
Then her gaze snapped straight back to his, and he felt completely captivated.
Frozen in time, they could have been anywhere. Her mouth opened a fraction, a gentle pink hue driving back some of
the paleness in her cheeks. He wanted to run his tongue against them, feel the heat beneath. He needed to bury his nose in her
hair, fill his lungs with her scent so he’d always be able to track her. The goddess held Cole’s attention so completely that he
didn’t realise when the hand that held him let go. He swayed slightly on the spot until the intense aroma of pennies drew him
out of his daze and down towards the blade, his shoulders tensing as it sliced through Creed’s palm.
His brother groaned. ‘Fucker.’ He flipped closed the Swiss Army Knife before slipping it back into his pocket.
With a small sigh, Cole’s tension subsided a fraction. The clever bastard. The scent of Creed’s blood might be enough
to wake up Colton’s protective instincts. It pissed him off, because he hadn’t thought of it first.
Creed bellowed Colton’s name, the sound mournful.
Cole watched as the drummer’s eyes tightened and his younger brother’s whole body became rigid. His head slowly
turned, his frenzied gaze touching briefly on Creed before returning to the woman still held in his grip.
He chuckled. ‘Hello, Little Drummer.’ He didn’t release her throat, but asked, ‘Why did you hide your lovely
fragrance?’
More of Cole’s tension seeped out, hearing his little brother back to full sentences. His wolf’s hackles were no longer
raised either, but he was pacing.
‘Let the lady go,’ Creed said, as a subtle scent of the Drummer’s fear hit the night air. She’d clearly noted the change in
Colton and decided this was a worse version. And while he may do something stupid, he wouldn’t do any physical damage,
and both Creed and Cole had a better chance of getting him to release her.
Though he could also smell a touch of excitement mixed in with her fear. Did the Drummer enjoy a spot of danger?
Colton disregarded Creed’s plea, continuing with his own fucked up agenda. ‘You smelled like temptation before. A
mesmerising siren’s song luring sailors to their doom.’ His chuckle resonated with a hint of malice, as if he derived pleasure
from knowing something others didn’t. He sniffed, his nose crinkling in distaste, and muttered, ‘Not composed for me, but…’
His gaze darted to Creed. ‘Come, scent her,’ he demanded, his thumb tracing her plump lip.
‘Will you release her if I do?’ Creed asked, stepping closer, but he faltered when Cole growled.
It was unbidden, but the threat behind it rung clear. His wolf didn’t want his brother getting any closer to the female.
The middle Anderson looked back at Cole, his eyebrows raised high, a smirk threatening his lips.
Colton snickered, the sound dark and full of warning. ‘Come.’ He gestured to Creed, ignoring Cole’s unnecessary
display of dominance.
He didn’t know what was wrong with his wolf, but it was time to batten down the hatches. Collaring the twat, he
shoved him aside in their shared psyche. It wasn’t respectful and was something he disliked doing. It also took tremendous
effort to keep the hold in place, but Cole didn’t have a choice. He didn’t know what the boy was doing, but he watched on in
rapt fascination as Creed did as request. The Drummer’s eyes were wide as he stepped into her body. He bent, lifting her hand
up to his face to sniff her.
With a gleeful look in his gaze, and nodding towards his sharp claws that were still gripping her neck, Colton said,
‘Here.’
Creed growled low in vexation but followed through with the demand. Colton’s nose twitched as the dark-haired
beauty’s scent changed again. The air was no longer tainted with the rancid stench of fear; instead, it carried a gentle, sweet
perfume of summer rain.
A dreamy look filled the youngest brother’s gaze. ‘That’s better.’ His thumb continued to swipe across her lower lip in
encouragement. ‘Enough.’ His fingers left the drummer’s chin to shove Creed back in annoyance. ‘Cole, come.’
Creed shrugged as Cole looked his way, his eyebrows high on his forehead. The fucker was letting things play out, too.
He ignored his own annoyance at Colton ordering him about. Concerned that his hand was still part-shifted and around the
woman’s neck, he took Creed’s place.
‘Kiss her, Cole,’ Colton whisper-shouted, his manic gaze not leaving her as he thumbed her lip again.
He didn’t hear him right. Surely. ‘Are you fucking joking?’ he asked, his gaze flitting between his brother and the
woman whose regard hadn’t left him. ‘Do you not think this has gone far enough?’
Colton growled; his head swivelled around as his unhinged stare bore into Cole, his pupils blown. ‘Kiss. The. Little.
Drummer.’
His crazy sibling lowered the hand that had been cradling her face. Cole’s shoulders slumped as he resigned himself to
the situation, his eyes fixated on the woman.
Lowering his eager fingers, he delicately held her chin, and he exhaled with a sigh that seemed to come from the depths
of his soul. His hold on his wolf loosened as an odd desire rolled through him. A sudden need to piss on the ground and roll in
it had him questioning his mental health. He wanted to rub against her legs, covering her in his scent. He grunted, her gaze
washing away the concern as he lifted a piece of her dark, silky hair, rubbing it between his thumb and forefinger. The late-
night air had given the previously straight length a beautiful wave. He liked it.
Who was he kidding? His desire to kiss her consumed his thoughts. If only the circumstances were different.
Sod it.
‘I apologise.’ His breath carried the lie from his mouth easily as he released the curl in his clutches.
She blinked, a quiet gasp lifting her chest. Cole closed the gap between them, his lips touching hers in a soft caress.
The Drummer stood, unwavering, and her scent of summer rain filled his lungs as he prepared to pull back.
Shock muddled his brain as her mouth softened against his, a gentle exploration that did something strange to his heart.
He ignored the need to rub at his ribs as odd palpitations fluttered the perpetually frozen organ, but the desire for more of the
goddess grew in his gut, like a fire spreading through a neglected wilderness.
A squeak escaped her as he demanded entry. He ran his tongue across the seam of her mouth, and as she opened for
him, it delved inside to explore her depths, eliciting a deep groan from him. The sweet scent that came from her transformed
into a heavenly mix of honey-drenched figs and pears, instantly enchanting him.
 Chapter Seven
Colt Has An Amazing Sense Of Smell

