Happily Ever Alpha: BBW Paranormal Shape Shifter Romance Read online

  Happily Ever Alpha

  Catherine Vale

  Copyright © 2016, Growling Romance

  Website: http://www.CatherineVale.com

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  This is a work of fiction. All names, characters, locations, brands, incidents, and places are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. The author acknowledges the trademarked status and trademark owners of various products referenced in this work of fiction. The publication/use of these trademarks is not associated with or sponsored by the trademark owners.

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  Happily Ever Alpha

  Arya has lost everything… her clothes, her jewels, her home, and even her beloved parents—all gone in the blink of an eye. To go from the tearooms of London to a farm in the country was hard enough, but then she found caught between two men who are intent on destroying each other.

  The handsome Lucas sweeps in at her weakest moment, showing her incredible kindness and compassion. He’s strong, hardworking, and gentle—everything she ever wanted in a man.

  That is, until she meets Kellan.

  Arya begins to feel a mysterious pull toward the darkness of the forest, despite her aunt warning her to stay away. Still, as much as she tries to resist, the call is too powerful to ignore, and she finds herself caught in a mysterious maze that leads her to the most unexpected of places, and to a man unlike any other.

  Kellan. He is a natural born fighter, a man of mystery with the promise of forever on his lips. A man who claims to be her one true mate, her destiny.

  Determined not to let some “fate” decide her future, Arya makes it clear that she is in control of her own life. She will be the one to decide which path to take, even at the cost of war.

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  About The Author

  Other Books by Catherine Vale

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  Chapter One

  The rain was falling softly, like a cloudy mist, coating Arya’s thin black dress in a sheet of moisture. She barely felt the cold, as she stood in the grass, her spine rigid as the priest’s voice droned on and on, reciting the funeral rites. Her eyes remained fixed on the two wooden caskets that sat next to the freshly dug graves, and she wondered how it was possible that she felt nothing at all. No anger, sadness, fear, or regret. She had loved her parents dearly, and their deaths had been painful, unexpected and unfair. Shouldn’t she feel something? Yet all she felt was numb, as though she was nothing more than a spectator at a stranger’s funeral, rather than the burial of her beloved parents.

  When the rebels had taken control of her family estate, she had felt something then. The terror and rage had ripped through her like jagged shards of glass, as the rebels broke through the heavy oak doors of her home, and as they’d hacked and slashed at not just family heirlooms and prized possessions, but at flesh and blood. The lovely tapestries her mother had painstakingly hand-woven over many years were sliced to ribbons, the marble statues her father had looked so fondly upon, smashed beyond recognition. They left nothing untouched in their brutal attack. Spatters of blood had stained the rugs and the walls, and if one of the servants hadn’t quickly smuggled Arya out of her home, she knew her own lifeblood would have been spilt as well.

  It was only later she had discovered that her parents hadn’t made it out alive. The constable hadn’t permitted her to view the bodies—one of the neighboring nobles had been called out to identify them, likely so that she could be spared the horror of their mutilation. She remembered being angry with that. After all, they were her parents. It was her duty to ensure they were taken care of. But no, she hadn’t even been allowed to handle the funeral arrangements, or honor her parents in the way she felt they deserved. Instead, everything had been taken care of, so that she’d been forced to sit aside like a lifeless, useless doll.

  Hot tears pricked her eyes now as she stared hard at the caskets that lay on the ground in front of her. She longed to rush over, to rip open the lids, and drink in her fill of their faces before they were forever lost to her. She knew in her heart that the sight would torment and haunt her for years to come, but something inside her was restless, unsatisfied, despite the numbness she’d allowed herself to sink into these past couple of days. So I do feel something after all, she thought, even though the feelings were confusing, foreign, and complicated—as though her mind and body couldn’t agree as to what emotion was the appropriate one, and so they simply shut down. She was likely in shock, and she worried that it would catch up to her eventually, and when it did, the walls of protection guarding her heart would come tumbling down, and she’d be swept away in a crushing wave of depression, sadness and perhaps even madness.

