Unleashed (2 page)

“Talisman? Sounds hot!” He wiggled his eyebrows at her.

Sam gave him a slap on the arm. “No, you horn-dog, it wasn't like that. They were comforting and peaceful.” Her thoughts went back to her painting and she could practically hear the waves. “Just like the ocean,” she murmured. “Wild and free, but somehow comforting at the same time.”

The phone rang, interrupting their conversation, and Gunther rushed over to answer it. As he chattered away with one of his buyers, her thoughts wandered to the evening of her thirtieth birthday. It was a memorable day simply for the milestone it was, but it was more. That night, for the first time in over ten years, she dreamed of the wolf.

Only this time, she
was
the wolf.

Gunther hung up and let out a loud exasperated sigh. “I hate dealing with new buyers. They always call up and ask such stupid questions.
When are you open?
” He mimicked with a grimace. “I mean honestly. What in gay hell? Haven't they heard of the Internet? We have a website for a reason people!”

His rant pulled her from her memories. “Thanks for everything, Gunther,” she said with a small smile. “I'll give you a call in a couple of days about where to send the others.”

“That's another thing. I think we should keep these for a while. If we hang them up here, there's a chance they'll sell. Sitting in Nonie's garage…ain't nobody gonna buy 'em. Now come over here, and give me a hug.” He pulled her into his arms and planted a big wet kiss on her cheek. “You take care of yourself, kitten. Don't forget to come home and visit Milton and me once in a while.”

“That's just it,” she said quietly. “This city was never home for me.” Her thoughts went back to the portrait. “Tomorrow I'm going home.”

***

Malcolm stood stone still on the balcony of his family home. He overlooked the predawn ocean, which stretched endlessly before him. As he breathed in the cool, salty air, he closed his eyes and willed himself to relax. His hands gripped the railing, turning his knuckles white. He was beyond edgy, full of anticipation for the days ahead. He had waited years for her to arrive, and tomorrow she would finally be here. He shoved himself away from the railing and paced back and forth, mirroring the beast caged within. She would be here in just a few more hours.

Malcolm Drew was the last in his family's branch of the Eagle Clan. His family was one of ten animal clans among the Amoveo, a powerful, ancient race of magical shapeshifters. Malcolm was a Golden Eagle, and more than anything he wanted to keep his clan's bloodline running, but he could only do that with his mate. Without her, he was doomed to a painful, solitary existence, and eventually death. Malcolm had heard stories about those who went unmated. He shuddered at the images those nightmarish tales conjured up.

Finding female company was not a problem. He'd had many women before, but they were merely a momentary amusement that left him unsatisfied and lonely. Like all Amoveo, his uncommonly large eyes were his most striking feature. The women he dallied with always seemed to comment on them. His were an unusually light brown, and in the right light gleamed yellow. He never worried himself too much with his appearance. He considered clothing an annoying necessity and barely ran a brush through his long, shaggy hair.

He felt anxious, not just for her arrival, but for her safety. For generations his people had been hunted by the Caedo family, a fanatical group of humans who had discovered their existence. They had not lost anyone to a hunter in many years, but the threat always loomed. He shook his head in frustration and stood with his arms crossed tightly over his chest. So many obstacles lay before them.

His thoughts wandered to his parents. The story of their courtship and mating had been the stuff made of legends. Growing up he'd observed their obvious love for one another with intense curiosity. Given that mates among their people were predestined he often wondered if the love grew over time, or was it a lightning bolt, an instantaneous connection? They claimed that the bonding was immediate, but secretly he had always doubted it. He scoffed audibly at the very idea of it with no one but the gulls to hear him. He'd encountered several females, both human and Amoveo, but he never came close to feeling anything that resembled love. Lust? Sure. Love? Not a chance.