Avery

THE IMPERTINENT WEIRDO. The douche who man handled me in the club’s foyer was called Cole. His mood hadn’t
improved. He glared at me with piercing eyes, then shifted his gaze to the hand tightly wrapped around my throat. He remained
as large and imposing now as he was when I entered Encore a few hours ago, except his aura now carried a faint but
unmistakable sense of threat.
It did nothing to dampen my attraction to him.
Avery, your psyche is truly disturbed.
As I strained my eyes in the darkness, the faint thumping bass of music reached my ears. The smell of stale cigarettes
and cheap cologne wafted through the air, mingling with the damp scent. It was impossible to see the club from the alley, but I
could catch glimpses of red neon light through the brambles.
I guess that Cole and the one named Creed had followed the hunk of crazy holding me hostage.
Was this something that happened regularly? Mr Death targeted unsuspecting women, ambushing them in the eerie
darkness of alleys? Then he’d make other men sniff his prey when he’d caught her? And how would it feel having the weirdo
sniff me as Creed just did?
Despite my anticipation, the panic still hadn’t arrived. These towering figures should have me shaking with fear,
especially considering my current predicament. But they’ve put me in a state of peaceful calm, even with Death’s unwavering
attention still locked on me.
‘Kiss her, Cole,’ he said. It was a whisper of words, yet even I felt the power behind his command as his thumb came
back to prod at my lip.
An echo of my earlier desire, brought about from the impertinent weirdo’s praise, hummed through my blood. Yes, kiss
me, Cole.
The soft orange glow cast by the lamps from the carpark to my right lit the side of his handsome face. His striking, dark
features and the alluring shape of his mouth captivated me. He knew it too, a confident smirk toying with his lips, silently
acknowledging his ability to excite me.
Cole.
His name was fitting. It matched the colour of his hair: pitch-black, loose-curls tousled over to the left — perfectly
untamed. I had an overwhelming desire to circle him, as if he’d caught me in his gravitational pull. It felt peculiar and
unsettling.
The force of his presence in the narrow walkway vibrated the atmosphere with something tangible that tasted like
power; it made me want to kneel before him and confess my sins. His towering height of six-foot-three was not the only
captivating aspect of him. There was an undeniable strength exuding from his frame that made me instinctively want to turn
around and present myself to him.
Pardon me? What did they put in that smoke machine? Why would I do that?
I questioned my mental stability, feeling a sense of detachment from reality. There was still no panic, but now a wild,
almost animalistic urge consumed me. A shaky breath left my lips, and in that moment, all my doubts and worries about my
sanity vanished as our gazes connected.
The world around me appeared distorted, and I could hear the echo of my heartbeat, the sound amplified to an
uncomfortable level. The scent of my surroundings became overwhelming, each smell blending together in a disorienting mix.
My body, consumed by a strange energy, pulsated with a primal urge. It felt as though every nerve was on fire, urging me to
succumb to my animalistic desires.
His voice, deep and resonant, shattered my dazed state. ‘Are you fucking joking? Do you not think this has gone far
enough?’
Death’s vacant gaze became unhinged as he growled, the vibrations travelling through my throat as his head twisted to
face the man. ‘Kiss. The. Little. Drummer.’ His tapping on my lip ceased.
Cole’s shoulders sagged as he stepped in closer, holding himself in a self-assured sort of way, with my chin gently
supported in his grip. He lifted a stray piece of my hair, and the action felt intimate. I felt warm and caged and grounded.
Then all I could smell was him, his intoxicating scent making my heart gallop. The unruly organ pounded against my
chest, the sound of my blood a drumbeat in my ears, as his gaze searched mine.
The strange sensation of plummeting from a great height washed over me, my muscles twitching as his dark and intent
stare grasped my vitals. Grey-sapphires, flecked with green and ringed with gold, were a net that broke my fall. Being near him
provided me with an unwarranted sense of safety and comfort.
‘I apologise,’ he said, his melodic cadence a soothing lullaby.
In a trance, I looked up to the light misting of raven-stubble that adorned his firm jaw; sandalwood, whisky and a hint
of fern engulfed me moments before his lips grazed mine in the softest of touches.
Despite the unhinged man at the end of the hand that remained around my neck, butterflies swarmed before fluttering
inside me. A mouse-like noise might have escaped my mouth, but the dragon’s wing’s that unfurled within my core wiped out
the embarrassment as I responded to his kiss.
My skin tingled as my fingers ached to grab hold of him; to pull him closer. I didn’t know the man, but I couldn’t bring
myself to care. Something shifted behind my breastbone, clawing as it demanded freedom. That part knew everything it needed
to. With his soft lips on mine, there was nowhere else I wanted to be.
The claws dug deeper. A subtle rumble built in my chest. My hoody was too tight, my skin too hot, my underwear too
— oh fudging hell — damp.
Bound by rapture, I had a vague sensation of the hand around my neck dropping. A shout sounded out as the one they
called Colt fell to his knees. I felt a fuzzy sense of pain in my leg, but my lust-riddled brain had taken a hiatus. The mad man
buried his nose in the apex of my thighs, a low growl erupting from his chest as he inhaled, but my entire being focused on the
god worshipping my tongue.
Everything thereafter happened too fast. My mouth — unexpectedly desolate — tingled in memory of Cole’s lips as
cool air draped over my body. The sound of a scuffle ensued. Curses and groans filled the night sky. The star of my next lonely-
evening-fantasy shouted, ‘Creed.’ He huffed, an ominous crack sounding out. ‘Take her away from here, now.’
Warm hands gripped my waist as my entire world upended. My dinner threatened to hitch-hike a ride to the pavement,
and the air escaped my lungs in a huff as my stomach collided with a large shoulder.
I squealed, jostled on the mountainous man as he took off back down the way I just came, turning the corner and
heading away from the club. ‘Wait,’ I grunted. ‘Stop.’ He ignored me, continuing our escape. I lifted my head. Through the
curtains of hair trying to thwart my sight, my gaze found the other entrance to the carpark disappearing in the distance.
Fudging. Friggin. Frugger.
My chest vibrated. ‘Stop,’ I said, and he froze. ‘Enough.’ My voice was much deeper than I’d ever heard it. ‘Put. Me.
Down.’ His warm and, surprisingly, gentle hands moved down to my hips before he set me down on my feet. I blinked away the
anger that threatened to consume me. ‘My car is back that way.’ I pointed in the general direction before smoothing out my
clothes. ‘I don’t require a donkey-ride home.’ A huff escaped with my sense of feeling out-of-sorts as I tucked my now messy
curls behind my ears. My fingers caught in knots, my exasperation reaching critical level.
Grey eyes filled with amusement studied me. His eyebrow arched. Like the other two men, his hair was pitch-black,
but this one wore his much shorter, the sides clipped close to his scalp.
‘Donkey, eh? You’re a firecracker. And the commanding-whip threaded in your voice is… unexpected.’ He chuckled, a
quizzical gaze examining me before he shook his head as if to clear it. He held out his hand. ‘Creed Anderson,’ he said, a smile
on his lips when my fingers crept closer to his automatically, the ingrained pleasantry pissing me off. His remark about my
voice left me perplexed, but I still grasped his palm firmly. ‘You’re the stand in for Jason.’
His tone suggested it wasn’t a question. How did he know that?
I gave a slight nod, my forehead furrowing in a frown. ‘Avery Whitehall.’ I kept my voice even, but my breath caught as
his name registered.
The Anderson brothers? Those dangerous — don’t cross them if you know what’s good for you — hide your daughters,
Anderson Brothers? The gossip had reached my ears, carried on the winds of whispered conversation. You’d hire them if you
required exterminators, the type who dealt with pests of the human variety. I was sceptical about the truth of it all, but Dwight,
in his overprotective nature, didn’t object to me working for them for the next few weeks, implying that those rumours were
likely unfounded.
My tongue held the weight of the question, poised and ready to be released. However, I hesitated, weighing up the
appropriateness of seeking confirmation for those tales.
‘You own Encore?’ I asked instead. Yes, a much safer line of enquiry.
‘That’s right.’ His eyes sparkled as his smile grew.
A single eyebrow shot up in confusion. ‘And what about the other men?’ I ignored how the question caught in my throat
as, mid-sentence, the knowledge fell into place. ‘They’re your brothers?’
The men, the myths, the run-for-the-hills legends? I snorted, unable to suppress the sound. And to think I woke this
morning with a sub-par outlook for the day ahead. Those expectations have been well and truly shattered. I kissed a god and
had my crotch sniffed by Death. Little blips of anxiety ate away at my unconcerned attitude. Bloody hell, should I feel alarmed?
Creed nodded; thankfully not sensing my unease.
‘I apologise on Colton’s behalf,’ he said, bringing his hands together in a pacifying gesture. ‘Try not to think too
unkindly of him, though. He’s had a tough life and…’ the grey of his eyes seemed to darken as his easy-going smile slipped, but
he quickly recovered it. ‘And he truly meant you no harm. That back there was his version of a handshake, an offer of
friendship. He likes you.’
‘If you say so,’ I said, feeling a little indifferent as a wave of exhaustion hit me. I wrung out my hands. The high I was
riding after playing the drums had all but vanished, leaving fatigue to weigh on my shoulders. The image of my parked car
flashed in my mind as I gestured back in its general direction, consumed by the thought of returning home. ‘I should—’
‘You weren’t scared,’ Creed interrupted, causing me to lower my hand. ‘Most would have pissed their pants.’
Is that what Colton was sniffing for? Did he get off on making people piss themselves? ‘Oh, um…’ My voice trailed
off; I couldn’t ask those questions and no other appropriate response came forth.
Yes, I should have felt scared. I tried putting it down to training, but that still didn’t feel right. I just wasn’t at all
worried. Though Creed was wrong, because something changed in Colton’s demeanour, and that lost gaze became manic as it
converged intently on me. That’s when I panicked. The impending threat set my blood on fire; my heart thundered, desperate to
escape my chest, my fight instinct wholly on board with the sudden change, but Creed stepped closer, and my alarm and desire
for battle ceased.
It was bizarre. I’d never met them before, yet as the scent of burnt pine and Liquorice Comfits filled my lungs, I felt
safe. For the third time today, a stranger made me feel protected.
What a peculiar day indeed.
I breathed in a cleansing breath, hoping for another hit of aniseed, but copper wrinkled my nose instead. My gaze met
Creed’s, and I gestured to the hand shoved in his trouser pocket.
‘You cut yourself,’ I said, catching a further whiff of the metallic scent of blood. ‘Why would you do that?’ I asked, my
tone laced with a mix of surprise and concern. I remember watching him slice that knife through his palm effortlessly, as if his
skin was as soft as butter. He didn’t even flinch.
Creed looked uncomfortable, rolling back on his heels as he frowned. ‘Colt has an amazing sense of smell.’ He didn’t
sound too sure of his answer. The upwards swing of his voice at the end made it sound like a question.
Though that would sort of explain the sniffing, however weird it might have been. I narrowed my eyes as he ran his
unbloodied hand through his hair.
Creed sighed heavily, his shoulders slumping in surrender. ‘Sometimes we can pull him away from the shadowy place
he finds himself lost in. I hoped if he smelt blood he would snap back and let you go.’ He shrugged at my opened mouth stare,
like it was nothing to slice open his flesh to help an unknown woman.
My vision became blurred at his words; I understood the feeling of getting dragged down to the dark pits inside my
mind, and what others considered odd reactions to situations. Was that why I felt that strange connection to Colton? It was our
souls that resonated, each bearing the raw wounds and jagged scars of despair, creating an unspoken understanding between
us?
I nodded as I blinked away the haze, gesturing for him to follow me. ‘I have supplies. Let’s get that bandaged up before
I leave.’
I turned, making my way to the car. ‘That’s unnecessary,’ Creed said, but followed me anyway.
I marched through the carpark and unlocked the boot of my Honda to retrieve my extensive First-Aid kit. It contained
everything to handle minor injuries until medical help came; I even had a few Hypaguard splints to deal with broken bones and
sprains. Fortunately, Dwight was anal with my health and wellbeing, so the items I’d most likely need were close at hand. I
picked out a few antiseptic-wipe sachets.
‘That’s some inventory you got there.’ Creed chuckled. ‘Are you expecting a Zombie Apocalypse?’
I dipped my head, peering at him over the rim of my imaginary glasses. ‘When people wake up, they never expect to be
involved in a car accident. But they should always be prepared for one. And you’re welcome.’ I gestured towards the stash of
supplies. ‘Now you won’t get an infection.’ He nodded sagely, smiling when I couldn’t contain my humour. ‘My cousin, he’s…
meticulous.’
Ah, he mouthed in understanding. ‘Overprotective? A pain in your ass?’
A snort escaped me. ‘You know him, then?’
Creed smiled as he winked. ‘Let’s just say that there are a few apples hanging from my family tree that sound very
similar.’
Shaking my head, my smile felt easy as I took hold of his injured hand. I noticed the grazed knuckles, pondered how he
might have earned them, then quickly decided I probably didn’t want to know. They didn’t seem to need tending to, anyway.
I wiped the cut with the antiseptic cloth, a hiss of pain warming my scalp as he attempted to escape my ministrations. I
clicked my tongue. ‘Stay still. I’ll have this cleaned up in two tugs of a lamb’s tail.’
I invoked my inner stern matron and tapped my foot. As I wrestled with his palm, he grumbled in pain, muttering his
displeasure. ‘Don’t you mean shakes?’ A whine accompanied his question, but there was a playful undertone to it.
I looked up at him, my hand freezing in midair as the peculiar question hung between us. ‘Shakes?’
He grinned, almost dazzling me. ‘Of that poor lamb’s tail.’
I rolled my eyes, my smile threating the corners of my mouth. ‘The outcome is the same. It will sting, but I’m cleaning
it, anyway.’
He conceded with a slight tilt of his head. ‘Yes, mam.’
I finished wiping away the blood, his soft chuckles filling the silence. I looked up at him. ‘Are you allergic to
adhesives?’
He shook his head, ‘No.’ A smirk lifted his lip. ‘If the drumming gig doesn’t pan out, you would make a lovely nurse.’
He laughed at my sneer, which only fed his humour. ‘And you’re not so ugly when you smile.’
I huffed, feigning affront as I eyed his ridiculous size. ‘And you’d make a lovely gurney.’
He barked out a contagious laugh as I placed a dressing over the deep cut and explained how I usually only played the
drums for fun. I put all the supplies back in the kit, enjoying his happy-go-lucky nature. Being in his company was like
rediscovering a deep connection with an old friend.
‘My day job is as a carer at Rosewood Residential Home.’
Creed beamed, tipping his head a little to the right. ‘Admirable. And fitting,’ he said, nodding at his hand as he made
his way to the passenger-side door. He reached for the handle.
‘What are you doing?’ I asked in confusion as I closed the boot.
Creed’s eyebrows pulled together tightly. ‘Getting in your car so I can see you home safe.’ His expression told me he
was questioning my smarts. ‘I’d jump up and hold on to the roof rack, but—’ he lifted his injured hand.
‘No.’ I blustered as he opened the door, ‘it’s not—’ he folded his massive frame like a pretzel as he tucked himself into
the passenger seat. ‘Necessary.’ I growled as he shut himself inside, the clunk as he engaged the lock earning a string of
whispered curses as I stormed to the driver’s side.
‘An escort isn’t required.’ I huffed in exasperation as I threw myself inside. Creed smiled good-naturedly, and I bit
back a laugh at how small he made the car appear as the low roof forced his head to tilt a little. I retrieved the keys from my
bag before throwing the rucksack in the back. ‘And you said your brother wouldn’t harm me.’ I put on my seatbelt, my glare
telling him he should do the same.
He clicked his tongue but manoeuvred the belt around his body. ‘And I meant it, Firecracker, but once someone’s
roused the old protective inclinations, it’s difficult to set them aside. It’s an Anderson thing.’ He somehow shrugged his
shoulders. ‘Just appease the knight in me and allow me to see you home.’ I opened my mouth. ‘Your address will be on your
temporary contract anyway, so I’ll eventually know where you live.’ He paused, studying me. ‘And your friend Dwight is
bigger than me.’
 I looked at him, frowning as he continued to study my face. It felt like he was searching for something in particular. He
sniffed, his gaze drifting to the dark road ahead. ‘He seemed to act as your shield, and that Viking could do some damage to me
if anything bad happened to you.’
How closely did he watch me tonight if he’d noticed that? A momentary thought told me to be concerned, but it fled
just as quickly, because the man had a point. I didn’t feel the need to correct him about Dwight being my cousin, though. He
might treat me differently, and I was enjoying the banter.
I shoved the key in the ignition. ‘Fine. No lecherous behaviour allowed.’
Creed chuckled, agreeing to my terms, mumbling something about big brothers and black eyes.
 Chapter Eight
Mr Picket-Fence