  The tears scalded her cheeks, startling her into the realization that the rain had chilled her skin almost unbearably in contrast. She felt the moisture begin to cool on her cheeks, but did not wipe it away until after the priest had finished reading the rites, and her parents had been lowered into the ground. As their only child, she was the first to step up and toss flowers into the graves—a parting gift for them to carry into the afterlife though the more she thought about it, the more ridiculous it seemed… a mindless farewell to two people that had meant the world to her. Instead, she should be screaming their names at the top of her lungs, crying out for the mother that gave her life and the father that had given her everything else.

  As she looked down into the deep, dark graves, she briefly thought about what it would be like if she fell in, and was buried right along with them. Would she be at peace, like they were? Or would she cry out, as the darkness closed in around her?

  Shuddering in heartbreak, she moved away, for the first time thankful that she was alive, that they hadn’t dug a third grave for her today.

  At the end of the procession, her Aunt Eve approached her; a small woman with silver hair and round spectacles perched on a pert nose. Arya’s heart filled with dread—she’d known this was coming.

  “It’s very hard, I know…” Aunt Eve said, taking Arya’s arm. She brought the black lace parasol she held in her gloved hand up to shield them from the rain—an accessory Arya should have remembered, but had forgotten.

  “Yes.”

  “I understand that the rebels destroyed everything, and took all the family jewels and gold.”

  A lump formed in Arya’s throat. “Yes, that’s true. I have nothing.”

  Her aunt patted Arya’s arm sympathetically. “You have me. My home is always open to you.”

  Arya glanced at her aunt. Eve lived in a small cottage on a farm in the countryside—the same farm she and Arya’s mother had grown up on. They were the daughters of an impoverished nobleman who had to resort to working the land to make a living. Arya’s father had owned property out there at one time, and during his country escapades met, and fell in love with her mother. Her mother had come here to live with her father, but Eve had been content to stay behind, and live her life on the farm as a spinster.

  “I have n
ever lived on a farm,” Arya said softly. “I’m not sure how I will do, or how I can help you.”

  Eve smiled slightly. “I won’t work you to death, child. But you’ll have a warm roof over your head, a full belly, and clothes on your back. And you won’t be beholden to another noblewoman as a companion or a governess, or have to deal with the whisperings of those around you that care for nothing but gossip.”

  Arya nodded. That much was true. The nobles would likely be divided between sympathy and scorn over her downfall. They were like a ravenous pack of wolves; pouncing on every tidbit of gossip they could get their greedy paws on. Arya had never taken to that sort of behavior, which was why she’d never made very many friends among them. There were certainly none now rushing to her aid when she was most vulnerable, and in need of it.

  “Thank you,” Arya replied. She reached out and squeezed her aunt’s hand. “I really do appreciate this.”

  “There is nothing to thank me for, Arya”, Eve replied, her lips curving into a smile. “We’re family, and your mother would have wanted me to step up and take care of you. It’s my duty, but also my pleasure. I know I’m no replacement for your dear mother, but I love you, child… and you will always have a place with me.”

  * * *

  They traveled by stagecoach a few days later, with what was left of Arya’s belongings packed into the valise she had clutched in her lap. It was a miracle she’d had anything left at all to bring. The dress she’d worn at the funeral had been loaned to her, and was now returned, and none of her black clothes had survived, so she was dressed in cream sprigged muslin, with a black armband around her wrist to signify she was in mourning.

  The grief had weighed heavily in her heart, as she and her aunt had made the last of the arrangements, selling what they could and tying up any legal ends they had to with the family solicitor. Now that they were in the coach, moving away from the tragedy as well as the memories, she felt some of the weight lift from her body. Sitting close to the window, she inhaled deeply now that her chest was not so constricted with sadness, and tasted the spring air. It cleared away the ashes of death that seemed to coat her tongue so liberally these past few weeks.

  Eve nodded in approval. “I think the country air will do you some good, Arya.”

  She had to agree. The weight that was crushing down on her chest for weeks had finally lifted a bit, and for the first time in what felt like ages, she was hopeful that she would be able to move past the depression that had consumed her. She knew she would never get over the loss of her parents; that was a scar that would remain on her heart for the rest of her life, but she also knew that her parents wouldn’t want the darkness to consume her, and for her to try and find happiness in life, wherever that may lead her.