However, that all changed in a flash the second he found Samantha. His body warmed at the mere memory of that moment, and he closed his eyes in an effort to recapture it. Last night's connection in the dream realm had helped solidify their bond even further. However, his brow furrowed, and tension rippled up his back as one intruding thought returned. What if she refused him? His eyes snapped open, and he let out a low growl at the one thought that nagged at him relentlessly. Malcolm had heard that occasionally, a female would refuse the match. He shook his head at the futility of refusing. Why refuse what was imbedded in their souls? His skin suddenly felt two sizes too small as that question continued to beg at the back of his mind. His human form had become a prison from which he abruptly required release. He needed to fly. He stretched his arms wide, tilted his face to the twilight sky, and visualized his eagle form. Silently, he uttered the ancient word “verto” and shifted.

Instantly, he soared high over the crashing sea. He loved the feel of the salt air along his feathered body. His binocular vision spotted schools of fish as they moved through the waters below. The cool, early morning air caressed him and carried him along. His mind, body, and spirit relaxed. His tense muscles loosened to some extent. Malcolm closed his bright yellow eyes and reveled in the freedom and simplicity of the moment. He extended his wings to almost the brink of pain and rode the current with practiced ease. The image of his mate slipped into his mind and warmed his heart.

All too soon, he was torn from his revelry as an enormous muscle spasm tore through his feathered body. He wobbled midflight and struggled for control as his energy began to slip away. His body shuddered, and he knew the shift was coming. He struggled to maintain his clan form and immediately turned back toward his house. Malcolm strained against the shift and flapped his leaden wings with every ounce of energy he had. In a blinding flash of pain and frustration, Malcolm shifted just before he got to the deck of his home. He gritted his teeth, and in a flailing mass of arms and legs, he landed with an audible thud on the wooden planks. He lay there for a moment in a heap. Nice, he thought, very dignified.

Breathing heavily with sweat trickling down his spine, he stood and straightened out his clothing, thinking how nice it would be to have all of his abilities back. At full strength, he could shift smoothly and easily. He had recently passed his thirty-second birthday and was losing strength by the day. There was only one thing that could help him rejuvenate—being with his mate. Samantha. He had known who she was for many years. He'd dreamed of her since his adolescence. Under normal mating circumstances, she would've dreamed of him as well. The mate connection was always made in the dream plane first. If she had been a typical Amoveo female, she would've been looking for him as well. She would've recognized him the instant their dreams connected. His mate, however, was anything but ordinary.

Samantha was a hybrid and the first of her kind. Her mother had been a human. Her father had been the last of the Gray Wolf Clan, and they had been almost completely exterminated. Now that he was gone, she was the last. The most difficult part was that she didn't know it.

***

After a record long good-bye with Gunther, Sam hopped the “4” train and picked up the “R,” which took her right into her Park Slope neighborhood. Well, according to her it was Park Slope, but there were many people who would've debated her on that. Once she moved to Brooklyn, Sam learned that the neighborhood lines were up for discussion. Where Sam lived was known by locals as anything from Park Slope to South Slope or Sunset Park or Windsor Terrace. In other words, it depended on which realtor you spoke to, but Sam didn't care. She loved the neighborhood and would miss it—but not enough to stay.

She took her time walking back to her apartment on Prospect Avenue. After all, this was the last time she'd be doing it. Tomorrow she was going home. Back to Nonie and the beach.

Home.

The very idea of it made her smile. Sam fished the keys out of the side pocket of her pack, lost in her own reverie. As a result she didn't see what was waiting for her on the building steps. Startled, she found herself face-to-face with what was quickly becoming the biggest mistake of her life.

“I've been waiting here for a God damned hour!” Roger's contemptuous tone brought her to a screeching halt. “Where the hell have you been?”

Roger Van Dousen, a trust fund baby who never grew up, was the ex-boyfriend from hell. They had only dated for about a month and had been broken up for about as long, but apparently Roger didn't get that memo.

He seemed like quite the catch at first. Wealthy, educated, polite, and handsome. However, his true nature became glaringly clear after just a few short weeks. Roger was a controlling, self-indulgent asshole with an overblown sense of entitlement. He should be the poster child for how-not-to-raise-your-child-if-you-have-lots-of-money. Essentially, he was a forty-year-old toddler.

His face, almost purple with anger, was covered in sweat. His perfectly coiffed salt and pepper hair was slicked back against his head. Sweat had seeped through his starched shirt, and his hands were stuffed into the pockets of his dark suit pants. She had heard the expression
seething with anger
but had never actually witnessed it until just this moment.