Avery

‘HOLT, FIEND,’ I commanded, my voice pitched too high for my ears. I coughed, clearing my throat. ‘Back to the pits of hell
whence you came.’ I smiled, pleased with myself. A deep and imposing presence emanated from the order, filling the air.
Yet, the beast remained unfazed by it and ignored my intimidation tactics. It charged my way; its eyes locked on me
with an intense, predatory gaze. Despite its size, it moved swiftly, its powerful, furry legs propelling it forward in a blur as I
held back a scream. The eight-legged monster probably wore boots, steel-capped at that, and concealed tools on its person.
A noise escaped my mouth, something between a shriek and a sniffle. I stomped my foot, missing the demon; a shiver
running through me as it disappeared under the dresser beside the closed French doors.
‘Did you get it, dear?’ Mrs Uren asked, her soft musical cadence a balm to my erratic heartbeat.
I bent low, the morning sun beaming in through the glass doors; it brightened the soft-yellow walls but did nothing to
aid my attempt to see through the shadows beneath the wooden unit.
Well played, Mr spider. Well played indeed.
‘Got it.’ I lied, straightening out my tunic. ‘Back to it, Maureen. That toast won’t eat itself.’
I held back my laugh as I watched her eyes roll in annoyance, focusing back on changing her bedsheets. I loved all the
residents dearly. But Mrs Uren was my favourite. A long-retired nurse, her back shot from years of lifting patients in and out of
bed, she spent most of her time wheelchair-bound. But that didn’t dull her spirit: her vibrant personality.
Despite her age, she was as strong as a bull and made sure everyone knew it. Though she needed help with washing
and dressing, she still held on to a lot of her independence. Rosewood Residential Home gave her that; it offered both resident
and nursing care places, a home run by a private company. Maureen had family, but none who visited. After her husband died
and she struggled to take care of herself, she sold her house and paid for a place here.
I plumped up her pillows, placing her child-hood teddy — tattered and missing an eye — in the centre.
Maureen cleared her throat before a drawn out “so” left her mouth. Her skin stretched as her tongue pressed against
her cheek. Her gaze lingered on me for a moment longer, and then a knowing smile spread across her face. ‘You have a spring
in your step and a glow on your face. A new man between the sheets, perhaps?’
I felt a warm flush creep up my neck as my mind transported me back to last night’s dream.
The unknown room was dimly lit, casting a seductive glow on our entangled bodies. A soft rustle of sheets
intertwined with our ragged breaths, creating an intoxicating symphony. The scent of passion hung in the air, a heady mix
of sweat and desire. Every touch ignited a surge of electricity, sending shivers down my spine. The intensity of his gaze
made my heart race, fuelling the fire that consumed us both. Soft dark-curls danced across my stomach as Cole’s tongue
laved my skin. Firm fingers gripping my flesh as he positioned me just so, a look of raw and animalistic hunger filling his
gaze as it travelled my heated flesh.
I coughed, clearing the cobwebs from my mouth. ‘No.’ I mimicked her tone. ‘No lover, new or old, between my
sheets.’
Maureen clicked her tongue, a look of horror contorting her features. ‘Hmmm, you should be out sampling as many—’ I
raised my eyebrows, ‘flavours as possible. Get your fill before you settle down.’
‘Well, then.’ I chuckled, folding down the under sheet. ‘It will please you to know that I have no desire to settle down.
There’s plenty of time for sampling.’ A devilish smirk lifted from the corners of my mouth.
She gasped, drawing my gaze. ‘But what about children?’ she asked, sounding perplexed, her eyes wide, her
demeanour wounded. ‘I was banking on getting an honorary grandchild from you.’
I couldn’t help but let out a hearty bark of laughter. Not likely, Maureen. When Mother Nature herself couldn’t bear to
see certain genealogies continue, she had ways of felling those trees. I mentally rolled my eyes, feeling the familiar weight of
self-deprecation settle upon me like a heavy cloak. It was my own personal armour. I polished it often and wore it daily.
‘Sorry.’ I huffed, fighting to get the duvet inside its cover. ‘You’ll have to guilt someone else into supplying your fix.’
 ‘Tish, tosh.’ She waved her half-eaten slice of toast. ‘There’s plenty of time for husbands and babies.’ She winked,
biting off a mouthful of her cold breakfast, undeterred by my refusal. ‘If you’re waiting around for Mr Picket-Fence, I’d advise
that you settle for Mr Rock Hard —’ I glared, dirty laundry in hand, enjoying the humour that sparkled in her gaze as she
waggled her eyebrows suggestively, ‘and Passing Through.’
Removing my latex gloves, I threw them in the bin as her snort of amusement echoed through the air, my exaggerated
expression of surprise humouring her. I dropped the crumpled bedsheets into the wicker basket, releasing a cloud of lavender-
scented fabric softener. I took hold of the pale-lilac hairbrush while she sipped her tea. With her hands shaking slightly, I
waited as she placed her mug back on its coaster.
‘I’m not waiting for my forever man, Maureen.’ I stepped in behind her and ran the brush through her shoulder-length
silver hair, the soft tresses, like always, already knot-free. ‘We are living in different times, remember? Women don’t have to
be married. Serving their husbands and keeping a home. We are independent, fierce,’ I paused for dramatic effect, ‘and capable
of taking out the rubbish all by ourselves.’
She chuckled. ‘Well, something has given you a lovely glow, dear. Woman would pay good money to get that, you
know.’
I blocked her out, my hands on autopilot as I focused on gently brushing through her hair because I knew she liked it.
My mind kept wondering back around to that kiss. If I was whimsical and dramatic, I’d say it was life changing. That’s what it
felt like when his lips touched down on mine; like the route I was heading down had suddenly changed, all pathways
converging into one solid way forward — with Cole at the end.
He was the tall, dark, and brave prince cutting through the wild thorns to claim his Aurora; falling to his knees to break
the curse that kept her asleep. The image I’d conjured up caused me to smile. But it was a weak, paltry thing. My heart seemed
heavier. I felt odd, despondent at the loss of something that was never mine. It wasn’t glaring, like a Brass Band stabbing at
your ears; it was a low thrumming buffing up against the deadness inside.
Perhaps I should have given a little more thought into why that kiss, that man, had wormed through a little of the
numbness inside. Because, as the dark void cracked open, an unsettling sensation gripped me, as though an unfamiliar entity
was clawing its way out from deep within my being. A desperate need to merge itself with the man claiming my lips.
I shook off the feeling. I wasn’t living in a fairy-tale; not even a fluffy romance book. It was just a kiss. A hot, knee-
buckling kiss, but still just a kiss.
‘A new moisturiser, then?’ Maureen asked, her voice cutting through the haze as she looked at me over her shoulder,
her gaze flitting to the brush in my frozen grip.
I smiled. ‘No.’ I chuckled, enjoying the look of curiosity on her beautiful, wrinkled face.
As I put the hairbrush back on her side table, she patted my hand. ‘Avery, I don’t think I’ve ever seen your skin look so
lovely.’
Giving her tiny shoulders a gentle squeeze, I could feel their delicate frame beneath my touch. I whispered my thanks
before I walked over to the tall single wardrobe. ‘What would you like to wear today?’
‘Oh, no, um—’ her response died as I opened the double-doors; a huff of air escaped me blowing through Mr
Blackburn’s last remaining strands of grey hair.
‘Roger,’ I exclaimed as he lifted a large magnifying glass to his left eye, squinting his right. I didn’t need to look down
to know he wasn’t wearing any trousers; his bright-white boxers seemed to glow within the gloom of his hiding-place.
His left eyebrow arched higher as a sound of intrigue vibrated his lips. ‘Another clue.’ Both brows danced before
freezing in a sharp downward point. ‘And it’s Mr Blackburn, to you.’
‘What are you doing in here, Mr Blackburn?’ I asked, my lips quivering as I tried to keep from smiling. I moved aside,
showing that he should come out of the wardrobe.
He emerged, magnifying glass poised, and hunched over to study the floor. ‘Clues, dear fellow. One must look.
Forever observe. Be open to noting what the world is trying to say.’
‘Yes, well—’ I cleared my throat. ‘I’m sure what Mrs Uren’s wardrobe had to say is riveting, but you ought to go back
to your room.’
His head snapped up. ‘Its mysteries are complex.’ His lips compressed; brows drawn down as he looked back at the
floor. ‘It shall require further analysis before I’m comfortable in presenting my findings.’ He looked up, one enormous eye
glaring through his prop.
‘Out,’ I demanded, my gaze flitting between Mrs Uren’s quivering upper lip and her innocent expression as she
attempted to contain her amusement.
I shook my head, watching as Mr Blackburn stooped further. He scuttled on chicken-thin legs towards the door, his
spyglass still in hand as he exited the room. The soft click of the door closing drifted over my shoulder as I turned back to
Maureen.
‘Well.’ She coughed, picking at invisible crumbs in the folds of her nightie. ‘You can blame that Hilda Smith three
doors down.’ She chuckled; her look of innocence gone. ‘Poor thing. Lost her diabetic chocolate — again. She had Roger up
early looking for it. Stupid woman ate it yesterday afternoon. I saw it myself. Gluttonous pig.’ She waved her hands flippantly.
‘He was on a roll then.’ With a small shrug, she added, ‘He’s entertaining.’
My disapproval was obvious, but I shook my head for emphasis as I returned to the wardrobe. I picked out a pale-pink
calf-length shift dress; the repetitive daisy pattern reminding me of Aunty Carol’s love of garish curtains. Unfortunately, her
flare for kitschy furnishings didn’t stop there. Every Christmas, she’d send another bedspread. Even the blanket’s comfort
couldn’t redeem the hideous fabric. Luckily, being a ten-hour drive away, I didn’t have to dig any out too often.
When both Dwight and I left home and rented out the warehouse, Aunty Carol sold her house to follow her dreams to
Scotland. Now running a tiny café on the edge of Galloway Forest, she spent her days selling cream teas and hiking. She
always said she was most at home surrounded by trees and nature. She’d never been so busy. I don’t know how she found the
time to make those atrocious excuses for bedding.
I shivered in repulsion before carrying the dress over to Maureen’s bed. ‘You shouldn’t encourage him.’ I tried to keep
a smile from my face, but failed miserably.
Maureen shrugged. ‘At my age, you take your enjoyment in whichever way it presents itself. God only knows how long
I have left.’ Her expression was solemn, her voice a mere whisper.
A deep sigh left me as my gaze travelled up to the ceiling, like it could deliver the strength to cope with the dramatics I
was witnessing. I could not stop the unladylike snort that escaped me. I tutted as I stepped up to her. ‘You missed your calling.
With theatrics like that, you’d have conquered the stage.’
Maureen laughed, her full belly chuckle giving her crepe-like cheeks a rosy-hue. ‘In the next life, perhaps.’ She sighed
as I unbuttoned her poly-cotton nightdress, her milky gaze holding mine as her hand lifted to still my fingers. ‘Don’t be afraid to
take that first step, Avery. My one regret is fear steering my course. I wished I’d been willing to go with faith, instead I’ve
forever wondered what waited for me around the corner.’ Her fingers gently tapped at my hands as her eyes glistened. Her gaze
fell to her lap, unfocussed. ‘I gave them everything. My best years, yet…’ She squeezed my hand as she closed her eyes.
I knew she meant her children, and my heart ached as her words trailed off. Everything I’d learnt about her told me she
was, and still is, a good mum.
Her bright gaze met mine, and she smiled, softly. ‘This is the way of things. The more you do, the less you’re thought
of, and every time you give a piece of your heart to help another, you stray further away from your true self.’
Words failed me as I faced her, unsure of how to respond. There, there? You’re worth more than that? Tough it out, my
courageous comrade? I could suggest that she express her frustration by telling them to go to hell. But even now, despite all the
love and affection that she wanted but didn’t receive, she would offer herself selflessly if one of her children was in need.
If only my mother was as kind as Maureen.

+++ +++

After finishing my shift and arriving home, I attempted to leave the job behind, but my thoughts were still back at work.
I didn’t like to see Maureen sad; it made my chest ache; my skin felt like it wasn’t sitting right. Once again, I felt subdued. I
didn’t know what to do with the feelings; there was no outlet for them. It wasn’t like I could call out her children on their lack
of visiting.
Well, that wasn’t exactly true. I could do just that, but even though you could do something, it didn’t mean you should.
It wasn’t my place, and Maureen wouldn’t want that. Plus, I really liked my job, so getting fired would suck donkey dick.
Yet, I was feeling an odd sense of dishonour, like some sort of vicarious guilt. Was this a normal reaction? I couldn’t
be sure, so I made a note in my notepad, adding a reminder to book an appointment with Dr Jemerson.
At a loss with the root of the emotions, I did what I normally did with unresolved stress; I worked them out with the
two P’s: perspiration and pain.
The epic battle music played through the surround speakers, but barely registered. I forced my body to work through
my daily stretches because I didn’t have time for them this morning. Dwight drilled the necessity of it into me years ago and,
like a good soldier, I didn’t miss a day.
One must stay limber and ready to fight at a moment’s notice. Even if it’s just for the last packet of toilet rolls: a
woman should always be prepared to defend herself or the twelve-pack of three-ply in her clutches.
Limbs lightly buzzing, I strapped my knuckles with white tape, my focus moving onto the punch bag. A gentle warm up
soon merged into a less docile practice as Maureen’s words of advice played around on a loop in my mind.
“Don’t be afraid to take that first step, Avery.”
Take the first step.
To where?
I didn’t have any aspirations beyond my current life. I liked where I lived; enjoyed having Dwight around when we
crossed paths. I loved my job and always made time for myself. To feed the adrenaline addict inside. Overall, I was content.
But maybe something was missing? I didn’t know what that could be. Perhaps I didn’t possess the mental strength for
the type of self-analysis needed to make that assessment. I was getting better at distinguishing between some emotions. Fear
being the one that stood out the most. Even though it didn’t strike when it should, I knew when I faced the type of situation that
should call upon it. That’s a positive development. And when that viper finally struck, I was aware of it. Each time a fresh
memory from my kidnapping came to the surface, fear would sink its teeth into me, leaving deep marks on my soul.
I pushed away the internal dialogue and focused on my arms, keeping them up; checking my elbows were in; changing
my position so my movements flowed. I stayed on my toes, my weight transferring from one foot to the other as my fist
delivered powerful punches. My leg lifted as my body turned, my shin striking the bag in a Round House Kick. A hint of a
smile played at the corners of my mouth. My brow glistened with sweat, and I felt a euphoric high from the surge of
endorphins. And, finally, my mind was quiet.
After finishing my regular workout, I showered and made my way downstairs to find something to eat. The open-
planed space was just under 3000 square feet, the kitchen in the corner with an allocated dining area. A twelve-seater table
was an old oak piece we found on an app for local second-hand sellers. Previous owners had marked it with a mosaic of
scratches and sizable dents, a testament to its journey over the years. Since bringing it home, we’d adorned it with passages of
poetry and sayings, giving it a whimsical touch. They were a joyful reminder of happy memories and never failed to bring a
smile to my face.
There currently sat nine chairs in their designated place, none of which fitted the style of the table. We randomly
purchased them from charity shops. Old fabric chairs, some metal. We even salvaged one with castor wheels from a trip to the
dump last summer.
I scanned the space, looking for the other three, my gaze passing over the gym equipment in the left-hand corner,
moving to the right-hand side and the two drum kits set up at the far end. Facing each other with other instruments between
them, I spotted one chair being used as a coat rack. The remaining two were likely scattered around the warehouse unit. But I’d
have to hunt them down later. My stomach growled, forcing me into the kitchen.
My smile lifted my cheeks high as I found a note on the fridge: my tea was in the oven. ‘He always keeps his
promises,’ I said to myself, remembering that he owed me two weeks of cooking.
I set my night in stone. Food followed by an hour with my black stallion between my thighs. It had been a few days
since I’d ridden my Ducati Diavel, and the itch to feed my addiction with the sensual beast was getting uncomfortable.
 Chapter Nine
I Wanted It To Be Anne Boleyn