Sam removed the ear buds of her iPhone and looked him up and down through narrow eyes.

“Well, Roger. I'm really sorry to hear that,” she said in the most calm and condescending tone she could muster. “I'm not quite sure how you can be upset about waiting for me since I didn't even know you were coming over. Besides, we broke up over a month ago.”

He made a loud scoffing noise and crossed his arms over his chest. “Oh really? What about our conversation last night? I told you I was coming to see you and that this breaking up nonsense had to stop.”

Sam cocked her head slightly and rolled her eyes. “What the hell are you talking about? Our conversation consisted of me hanging up on you after telling you—for the one hundredth time—that I never want to see you again.”

He loomed over her and moved down one step closer in a clear effort to intimidate her. He blocked her path up to the door of her building, and his face, quivering lips and all, was just inches from hers. She couldn't believe that she'd ever been remotely attracted to him. Oh, he was handsome. No one would argue with that. The guy looked like he just stepped out of a Tommy Hilfiger ad. Perfect clothes, strong jawline, suntanned, and well-manicured from head to toe. However, his short fuse and sense of entitlement had quickly made him the most unattractive man she'd ever met.

Sam wanted nothing more than to back away and put some physical space between them. Her heart was beating a mile a minute, and the sweat trickling down her back was no longer from the heat. She stood her ground. He'd never hit her, but Sam suspected it was only a matter of time before he did. If people really could smell fear, she probably stunk to high heaven.

Sam didn't take her big blue eyes off of his. She swallowed hard before she spoke and prayed her voice wouldn't quiver and betray her growing fear. He was a bully, plain and simple. The worst thing she could do would be to let him know that he scared her. Like all bullies, fear only fanned the flames of his perceived power.

“Get out of my way, Roger,” she said in a low and surprisingly deadly tone. “You and I are over, and if you don't stop harassing me, I'm going to file a restraining order.”

Mustering up her last shred of courage, Sam attempted to shoulder past him to her door. Before she could get by and make an escape into her building, he grabbed her arm and yanked her against him. His fingers dug mercilessly into her bicep, and his alcohol-stained breath blew hotly on her cheek. Sam winced away from him.

“Don't you dare try and walk away from me,” he seethed. “You think you can get a restraining order against me? A Van Dousen? My family is hooked into everything in this city.”

She glanced around, frantically hoping to spot someone, anyone, who might be walking by but only the occasional car sped past. Her predicament going completely unnoticed was a cold, hard reality of this city. Another thing she would not be missing.

He shook her again, hard enough to make her teeth rattle. “Look at me when I'm speaking to you. I know that you plan on moving back home.”

Her shocked eyes darted back to his face, and he grinned.

“You can't hack it here in the city, so you're going to move back home with your old Grandma? You've failed here in New York. No one wanted your art. Your ridiculous attempts at showing in the galleries failed miserably.”

The truth of his words stung. She had failed to make it as a real artist. The critics had said her work lacked imagination and soul.
Too realistic and not enough heart
—that was the quote that haunted her. But it was from her heart, and that's what hurt so much. Having her work criticized like that was too much, more than she could stand. How could she paint things that were so personal, so intimately a part of her, but no one else could see it? She could paint a picture with the same precision as a digital camera, but who the hell wanted a painting of something that they could get from a photograph? Tears of humiliation and failure stung the back of her eyes. She blinked them back, refusing to allow this son of a bitch to see her cry.

“You're pathetic. You know that? Do you really think you'll do better than
me
?” His incredulous tone matched the look of disgust twisted into his features. “You're just a waitress.” Sam cringed. He said the word
waitress
as if it were something filthy he'd just stepped in. “You're not an artist. You serve people. You're ‘the help.'” He laughed cruelly and continued his tirade. “In fact, you should be down on your fucking hands and knees, thanking your lucky stars that I picked you. You could be with me in a penthouse overlooking Central Park, but you choose to stay here.” He nodded his head toward her building. He spun her violently and grabbed her with both hands. “We're not over unless I say we're over. I decide. Not you,” he screamed. “
Not you!
”