Cole

COLE’S GRIP ON the hammer tightened as he inhaled the fetid scent of wet dog and badger, but Colton’s good mood was
infectious, despite the irritation still simmering in his gut.
After thrashing the fucker into something that resembled submission last night, Cole’s demand for answers, like
always, went ignored. He looked at his little brother’s face, his displeasure rising: the evidence from the beating he dished out
was already beginning to heal, even though the twat could not shift to speed up the process.
He was considering another round as the memories of last night flooded his mind.
‘What the fuck was that all about?’ Cole growled, lifting Colton to his feet before stepping away and running his
fingers through his hair. The knuckles that had healed after torturing Gavin had re-split, adding to Cole’s shitty mood.
‘And the part-shifting? That shouldn’t be possible. Should I be worried here, brother?’ he asked with a concerned tone.
The wacky wanker grinned; his eyes were ablaze with humour as his eyebrows danced. ‘The Little Drummer is like
us,’ he said, with a slight lift of his left shoulder. ‘She just doesn’t know it yet. And no, worry not, big brother, everything
will be alright. I’ve got it all under control.’
‘You didn’t look under control, Colt. You haven’t shifted for years.’
‘Did I draw blood? No.’ He shrugged, raising his hands, palms up as if having his elongated claws wrapped
around an innocent woman’s throat were an everyday occurrence.
‘What did you mean by “she’s like us”?’ He forced the question out through clenched teeth, already fed up with the
cryptic non-answers and nonchalance. There were too many threads to pull, and he wasn’t sure which ones to focus on.
Colton waltzed back down the alleyway, picking up a hat discarded on the floor. Cole immediately recognised it as the
dark-haired beauty’s cap.
He desperately tried to hide his sullen expression but failed as his little brother playfully put it on, a mischievous
sparkle in his eyes.
Colton’s gaze turned quizzical as Cole repeated his question, a frown creasing his forehead before a smirk lifted
his lip with a sardonic twitch. ‘If you need me to explain it, brother, then you don’t deserve the answers.’ He shrugged,
walking by with a swagger in his step.
He snarled; fists balled in frustration. How was she like them? Was she a sinner and gun for hire? A wolf-shifter?
A throaty chuckle escaped. No, he would have picked up on that the first moment her scent hit his nose. His trail of thought
reminded him of Colton sniffing her and his demands that he kiss her. How his ardent desire turned to rage when his
brother dropped to his knees and buried his face between her thighs.
Cole swallowed the saliva pooling in his mouth. ‘What was with the scenting, Colt? Do you like her? You know
humans have an altogether different view on sniffing strangers, right?’
Colton chuckled, leaving him standing at the foot of the alleyway, once again pondering why the Drummer had
such an effect on him.
The speakers blared out a loud metal version of “Greensleeves,” jolting Cole out of his thoughts as Creed tightened
the restraints binding Kevin Pentallick to the reinforced chair. The mark’s face remained impassive, but his struggle to free
himself became increasingly frantic. It was colder than usual in the factory, causing goosebumps to erupt over his bare skin. A
shiver worked through him on a rhythmic loop, his hands and feet growing paler by the second.
With a smile, Cole embraced the scene unfolding around him, its cosy embrace melting away his sour mood and
replacing it with a blissful sense of warmth and contentment.
Colton effortlessly lifted two bulky five-litre water bottles out from the nondescript white van, his melodic voice
filling the surroundings with the haunting lyrics, ‘Alas, my love, you do me wrong, to cast me off discourteously.’
He smiled as he tossed the hammer from one hand to the other. Considering the subject, and the current musical
interlude, it seemed Colton was preparing to go to town Tudor style on the mark’s ass.
 There was a casual tone to Cole’s voice as he asked, ‘How did it feel when you wrapped your meaty paws around
your wife’s neck, Mr Pentallick?’ But the deep furrow between his eyebrows revealed his underlying anger. ‘Powerful and
righteous? Like you were a real man?’ He hummed.
Venom dripped from Kevin’s words as he said, ‘Fuck you.’ He spat, blood and phlegm hitting the plastic sheet,
bruises already forming around his left-cheek. Cole looked down at his forearm. The indentation from the mark’s teeth was
still visible. The wily fucker was like a rabid dog when they cornered him earlier. He was relishing the challenge of breaking
him.
Creed tutted. ‘We weren’t there to help your first wife.’ His voice, gentle and easy-going, set the tone of a casual
gathering between friends over a beer. ‘Or your second. Luckily, your current brother-in-law loves his sister very much. He
told us all about his concerns regarding you.’
Kevin growled. ‘That red-headed, cockless twat can go fuck himself.’
The sound of water chugging into a pink Flexi Tub garnered the first lick of fear across Kevin’s face as Colton’s deep
tenor sung, ‘And who but my Lady Greensleeves?’
The Mark tried to turn in his chair to see what Colton was doing. ‘What’s that for?’ he asked, his voice wobbling.
Despite Cole’s desire to watch him break, this wasn’t an interrogation. The contract was to deliver his painful death.
Huffing in annoyance, Cole absentmindedly scratched his cheek, muffling his words. ‘How fucking disappointing.’ The mark’s
earlier show of confidence had already evaporated, leaving him with a lingering sense of displeasure.
He knew that most spouse-beaters quickly realised their physical advantage meant diddly-squat when faced with a
larger opponent. With the slightest hint of pressure, they dropped the act. But Cole enjoyed finding ways of getting there. The
possibilities were infinite, and the brothers’ creativity always flowed freely. However, the underlying logic remained
unchanged. Whether through pain, fear or discomfort, it was about finding the right button to push.
Cole looked at Mr Pentallick, his distaste for the man amping up as he watched the snot run down his chin. Despite
his disdain for those who occupied that chair, he couldn’t help but feel a begrudging sense of respect for those who held
immense mental and physical resilience. It required an indomitable spirit to endure eons of torment and remain unbroken. Not
that it would save them from their fate, it just allowed his demons the chance to get a little more imaginative.
Cole pinched the bridge of his nose, his annoyance growing stronger by the second. Then there were men like Kevin.
Weak. Playing the part of a thug came naturally to them, but only when their target was a timid woman. Because when the
balance shifted and payment was due, breaking them was as effortless as spreading butter on toast. All it required was
mystery; that invisible blade of dread slipping into their ribs.
As more water filled the tub, the chugging sound grew louder, causing the mark to whimper in discomfort. His gaze
darted anxiously between his brothers, searching for any sign of release or forgiveness. Although he would normally enjoy the
sight of a man begging for his life, today it was pissing him off.
He closed his eyes, willing calm to wash over him as he forced slow, deep breaths into his lungs. Instead, an image of
the dark-haired beauty danced into his mind, her sexy form rocking on a stool as she took command of those drums. Her thighs
pressed against his face as she rode him with the same aggressive strokes. With clenched fists, he licked his lips as his chest
filled with heat and longing. Avery was a riddle he couldn’t solve. She was his torturous mystery.
By the gods.
He wanted to pry her open and discover all her secrets before tainting her soul with his. Cole sensed an undercurrent
of darkness within her, hidden by her luminance. Something locked away that poked its head out when she lost herself to the
drums. He was certain that beneath all her beauty and softness waited a wildness that was desperate for freedom.
He wondered if she’d bulk at discovering the wickedness inside him. That if meeting the beast that wanted to bite into
her flesh would scare her, or — Cole shook his head.
Focus.
Standing before Mr Pentallick, Colton’s face transformed into a dreamy expression, adding a touch of eccentricity to
his demeanour. ‘Pick one.’ He fanned out six different coloured envelopes in front of Kevin. The mark frowned, but his skin
paled when he looked up at the disturbed man before him. His brother’s eyes were bright, his smile leaning further towards
psychotic. ‘I want to play. Now pick one.’
‘Blue.’ Kevin whimpered, shrinking in on himself.
Colton’s grin widened, merging into the realms of demonic. ‘Don’t show me yet.’ His fake swoon was amusing as he
handed the envelope to Creed, whose smile looked just as unhinged. ‘Let us continue,’ he said, a second before his enormous
fist struck out, snapping Kevin’s head back, the shock stalling any verbal response other than the loud crunch of his nose
breaking.
Blood poured down his mouth as Kevin’s head rolled on his shoulders, his eyes teetering, the first warning of
unconsciousness looming, but his gaze snapped back to alert.
‘That’s what Patricia felt,’ Creed said, his tone showing signs of disgust as he lifted a baseball bat from the table and
made his way to Mr Pentallick. His boots rustled the plastic sheet. ‘And this.’ He swung the weapon in an aggressive arc
towards Kevin’s knee. As a pop echoed, the mark let out a piercing scream.
It made Cole’s spine tingle as he strolled over, his face taut with excitement as he swung the hammer at the man’s
other kneecap. The shiver exploded and became a full body quiver as Kevin’s cry became a high-pitched wail.
The mark’s lamentations grew hoarse as the Anderson brothers continued to strike, stab, and taunt the man. There was
never enough evidence to tie him to either of his widows’ deaths. The justice system was often flawed, requiring individuals
like Cole to step in and restore order. That was ok. He was happy to do it.
Kevin’s shallow breaths wheezed out of his lungs. ‘Please.’
Greed snarled. ‘Did Patricia say please?’ His deep rumble reverberated through the room. His furious gaze was
steady as he picked up pliers, dragging them across the metal table. ‘Did she beg you to stop?’ He walked a slow circle
around Mr Pentallick, tapping his weapon against the chair. ‘I bet she did, didn’t she?’ He bent at the knees in front of the mark
and gripped his bound hand. Lining the tool up with the tip of Kevin’s thumb, he asked, ‘Did you stop?’
An inhuman scream rushed from his grey lips as Creed removed the nail. The mark’s eye’s stayed rounded in horror,
his mouth a cavernous dark pit that continued to spill its anguished lullaby as his brother set about removing the remaining
fingernails.
He dropped the pliers. The sharp clatter reverberated against the plastic sheet, filling the room. Cole’s gaze stayed on
his brother as he got to his feet and stretched, his neck giving a satisfying crack that caused a grin to illuminate his face. Cole
could see in the hazy glint of his eyes that his inner demons lay sated.
‘Open it,’ Colton demanded, his infectious laughter filling the air as he excitedly shifted his weight from foot to foot.
‘The envelope. Quickly, Creed,’ he added, his tone conveying his growing impatience.
The rustle of paper filled the empty lull between songs as the middle sibling opened it with a smirk, his chest
shuddering with his silent chuckle.
Colton’s breath quickened, his eyes becoming wider and more intense with excitement as he cried, ‘Well?’
‘Catherine Howard,’ Creed said, his voice bellowing as he bowed, emulating a courtly knight.
Colton let out a frustrated groan, clearly annoyed by the choice. His gaze grew distant, his face momentarily devoid of
expression, like a passing shadow had sucked out his soul. He shook his head. ‘I wanted it to be Anne Boleyn,’ he whispered.
The heaviness that filled the air moments before seemed to have vanished. ‘She was fascinating. A woman who defied norms
and left a legacy,’ he mused.
‘I’m sure Mr Pentallick wouldn’t mind appeasing your desires,’ Cole said, his ear-to-ear grin coaxing Colton’s back
to his face. ‘If you asked him nicely.’
Colton spun around, his fingers gripping the mark’s shoulders. ‘Kevin,’ he shook him, ‘dear fellow, would you object
if I picked both women? No?’ He cried out in joy, not waiting for an answer. ‘Excellent.’ He rubbed his hands.
Creed laughed. ‘Henry VIII wasn’t a dutiful husband either.’ He tutted. ‘They accused Catherine of Howard of having
an affair with some douche named Culpepper. Have you heard of the Dunking Stool?’ Creed’s head cocked to the side, a
curious look on his face.
Kevin groaned, drool spilling out from his mouth, joining with the blood and snot as the thick batch of bodily fluids
marched down his chest.
Creed continued. ‘No matter. Back along, it was used to punish woman accused of adultery. Unfortunately, we don’t
have an actual Dunking Stool, though it might be something to consider in the future,’ he said in a conspiring manner as he
looked towards Cole and winked. Moving in close to Kevin’s seat, he leaned in and spoke quietly, ‘For now, we must
improvise. On three,’ he said as Colton stepped to the opposite side of the chair. ‘Two, one.’
Despite its hefty weight, both men lifted the chair easily, tipping it backwards before plunging the mark’s head into the
water-filled tub. Gurgling and garbled words sounded.
‘Where did your pretty face go?’ Colton sniggered as Kevin’s body convulsed, fighting his body’s instinct to inhale,
and the bonds keeping him tethered.
 A whimper behind Cole caught his attention. He turned around, his grin cathartic as he made his way to the snivelling
Nonce tied to the steel framework of the furnace. In his excitement, he’d forgotten all about him.
Mr Benson’s hands trembled slightly, betraying his nervousness. His sunken cheeks highlighted the exhaustion etched
into his face, while his weary eyes darted anxiously from brother to brother. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead,
adding a sheen of discomfort to his already dishevelled appearance.
His thin lips quivered with a mixture of apprehension and anticipation, hinting at the emotions swirling within. The
weight of his circumstances seemed to pull him down, causing his shoulders to slump under the burden. That worn-out
demeanour was further emphasised by his oversized, faded, and stained dark-brown suit jacket.
Despite his outward appearance, there was a glimmer of determination in his eyes that got Cole’s blood pumping
faster through his veins. The man’s resolve shone through the cracks, hinting at an unwavering spirit that refused to be crushed.
A challenge that he would eagerly accept.
His eyebrow arched. ‘No need to be jealous. You’re up next.’ A horse gasp sounded from behind. Cole gripped
Leroy’s hair, forcing him to watch as his brothers continued to torture Kevin, dunking him back under the water. ‘Who’s at the
top of the food chain?’ he asked, ignoring the scent of ammonia wafting up from the man’s piss-soaked trousers.
Leroy Benson was a forty-year-old wholesale-manager from thirty miles up the coast. He lost his wages each month
on the horses, drove a shitty-brown Skoda, and had a penchant for little boys.
He was not a hired hit, but a series of incriminating emails between him and the last mark sealed his fate. Cole
swallowed the bile that retched up his gullet as the memories of the video they found punched him in the gut. What Leroy
Benson did to that little boy was hideously aberrant.
He shook his head clear. Unfortunately, it was the only thing of merit the Galloway Twins got from Gavin Bray’s
phone, so the search for the bigger fish continued.
The man’s Cornish accent thickened as he begged. ‘I don’t know. Please.’ His terrified gaze didn’t waver from the
side of Kevin’s face as Colton placed a noose around his neck, muttering something about Anne Boleyn. Leroy’s mouth
slackened, his lower lips trembling. ‘Please, I—’ a high-pitched scream shot free from his mouth as Colt decapitated Kevin.
Cole chuckled, the sound dark and promising pain. ‘You’re a monster.’ He growled, tightening his grip on Leroy’s
hair. ‘But nothing more than a monkey at the bottom of the pile. I want the Organ Grinder.’
Leroy spat. ‘You great bleddy tuss. You are no bleddy better. If I’m a monster, then what the hell are you boys? Look
what you bleddy did.’ His terrified yet disgusted gaze darted back to the headless body of Mr Pentallick. ‘I saw you all, the
sick joy on your faces.’ He spat again. ‘You’re worse than I ever could be. I never took the life of another human being. What
gives you the audacity to pass the verdict on me? It’s a sickness. I am powerless to stop myself.’
The intensity of the mark’s judgment was palpable, causing Cole’s nostrils to flare in response. Inside his skull, a
cloud of angry wasps swarmed, ready to attack. Whispered words grew louder, awakening the slumbering monster within.
He yanked Leroy’s hair, a hiss erupting from the pale flat-line of his mouth. Cole slowly shook his head. ‘We are
superheroes compared to men like you,’ he seethed. ‘Every time a weak case gets thrown out of court,’ his hand tightened
further, jolting the mark’s head to punctuate his words, ‘where the world and his wife know the truth but that fucked up shit
called evidence is lacking—’
Leroy interrupted with a chuckle. ‘Bullshit.’ He winced when Cole strengthened his hold. The mark’s face contorted
in pain. ‘Fuck you,’ he said with a hint of contempt in his voice as his judgmental look returned.
Undeterred, Cole pressed on. ‘Where a frightened victim finds the courage to stand up against pieces of shit like you,
to tell their story, but the jury has to ignore it. That’s when we’ll be there.’ His words boomed around the factory, and as his
knuckles landed a solid blow on the mark’s cheek, a twisted satisfaction fed his rage. Leroy’s wails and the blood streaming
down his face made him feel drugged. ‘Where mothers and fathers stay awake at night, their hearts pounding, fearing the return
of the monster from their child’s nightmares.’
Another strike, and the mark let out muffled howls of agony that only fuelled Cole’s sense of moral rectitude.
‘Every time, we will be there to tidy up the mess, to throw out the trash, to chase away the bad dreams you and yours
inflict on the innocent.’ On the next blow, the mark’s nose exploded, but a blood-stained gurgle was his only response as Cole
reached into his overall pocket. ‘We stand up as judge, jury and executioner because this little boy cannot.’ Ferociously
roaring in the man’s face, he forced him to confront the photo. ‘The lad wasn’t strong enough to fight back. At six years old, he
never stood a god damn chance against you.’
He dropped the image in Leroy’s lap before his fist struck again and again, his fury holding him hostage as the demons
inside him demanded to feel more flesh split open beneath his knuckles.
 His chest burned and stuttered; rage turning to acid that boiled in his gut as he continued to strike Leroy; the savage
desire to break bone rode him hard. A wild beast urging him on as all the faces of the monsters The Brethren had killed
flashed through his mind.
All the innocent children abused and broken by depraved men like Mr Benson shattered his heart as the scent of blood
fuelled his need to seek revenge in their names. And like always, the root of all his pain — the spark that gave life to the devil
that lived in his soul — filled his mind. His own abuser, his tormenter, his father — the memories clutched at his gut.
How the bastard’s cider-laced breath would churn the small amount of food sat in Cole’s tummy as the man screamed
in his face. His massive hands striking, his fingers gripping, his words taunting. The tortured screams erupting from his little
brother’s mouths as the monster pressed the glowing ember of his cigar into their flesh, his inadequacy breaking his heart as
the bastard forced him to stand and watch; the threat of more pain for his siblings keeping him in place.
But there was always more; no matter how well they behaved. Heavy steel-capped boots kicking Colton while he
curled up into a small ball; his instincts telling him to protect his head. Excruciating wails of agony as he took his belt to
Creed, the angry welts on his back standing out starkly against his pale skin. The memories felt so fresh, the horrifying detail
so clear that his gut churned and sent bile upward.
A man who should have sheltered them, provided for them, only sought to break them. Someone who should have
loved and taking care of his mate, raped, and served her a death sentence instead. The person who was supposed to be a
protector of his wife and kids proved to be a heartless creature, undeserving of a family.
His brow furrowed, beads of sweat cascading down his forehead as his clenched fists locked up. The tendrils of
torment seemed to have a tangible presence, snaking their way through his thoughts, coiling around his every nerve. They
constricted, squeezing his mind with an unrelenting grip, causing his temples to throb with pulsating agony.
His heart, heavy with the weight of despair, pounded against his chest, its rhythm chaotic and erratic. Each beat
echoed through his entire being, a painful reminder of the heartache that consumed him. The tendrils slithered deeper, delving
into the darkest corners of his memories, unearthing buried sorrows and regrets, reopening old wounds that had never truly
healed.
A shiver ran down his spine as the branches grew cold and callous thorns, their icy touch sending a chill coursing
through his veins. It was as if an invisible force was pulling him down, dragging him into the depths of his own anguish. He
fought against it, desperately trying to maintain his grip on reality, but the spikes were relentless in their pursuit of swallowing
him whole.
His fists continued to strike, even as his breathing became laboured. Shallow gasps escaping his lips as the tendrils
coiled tighter, constricting his chest with an oppressive force. The air was thick and suffocating. Each inhale felt like a
struggle, as if he was fighting against an invisible barrier, desperately trying to fill his lungs with much-needed oxygen.
Cole was suddenly teetering on the precipice of sanity. The pain, the heartache, threatened to consume him entirely, to
erase any trace of the person he once was. It would be so easy to let it. To allow himself to sink into oblivion. Yet, deep
within him, a flicker of resilience remained, a stubborn refusal to surrender to the darkness.
With every ounce of strength he could muster, he pushed back against the claws of anguish, determined to reclaim his
mind from their clutches. Slowly, ever so slowly, he felt himself untangle from their grip, one thought at a time. The tendrils
recoiled, their hold weakening, as he embraced the pain and heartache, acknowledging their presence.
Whispers of encouragement floated into his ears like a gentle breeze. Their goal was to claim his soul, and they
spared no effort in their final push. They could try, as they always did, but he was stronger now. They couldn’t have him.
A thick wall shot up as Cole pushed everything out. Forcing the bile to retreat, he inhaled greedy gasps of air. The
dark memories slowly receded as reality seeped back in. The face of the sick and evil monster beneath him was an
unrecognisable mass of blood, bone, and torn flesh. Cole’s breathing evened out, but he noticed that Leroy’s chest wasn’t
moving.
As he looked at the aftermath of his meltdown, he muttered curses under his breath, regretting his lack of restraint.
There was no longer any possibility of obtaining information.
A snort sounded from behind him. ‘Has that bastard already kicked the bucket?’ Creed asked.
With a nod, he quickly wiped the back of his hand across his chin, feeling the slickness of the wet blood spread to his
cheek. He was a fucking mess. As he turned around to face his brother, their eyes locked in a tense stare.
‘I’ll call Deacon,’ Creed said, his voice tinged with concern as he looked beyond Cole. A quick nod said his brother
accepted the scene for what it was, but he couldn’t hide the worry lines etched around his eyes or mask the concern in his gaze
as he took in the grotesque sight of Leroy’s disfigured face. He shook his head and chuckled heartily, then added, ‘Donavan
too.’
Cole could only nod in reply, his gaze drifting to Colton as he danced around a headless Kevin. He rubbed at his
chest; his heart ached. His wolf roared within him, restless and desperate for freedom. A primal instinct took hold, urging him
to run, to hunt, with an insatiable hunger. How long had it been? Fucked if he knew, but to not remember meant too bloody
long.
He looked back at Creed. ‘Do you mind if I head out tonight? I need to run-off some steam.’
His brother smiled. ‘Have at it.’ He gestured towards Leroy’s body. ‘Shall I send his phone to the Galloway Twins?
They might have better luck with that one?’ he asked as Cole peeled off his coverall.
‘Yeah.’ His voice echoed in the large space as he shook his head clear and cracked his neck. He carefully removed
his gloves, their rubbery texture sticking to his skin. His knuckles were raw and swollen, a testament to how badly he’d lost
his shit, yet strangely, he didn’t feel any pain. He grunted, throwing the disposable clothing in the bin.
‘Are you ok?’ Creed asked, his worry amplified. ‘Is this about yesterday?’
Cole’s wolf howled; the drummer’s name woven into the cry.
Even though his brother filled him in on everything he learned about her when he returned last night, it wasn’t enough.
Yet, somehow, he restrained himself, and chose not to use his resources to create a dossier on the siren. How? He hadn’t the
foggiest. As it stood, he wanted nothing more than her entire existence laid out at his fingertips, a covetous thorn wrapping
around his ribcage.
Cole let out a stuttered breath and gripped his brother’s shoulder. ‘The wanker just pissed me off,’ he said, tightening
his grip before walking away.
Creed wouldn’t push to delve deeper. The conversation was done. However, his insatiable curiosity about the
Drummer continued to simmer beneath the surface, making it increasingly difficult to ignore. With each step towards his car,
he could feel the coolness of the air relieving the heat in his cheeks. His footsteps echoed in the empty parking lot, his mind
filled with thoughts of his current mood. With a chuckle, he shrugged. He’d resisted far longer than he had expected.

+++ +++

Soft rays of the setting sun filtered through the dense canopy above, casting a mesmerising play of shadows on the
woodland floor. The gentle breeze rippled through his thick-black fur, carrying the earthy scent of moss and fallen leaves,
mingling with the sweet aroma of wildflowers in late bloom. Cole’s keen ears caught the distant chirping of birds and the
rustle of small creatures scurrying about.
With every stride, he felt the exhilarating freedom of the open trail, his muscles flexing with power and grace as his
four paws pounded the still warm ground. But as he continued his run, the dry mud and fallen branches prodding his soft pads
irritated him. He attempted to outrun the burning need inside him, but his blood was ablaze, and his gut churned, feeling
unfulfilled — despite the deer he’d hunted and gorged himself on.
The thought of the black hole The Brethren were digging into weighed heavily on his mind. The monsters they’d
interrogated so far yielded little in the way of actionable information regarding the child trafficking, and while he trusted all
his men and their capabilities, he was concerned about any potential repercussions.
His snout twitched as the scent of squirrel hit him, instantly sharpening his senses; instinct clawed at him to give chase
— his prey was getting away. But his wolf ignored the primal urge as his speed decreased.
Cole was also worried about Colton; despite his little brother’s assurance that he was under control. He hadn’t seen
him part-shift before; to the best of his knowledge, shifters weren’t capable of doing it. Not understanding how something like
that could happen, or what it meant, sat uncomfortably on his shoulders. The responsibility of keeping his brother’s safe was a
powerful instinct that would never fade, but he didn’t know how to fix this. He wasn’t even sure he had the right tools because
his youngest sibling was a closed book and he didn’t know what it was they were dealing with.
He felt exposed and defenceless, as if they were sitting ducks. Waiting for bigger prey to come and wipe them out.
That unease made him angry, and anger led to stupidity. He couldn’t act on idiocy, so he pushed it down. Even though he was
certain that Colton hadn’t let his wolf out since he was sixteen, he was no longer convinced of that fact. Maybe he had shifted:
had better control now he was older, and Cole was being unfair by assuming he’d become rabid, but it was a massive
unknown and a risk not to question the situation. They’d all have to keep a closer eye on him.
A loud chuff escaped him as an image of Avery danced across his mind and blotted out all other thoughts. His strides
became languid; his muscles and bones fluid as he pranced along the looping track. Pride widened his chest as a trot
decreased their speed further. His wolf preened as he remembered Avery’s scent of arousal. He sought to sate his female; see
to her needs as he fed his own.
Not our female.
The beast stopped abruptly, and a mournful howl echoed through the air. The unmet craving caused a physical ache as
pain and longing spread through his body, chasing away the fire as it turned his blood to ice.
She is not ours.
His wolf broadened his stance, his tail looping up as his head lowered — lips peeled back. A low growl worked its
way up from his gut, shot through his diaphragm and caressed his fangs. He and his beast had always been in balance, one
psyche passing the reins to the other in perfect symbiosis. But now, Cole felt the fight, the tug and pull as they fought to gain
advantage of that central rope. He hated to admit it, but he wasn’t sure who would win.
Unyielding, they both stood waiting out the other, the sun giving-way to the moon as the remnants of warmth in the
earth fled. Hunger returned: time marching on despite their inner conflict, the enticing aroma of supper twitching their snout. A
branch snapped and foliage rustled, cutting off the internal fight; both man and beast zeroing in on the rabbit who didn’t have
the sense to play possum.
 Chapter Ten
It’s Not My Fucking Story To Tell

Cole

THE SOFT CLICK of his office door closing filled the empty hallway, but Cole felt a surge of unease wash over him, leaving
his hand frozen on the handle and his stomach in knots. He was heading up to the apartment, intent on getting ready for his
session with Stephanie, but his mind felt torn. Regardless of the non-sexual nature of their time together, his wolf recoiled from
the idea of touching the sub. Apparently, his pig-headed wolf was craving the company of another. He could hear the drums,
feel them boiling his blood as Avery played. She consumed his every thought. He missed her last night; even knowing Dwight’s
band wasn’t booked to play, he searched for her in the crowd.
The alluring drummer’s taste had branded itself onto his lips, her scent now an ever-present inhabitant in his lungs. He
couldn’t shake the ridiculous feeling that he was disrespecting her by scheduling the time with Stephanie.
Restless, his wolf paced back and forth, its heavy breaths echoing in his mind, his fangs bared in outrage.
What the fuck?
There was no way he could stand on that balcony tonight and watch her play without jumping down and demanding
another kiss. He’d been ignoring the need to send her name to the Twins all day; having talked himself into believing it was ok.
But when it came down to it, he just didn’t feel right learning all there was to know about her in that way. Cole wanted to pull
the information from her himself, with his tongue and his wondering fingers.
Creed’s snickering abruptly interrupted his thoughts. The bastard’s inquisitive tone resonated as he leaned in and
asked, ‘Are you hiding from someone?’
Sodding hell.
Cole’s hand continued to grip the door handle; back bowed and head hung low. ‘Fuck off.’ He grunted, side-stepping
around brother as he headed along the long hallway. He didn’t trust himself to walk through the club without looking at the
dark-haired beauty, and one look might be all it took for his wolf to pounce, but there was no other route that led to the private
entrance of his apartment.
But Creed’s hollered statement stopped him in his tracks. ‘The Galloway Twins have come through in record time.’ An
excited glint brightened his gaze as Cole turned to look at him. Whatever they found, it must be good, judging by the wide grin
on his brother’s face.
Could they finally be nearing their goal?
He stepped into the changing rooms, his eyes darting around, to ensure they were the only ones present. In the small
room, lockers adorned two walls, while cosy seats and a sizable table occupied the centre, ensuring no hiding spots. He
nodded to his brother as he followed him inside; the door closing behind them.
‘They’re good. They retrieved a few files. But just you wait for the Golden Goose,’ Creed said, his phone emitting a
soft glow as his fingers swiftly moved across the screen.
White noise filled the empty changing room before a strong Irish brogue hit Cole’s ears. His stomach churned in
disgust as the man provided a detailed breakdown of starting prices for an auction, including the ages and sex of the children.
The walking cadaver wasn’t just dealing with images. He was selling young, vulnerable kids.
Creed growled and his knuckles turned white as he gripped the phone tighter, huffing out a breath. ‘His name is Alfred
Flanagan. Born in Dunmurry, but his current address is unknown. The Twins don’t believe the sick wanker’s the Top Dog,
though he’s high in the ranks and pulling up information on him has been proving difficult,’ he said as the thick lyrical accent
continued its sickening sales pitch.
Cole let his disgust sink into his bones. A malevolent warmth settled over him as he rubbed his chin and bit his lower
lip. Toes first. The man wouldn’t die from the blood loss. Maybe they could make it last longer than normal. Start with some
Pillory or some Music Torture. Forcing the sicko to squat for a week; strategically placed nails beneath his feet so the fucker
had to keep his heels off the ground.
His smile was sanguine, a stark contrast to the gruesome images of torment playing in his mind’s eye. Scalping. He
hadn’t partaken in that pastime for a while. Though he wasn’t particularly interested in trophies, Mr Flanagan had a persuasive
charm that could win him over.
Cole felt his deranged grin spread wider. It stretched his face as his hands unclenched, his fingers rubbing the phantom
blood coating his skin. He didn’t hear the door open or the soft footfalls approach; his mind too engrossed in the images of
torture it continued to create.
The unmistakable aroma of summer rain wafted towards him, accompanied by a sudden cry of distress. It pierced his
ears and made him whip around, his smile vanishing as the blood drained from his head.
Creed’s panic filled voice pulled him out of his daydream. ‘What the fuck?’
Cole would have verbally concurred with the expression of shock, but his mind was having issues with the sight
before him. Back bent unnaturally, eyes closed but with her face twisted in anguish, Avery appeared to be trapped mid-shift.
‘She’s a shifter?’ In a barely audible voice, Creed posed the question, his trepidation and confusion clear. ‘Why the
fuck is she stuck?’ The anguished cries of his brother echoed in his ears, mirroring the internal battle he was experiencing as he
remained fixated on the Drummer, frozen in a state of torment.
The sound of the door slamming against the wall echoed through the room as Dwight’s massive figure blocked the
entrance. ‘Shit.’ He snarled, shutting the door. ‘She doesn’t know how to shift,’ he said, his panic-stricken gaze fixed on Avery
as white fur rippled across her body and she grunted.
Cole felt anger surge through him like an uncontrollable inferno. ‘What do you mean she doesn’t know how?’ he asked,
his voice filled with disbelief. ‘She’s, what, in her mid-twenties? Why has she never bloody well shifted?’
Dwight glared at him, wrath and fear in his gaze. ‘Twenty-Eight and it’s not my fucking story to tell.’ He growled his
answer, teeth clenched. ‘She normally pulls back by now.’ He crouched beside her.
Cole’s hands gripped his hair in frustration as he stared down at Avery. Her scent had changed, the summer rain
morphing into the energised air that comes before a storm. He’d never scented the wolf in her, though if she could not shift, then
that would make sense. Helpless, he could only watch as her skin rippled and pain continued to contort her limbs, her body
battling an internal war. He fell to his knees as a mournful wail erupted from her pale lips.
He swallowed the lump cutting off his air supply. Cole didn’t do emotions; there was no place in his world for those
soft and warm sentiments, but something delicate yet dangerous swirled around his heart as he silently watched the drummer
suffer. Growing up with a father like Clive Anderson deprived him of fluffy feelings; he only knew anguish, anger, terror, and
violence. However, as he looked down at Avery, witnessing her body twist in agony as her inner beast fought to escape, a
strong desire to hold her overwhelmed him. Cole wanted to comfort her and take away her pain. To absorb it into himself; to
shelter her from the excruciating conflict that took hold of her.
‘She’s not pulling back,’ Creed said unhelpfully, like neither Cole nor Dwight had eyes and couldn’t see that she was
still fucking stuck.
Dwight rubbed at his neck. ‘Something must have caused it.’ His hands reached for her but dropped as another scream
erupted. ‘What happened before it started?’
Creed stepped closer. ‘She just walked in. No one hurt her. But if she can’t regain control, it’ll kill her,’ he said, the
worry he felt reflecting what Cole couldn’t voice.
Dwight’s fists clenched and relaxed, the rhythmic motion matching the rise and fall of his chest. ‘I know that.’ His
hands trembled as he breathed in deep. ‘Someone abducted her when she was fourteen. Six weeks she was God knows where,
enduring—’ his breath hitched as Cole’s stomach hit the floor. Dwight shook his head. ‘They found her two-hundred miles
away from home, naked and…’ he dropped his head. ‘She remembered nothing. We believe her first shift happened forcefully,
as if something had compelled her. She blocked out what happened. This,’ he gestured to her. ‘This happens when a memory
breaks through.’
A low growl sounded out behind the closed door, Colton’s roar vibrating through. ‘Little Drummer.’ The door slammed
open, his palm striking out to stop it from closing on him. Manic grin and frenzied gaze in place, he took in Avery’s buckled
form and whispered. ‘Shhhh.’ His eyes grew distant, and his jaw relaxed.
He crouched low, using his hands and feet to get closer to Avery as Creed called his name.
Colton ignored it, continuing to comfort the Drummer by hushing and soothing her, lowering himself even further as he
scented her hair.
Dwight bristled. ‘What the fuck is he doing?’
His little brother growled, the deep rumble filling the room.
‘Colt—’ the words died before leaving Cole’s mouth as Avery groaned. Her body slumped, her skin smoothing as a
stuttered breath left her lungs.
‘Shhhh,’ Colton said, his head laying on her stomach as he curled his limbs around her.
Creed expressed his shock, but all Cole could do was watch in stunned silence.
Did Colton’s comforting presence aid in her recovery? He had never seen his brother comfort someone, let alone use
his body to shield them like this. He’d extended his protective instincts, which were usually reserved for his brothers, to Avery.
Cole’s heart was momentarily lighter as he saw a glimpse of the boy Colton once was.
‘It’s ok, Little Wolf.’ Colton continued to reassure her, his expression one of innocent rapture as his fingers caressed
Avery’s hair.
Cole’s gut tightened. Was that jealousy he was feeling? He shuddered with the desire to rip Colton away from her. He
squeezed his eyes shut as his fingernails dug into his palm. It was too much to process. Avery was a shifter. And Colton didn’t
look lost or teetering on the edge of psychosis. For the first time in years, he looked content. He was consoling someone; a
tenderness within his features that Cole had long forgotten.
It irritated him to no end. Resentment consumed him as he observed his brother being the one to bring her comfort. He
wanted to do it. A need to pick up his dark-haired beauty and hide her away from the world settled in his limbs. She wouldn’t
want anybody to see her so vulnerable. Cole didn’t want them seeing the long lines of her legs, her creamy flesh on show, her
shorts hugging her perfect curves. But these weren’t just any men, they were his brothers. And Avery wasn’t his. His gut
tightened; even thinking it hurt him and felt wrong, though Cole couldn’t comprehend why.
‘Thank the fucking stars,’ Dwight blurted, his head hanging as if too heavy to hold up, his hands on the carpet as he
levelled out his breathing.
‘I told you she was one of us,’ Colton sung, manic grin back in place, as he continued to relax against her, his cheek
resting on her stomach.
‘You can’t tell her.’ Dwight choked out the words like they were a confession. He lifted his head, his gaze capturing
Cole’s. ‘I made that mistake once. She ended up in a mental health unit for two weeks. The knowledge fractured her mind.’ His
words come out in a rush, like he needed to get it off his chest before he talked himself out of it. ‘It was then that I started
family counselling sessions, giving me the opportunity to consult with her therapist. She’s a shifter too, but Avery doesn’t know
that. Luckily, the Doctor could use hypnosis to fix the damage I caused before it became permanent.’
Dwight inhaled a slow, deep breath, his eyes closing as if he was in pain. ‘Avery has to go through this.’ His
expression conveyed how bleak the situation was as his gaze met Cole’s once more. ‘Until she remembers everything that
happened, she’s stuck in this cycle. I’ll hold her hand, and do what I can to comfort her, but she must come to the understanding
of what she is on her own. It’s the safest way.’
Cole heard Dwight’s stuttered breath as an unwarranted and irrational annoyance took hold of his vitals. How dare
anyone tell him how to deal with Avery? She was his. He clenched his jaw at the unexpected and ridiculous statement. But she
was his. He didn’t even know her. Had barely spent more than a few fucked up moments in her presence. Yet, he felt it in his
soul — he was hers.
Cole disagreed with the idea of her enduring a painful and uncertain journey. One that may or may not fix her. It felt
wrong. And the lead guitarist was his subordinate; a man who’d barely begun learning the ropes that would bind him to the
Anderson brother’s world. Cole wasn’t about to take orders from him.
He ran his fingers through his hair, his gaze drawn back to Avery. Her chest slowly rose and fell, her face relaxed in a
deep slumber. ‘Colt, get off her,’ he said, his intestines twisting as his little brother continued to paw at her. Creed said Avery
lived with Dwight, and Dwight said he attended family counselling with her. Were they in a relationship? Cole looked down at
him. ‘Who is she to you?’ he asked, unable to fight the claws of the green-eyed monster digging into his gut.
Dwight glared up at him, his lip curled, his scent reeking of disgust and anger. ‘Avery is my cousin.’
Fuck.
Cole felt immature and foolish, as if he were still a pubescent twat. Creed said they were just friends, and it didn’t
seem like something they had to clarify, but he’d allowed jealousy to climb into the driving seat. He needed to get his head on
straight. He nodded, his throat too tight to voice an apology.
Dwight’s sad gaze settled back on Avery, his anger dispelling as he wiped his palm down his ashen face. His voice
cracked as he said, ‘Other than my mum, I’m all she has.’
Creed let out a huff of air, stepping up to Dwight and gripping his left shoulder. ‘That’s not true,’ he said, his voice
gruff. ‘You are part of our family now, and that extends to Avery. What can we do to help?’
 He noted the unshed tears lining Dwight’s eyes and swallowed the lump in his own throat. He looked away as emotion
hung heavy in the room. Cole suddenly felt inadequate. Rather than doing what Creed had done, he let his obsession with the
drummer guide his actions. He should have been extending a helping hand, offering his support.
Fuck, he was a goddamn tosspot. Avery was a wolf shifter in need of help; help that he and his pack could offer. What
was it about this beautiful woman that had his entire existence so bent out of shape? His brain didn’t function in any passable
way. His body just wanted to jump her bones, and his soul, once adrift, felt like it had thrown anchor and moored itself to the
dark-haired beauty.
Yet it wasn’t only him she had entwined herself with. Creed liked her; his face lit up when he spoke of her, his
fondness for the little shifter clear in his serene smile. And Colton had formed an unsettling attachment to her, even now,
ignoring Cole as per usual as he comforted Avery.
Memories of comforting the man similarly assaulted him; a time long before either of the brothers was strong enough to
protect each other. Their father had struck the youngest sibling over and over, his frail frame crumbling under the assault. His
little face was a bloody mess. Some of that damage still showed to this day. Cole looked at the jagged scar that cut through
Colton’s eyebrow. Only a shifter could have survived such severe injuries. Despite his young age, his body possessed an
extraordinary ability to repair itself. But even with access to it, some of his wounds were too deep to heal completely.
Cole shook off the memories, focusing his attention on the hushed conversation happening around him. Dwight
confidently explained to Creed how he had spent years training Avery, concentrating on building up her strength and abilities.
‘She’s good.’ Dwight chuckled, rubbing his jaw. ‘Strong. She pushes herself. I hoped that honing her fight instinct
would coax her wolf to the surface, but I don’t think it’s enough.’ He shook his head. ‘I’m not enough.’
‘Has she had much exposure to other shifters?’ Cole asked.
The man looked up. A frown creased his forehead. ‘No. Just me and mum.’
Cole bobbed his head in understanding. ‘Maybe she needs to be around more. Perhaps sensing others, those from a
tight-knit pack, might encourage her wolf to the surface.’
Dwight slowly nodded as his gaze darted from Avery to Colton. ‘Ok. But we must make sure she doesn’t see anyone
shift, not until she’s ready. I can’t imagine the damage that would do. Her therapist explained that when her wolf is ready and
her body finally shifts, the layers of hypnosis would naturally unfold.’ He shivered, clenching his fists. ‘We have done some
weapons training with her blindfolded.’ He laughed at Cole’s frown. ‘Like I said, she pushes herself. That would be a good
time to expose her to others. She wouldn’t physically see them, but her wolf would sense them.’
Creed smiled, pleased with the idea. ‘Dwight, that’s a brilliant workaround. That kind of thinking will serve you well
within The Brethren. We prize the ability to anticipate and adapt. When’s your next lesson?’
‘Tomorrow. I had originally planned to take her to the gym. Casworon, my mate, has offered us access to one of the
yoga spaces whenever it’s not reserved.’
‘What about Rosewarne Meadow?’ Colton’s voice croaked out, his head finally lifting from Avery. ‘There is a
woodland that backs onto it. You can shift under the cover of trees. Then, if she takes off her blindfold, there would be enough
obstacles to hide behind.’
Creed smiled, and Cole coughed out his surprise. It was an excellent suggestion.
Dwight smirked. ‘That would work.’

+++ +++

Cole finished strapping Stephanie’s willowy legs to the St. Andrew’s Cross, his fingers trailing along her bound arms
as his gaze followed the elegant lines of her neck. His own anticipation grew as he watched the rapid rise and fall of her
shoulders as she patiently waited for the first strike.
He stepped over to the loveseat, the black-leather fitting in well with the dark-wood cladding of the walls and the rest
of the play-furnishings, a similar vibe to the other private rooms. He picked up the flogger from the small round side table,
feeling the smooth leather handle in his hand, then returned to his sub.
Cole knew his approach was asinine, but he couldn’t figure out another way of dealing with the flood of yearning
Avery had stirred within him. It wasn’t just desire; it was the powerful impulse to protect her, to hide her away so no other
male could gaze upon her. To feed her, wrap her up in blankets, to — suffocate her.
Yes, that’s what his wolf wanted; to bind her wings and cage her. Even more so after learning about her past. The beast
Another random document with
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 ERICA spicata.

CHARACTER SPECIFICUS.

Erica, antheris aristatis, inclusis; floribus pluribus, dense spicatis,

subterminalibus; foliis subsenis.

DESCRIPTIO.

Caulis fruticosus, pedalis, erectus, ramis pluribus, confertis,

adscendentibus.
Folia subsena, linearia, mucronata, patentia, glaberrima, subtus sulcata,
petiolis brevissimis, cauli adpressis.
Flores plures, subterminales arcte stipati, in spicam duram; ima parte
luteoli, summa virescens.
Calyx. Perianthium persistens, duplex; exterius polyphyllum, foliolis
lanceolatis, inæqualibus; interius tetraphyllum, flavescens, foliolis aduncis,
spathulatis, summa inflata, callosa, acuminata, connivente.
Corolla teretiuscula, basi attenuata, ore obtuso, quadrifido, æquali,
connivente.
Stamina. Filamenta octo, capillaria, corollæ subæqualia, receptaculo
inserta. Antheræ aristatæ, inclusæ.
Pistillum. Germen subrotundum. Stylus filiformis, staminibus longior.
Stigma tetragonum.
Habitat ad Caput Bonæ Spei.
Floret a Novembri in Aprilem.

REFERENTIA.

1. Calyx et Corolla.
2. Calyx et Bractea lente aucta.
 3. Stamina et Pistillum.
4. Stamina a Pistillo diducta, anthera una lente aucta.
5. Stylus et Stigma lente aucta.

SPECIFIC CHARACTER.

Heath, with bearded tips, within the blossoms; which are numerous, on a
close spike, nearly terminating the branches; leaves growing mostly by
sixes.

DESCRIPTION.

Stem shrubby, growing a foot high, upright, with numerous, crowded,

undivided, and ascending branches.
Leaves growing mostly by sixes, sharp-pointed, spreading, and smooth,
channelled underneath, and pressed to the stem by short foot-stalks.
Flowers numerous, growing nearly at the end of branches, in hard
close-set spikes; the lower part of a light yellow, the extremity of a light
green.
Empalement. Cup permanent, double; the outer many-leaved, unequal,
and spear-shaped; the inner four-leaved, which are yellow, crooked, and
spatula-shaped; their upper part hard, inflated, sharp-pointed, and tending to
each other.
Blossom somewhat cylindrical, with a tapered base; the mouth blunt,
and divided into a four-cleft, equal border, whose segments tend to each
other.
Chives. Eight hair-like threads, nearly of a length with the blossom, fixed
into the receptacle. Tips bearded, and within the blossom.
Pointal. Seed-vessel roundish. Shaft thread-shaped, and longer than the
threads. Summit four-cornered.
Native of the Cape of Good Hope.
In bloom from November till April.

REFERENCE.
1. The Empalement with the Blossom.
2. The Empalement and Floral-leaves magnified.
3. The Chives and Pointal.
4. The Chives detached from the Pointal, one tip magnified.
5. The Shaft and its Summit magnified.
 ERICA spuria.

CHARACTER SPECIFICUS.

Erica, antheris muticis, inclusis; stylo exserto; corollis sub-cylindricis,

dilute purpureis; laciniis revolutis; floribus terminalibus, sub-quaternis;
foliis quaternis, sub-ciliatis.

DESCRIPTIO.

Caulis fruticosus, pedalis, ramosus; ramuli numerosi, sub-erecti.

Folia quaterna, linearia, sub-ciliata, subtus sulcata; petiolis brevissimis,
adpressis.
Flores in apicibus ramulorum sessiles, sub-quaterni; pedunculi
brevissimi, bracteis tribus minutis instructi.
Calyx. Perianthium tetraphyllum, foliolis subulatis, carinatis, adpressis.
Corolla sub-cylindrica, pollicaris, dilute purpurea; laciniis sub-ovatis,
acutis, revolutis; ore parum arctato.
Stamina. Filamenta octo capillaria, corollâ breviora; antheræ muticæ,
inclusæ.
Pistillum. Germen ovatum, sulcatum. Stylus filiformis, exsertus. Stigma
tetragonum.
Habitat ad Caput Bonæ Spei.
Floret a mense Aprili in Augustum.

REFERENTIA.

1. Calyx et Corolla.
2. Calyx lente auctus.
3. Stamina et Pistillum.
4. Stamina a Pistillo diducta; anthera una lente aucta.
 5. Stylus et Stigma, lente aucta.

SPECIFIC CHARACTER.

Heath, with beardless tips, within the blossom; shaft without; blossoms
nearly cylindrical, of a light purple; segments of the border rolled back;
flowers terminate the smaller branches, mostly by fours; leaves grow by
fours, a little hairy at the edges.

DESCRIPTION.

Stem shrubby, grows a foot high, and branching; the small branches are
numerous, and nearly upright.
Leaves grow by fours, are linear, a little hairy, furrowed beneath; with
very short foot-stalks pressed to the branches.
Flowers grow at the end of the small branches, generally by fours, and
sitting close upon them; footstalks very short, having three very small floral
leaves.
Empalement. Cup of four leaves, which are awl-shaped, keeled, and
pressed to the blossom.
Blossom nearly cylindrical, an inch long, and of a light purple; segments
of the border nearly egg-shaped, sharp-pointed, and rolled back; the mouth a
little narrowed.
Chives. Eight hair-like threads, shorter than the blossom; tips beardless,
and within the blossom.
Pointal. Seed-bud egg-shaped and furrowed. Shaft thread-shaped, and
without the blossom. Summit four-cornered.
Native of the Cape of Good Hope.
Flowers from the month of April till August.

REFERENCE.

1. The Empalement and Blossom.

2. The Empalement magnified.
3. The Chives and Pointal.
4. The Chives detached from the Pointal; one tip magnified.
5. The Shaft and Summit, magnified.
 ERICA taxifolia.

CHARACTER SPECIFICUS.

Erica antheris muticis, inclusis; floribus spicato-umbellatis, terminalibus;

corolla ventricosa, ore arctata, calyce colorato, fere tecta, limbo patente;
foliis rigidis, ternis, trigonis, mucronatis, sexsariam imbricatis.

DESCRIPTIO.

Caulis fruticosus, erectus, ramosissimus; rami et ramuli patento-erecti,

valde cicatrisati.
Folia terna, trigona, glabra, linearia, rigida, mucronata, sexsariam
imbricata; petiolis brevissimis, adpressis.
Flores in apicibus ramulorum umbellati, numerosi, erecti; pedunculi
colorati, longitudine corollarum; bracteæ duæ supra medium pedunculi,
tertia vero ad basin.
Calyx. Perianthium tetraphyllum, foliolis ovatis, mucronatis, concavis,
membranaceis, coloratis, longitudine sere corollæ.
Corolla ventricosa, ore arctata, carnea; laciniis patentibus, mucronatis,
semi ovatis.
Stamina. Filamenta octo, capillaria, curvata. Antheræ muticæ, inclusæ,
flavæ.
Pistillum. Germen subrotundum, sulcatum. Stylus inclusus, filiformis.
Stigma peltato-tetragonum.
Habitat ad Caput Bonæ Spei.
Floret a mensi Augusti, in Novembrem.

REFERENTIA.

1. Calyx et Corolla.
 2. Calyx, lente auctus.
3. Corolla.
4. Stamina, et Pistillum.
5. Stamina a Pistillo diducta, anthera una lente aucta.
6. Pistillum, auctum.

SPECIFIC CHARACTER.

Heath with beardless tips, within the blossom; the flowers terminate the
branches in umbels, forming a spike; blossom swelled at the base, pinched
in at the top, and almost covered by a coloured cup, with the border
spreading; leaves grow by threes, harsh, three-sided, sharp-pointed, and tiled
in six divisions round the stem.

DESCRIPTION.

Stem shrubby, upright, very branching; the larger and smaller branches
grow spreading, and upright, and are very much notched.
Leaves grow by threes, three-sided, smooth, linear, harsh, sharp-pointed,
and tiled in six divisions; with very short foot-stalks, pressed to the
branches.
Flowers grow at the ends of the small branches in umbels, numerous
and upright; foot-stalks coloured, the length of the blossoms; two floral
leaves upon the middle of the foot-stalk, and the third at its base.
Empalement. Cup four-leaved, leaflets egg-shaped, pointed, concave,
skinny, and coloured, nearly the length of the blossom.
Blossom swelled at the base, narrowed at the mouth, and flesh coloured;
segments spreading, pointed, and half egg-shaped.
Chives. Threads eight, hair-like, and curved. Tips beardless, within the
blossom, and yellow.
Pointal. Seed-bud roundish, and furrowed. Shaft within the blossom,
and thread-shaped. Summit between shield and four-cornered.
Native of the Cape of Good Hope.
Flowers from August till November.
 REFERENCE.

1. The Empalement, and Blossom.

2. The Empalement, magnified.
3. The Blossom.
4. The Chives, and Pointal.
5. The Chives detached from the Pointal, one Tip magnified.
6. The Pointal, magnified.
 ERICA tubiflora.

CHARACTER SPECIFICUS.

Erica, antheris muticis, sub-exsertis, floribus sub-solitariis, sessilibus,

terminalibus; corollis clavato-cylindricis, curvatis, pubescentibus; foliis
quaternis, tenuibus, ciliatis.

DESCRIPTIO.

Caulis flexibilis, erectus, superne tomentosus; rami sparsi, filiformes,

frequentes, villosi; ramuli frequentissimi brevissimi.
Folia quaterna, tenuia, obtusa, ciliata, subtus sulcata.
Flores sessiles, in ramulis terminates, sub-solitarii, patenti, racemum
quasi formantes longum.
Calyx. Perianthium tetraphyllum, foliolis spathulatis, ciliatis, pedunculis
fere nullis, bracteis tribus adpressis.
Corolla clavata, curvata, villosa, carnea oris laciniis acutis, reflexis.
Stamina. Filamenta octo capillaria. Antheræ muticæ, sub-exsertæ.
Pistillum. Germen pedicillatum, sub-globosum, profunde sulcatum.
Stylus filiformis, apice curvatus, exsertus. Stigma obsolete tetragonum.
Habitat ad Caput Bonæ Spei.
Floret a mensi Aprili, in Julium.

REFERENTIA.

1. Folium, auctum.
2. Calyx.
3. Calyx, auctus.
4. Corolla.
5. Stamina, et Pistillum, anthera una lente aucta.
 6. Pistillum.
7. Pistillum, auctum.

SPECIFIC CHARACTER.

Heath, with beardless tips, within the blossom; flowers grow mostly singly
at the end of the branches; blossoms between club and cylindar-shaped,
curved and downy; leaves grow by fours, thin and fringed with hairs.

DESCRIPTION.

Stem flexible, upright, and downy at the upper part; branches scattered,
thread shaped, numerous and hairy, the smaller branches are very numerous
and very short.
Leaves grow by fours, are thin, blunt, fringed with hair at the edges, and
furrowed beneath.
Flowers sit close upon the ends of the small branches, mostly solitary,
and spreading, appearing like a long bunch.
Empalement. Cup four leaves, leaflets spatula-shape and fringed, with
scarce any foot-stalks; three floral leaves pressed to the blossom.
Blossom club-shaped, curved, hairy and flesh-coloured; the segments of
the border pointed, and reflexed.
Chives. Eight hair-like threads. Tips beardless, and just without the
blossom.
Pointal. Seed-bud growing on a foot-stalk nearly globular, and deeply
furrowed. Shaft thread-shaped, curved at the end, and without the blossom.
Summit obscurely four-cornered.
Native of the Cape of Good Hope.
Flowers from April till July.

REFERENCE.

1. A Leaf, magnified.
2. The Empalement.
3. The Empalement, magnified.
4. The Blossom.
5. The Chives, and Pointal, one tip magnified.
6. The Pointal.
7. The Pointal, magnified.
 ERICA ventricosa.

CHARACTER SPECIFICUS.

Erica, antheris basi bicornibus inclusis; corollis oblongo-ovatis, ventricosis,

glabris; foliis quaternis ciliatis.

DESCRIPTIO.

Caulis fruticosus, semipedalis, teres, crassiusculus, ramosissimus, ramis

recurvato-adscendentibus.
Folia quaterna, linearia, acuta, basi recurvata, apice adscendentia,
ciliata, supra plana, subtus revoluta, nitida, petiolis brevissimis adpressis.
Flores terminales, plures, fastigiati, erecti; pedunculi purpurei, basi
instructa bracteis binis, parvis, oppositis.
Calyx. Perianthium tetraphyllum foliolis erectis, carinatis, ciliatis.
Corolla oblongo-ovata, apice arctata, limbo æquali, quadrilobo,
subreflexo, albo-purpurascens, glabra, nitida.
Stamina. Filamenta octo capillaria, corollæ subæqualia, receptaculo
inserta. Antheræ inclusæ, parvæ, bifidæ, basi bicornes.
Pistillum. Germen, oblongum, sulcatum. Stylus filiformis, filamentis
æqualis; stigma sub-tetragonum.
Habitat ad Caput Bonæ Spei.
Floret a mensi Aprili ad Septembrem.

REFERENTIA.

1. Calyx, et Corolla.
2. Calyx, et Bractea lente aucta.
3. Stamina, et Pistillum.
4. Stamina a Pistillo diducta; anthera una lente aucta.
 5. Stylus, et Stigma, lente aucta.

SPECIFIC CHARACTER.

Heath, with tips two-horned at their base, included within blossoms of an

oblong-ovate form, inflated and smooth; leaves ciliate, growing by fours.

DESCRIPTION.

The Stem shrubby, about half a foot high, cylindrical, thickish, very
much branched, the branches bend downward, then ascend.
Leaves growing by fours, linear, pointed with a recurved base, and an
ascending point, ciliate, flat on their upper, and rolled back on their under,
surface, shining, the leaf-stems very short, and pressed to the branches.
Flowers terminal, numerous, upright, level, and in bunches; the
footstalks purple, having two small opposite floral leaves at their base.
Empalement. Cup four-leaved, erect, keel-shaped, and ciliate.
Blossom of an oblong-ovate form, narrowed toward the top, with a
slightly reflexed border, of a whitish purple, smooth, and shining.
Chives. Eight hair-like threads, nearly of a length with the blossomed,
fixed into the receptacle. Tips within the blossom small, cleft, and two-
horned at their base.
Pointal. Seed-vessel oblong and furrowed. Shaft thread-shaped, of an
equal length with the threads. Summit nearly four-cornered.
Native of the Cape of Good Hope.
In bloom from April till September.

REFERENCE.

1. The Empalement with the Blossom.

2. The Empalement and Floral-leaf magnified.
3. The Chives and Pointal.
4. The Chives detached from the Pointal, one tip magnified.