  The stagecoach traveled a full day before they finally arrived at their destination. During that time Eve told her many childhood stories about her mother, and Arya was surprised to discover that her mother loved to write, and had written countless journals, poems and stories during her teenage years. She couldn’t help but smile when Eve told her how her mother had always struggled in the kitchen, burning everything she came into contact with. Talking about her mother, hearing stories she had never heard before—it was exactly what she needed, and by the end of the journey her heart felt full.

  Finally, the stagecoach pulled to a stop. Arya stepped out of the coach, and onto a gravel path, desperately wishing for a bath. She swore she could practically hear the granules of dust rubbing against her skin through the muslin.

  Trying to ignore it, her eyes traveled over the plot of land as she waited for her aunt to disembark, taking in the grassy field peppered liberally with tiny white and yellow flowers. Smack in the center, was a charming thatched cottage with baby blue windowpanes and new paint on the walls. Not far off stood a stable and a pigpen, and from the smells wafting her way, she gathered both were occupied.

  “What do you think?” her aunt asked after paying the driver and sending the stagecoach on its way. Arya wondered how she’d managed to get the driver to drop her directly at the farm—usually stagecoaches had specific places they stopped at. But her aunt had always had a way about getting what she wanted, never taking no for an answer.

  “It’s… charming,” she managed, trying her best not to wrinkle her nose at the sight of it all.

  “It’s a very different world from what you’re used to, I imagine. But I hope you can feel at home here.”

  “Oh yes, of course. I’m thrilled to be here. Really.”

  Laughing, her aunt patted her on the back, and then made her way down the path toward the house. Arya followed her in, and was shown to a small, but serviceable room at the end of the hall. After washing up, her aunt showed her around the farm, introducing her to the dairy cow, the plow horses, the chickens and the pigs. She was taught how to feed and water all of them, and where the tool shed was for the days when they would have to muck out the stalls. She was shown where the vegetable patch was as well, and they dug up some carrots, onions and potatoes, and then took them inside for a beef stew.

  The sun had well gone down, and they were sitting at the small wooden table in the kitchen spooning up their bowls, when Arya heard an eerie howl. Her head came up sharply, as chills ran down her spine.

  “Did you hear that?”

  “Hear what?”

  “That howling.” It came again, more sharply this time. “There, that. Did you hear it that time?”

  Her aunt nodded. “Wolves roam the nearby forest,” she said casually, but her eyes shifted uneasily. “I would suggest you stay away from there after the sun goes down, or really at all. They are not known to be forgiving creatures.”

  Arya nodded, but her eyes narrowed slightly at the undercurrent to her aunt’s tone—there was something she was not saying. “I’ll make sure to stay away.”

  They cleaned up and retired early, exhausted from the day’s travel. Arya slid into sleep as soon as her head touched the pillow. Immediately, a dream that was becoming familiar rose up to greet her—an image of her parents walking hand in hand on the manicured lawns of their estate, faces wreathed in smiles, as their cheeks were kissed by the sun’s rays. Arya was a young girl, rushing up to greet them, carrying a small bouquet of freshly picked flowers in her small hands.

  As always, even though she pumped her legs as fast as she could carry them, the dream changed before she could ever reach her parents, the landscape melting from summery outdoors, to pitch-blackness inside the monstrous manor. Shouts, and sobs, and death screams tore through the air, along with the battle cries of maddened men, intent on killing. Blood sprayed across the stone walls and carpeting, and she stood in the hall, cowering behind a corner, hoping that no one would find her.

  She heard footsteps shuffling; trembling so fiercely she was surprised the wall wasn’t shaking with the force of it. Torchlight illuminated the hall, and then she saw the long shadow of a man. He came around the corner, and she gasped in awe and confusion. This was not the evil rebel she dreamed about—the one with blood flecked cheeks carrying an axe, who always swung it toward her head right before she woke up. This man was tall and muscular, with shaggy dark hair that nearly reached his shoulders, and a day’s growth of beard on his perfectly-chiseled face.

  As he turned to face her, yellow eyes gleamed out of the darkness, a hunger in their depths that both chilled her and sent streaks of lightning through her blood. As she stared into them something shifted, her vision wavered, and then the head of a wolf loomed over her, long incisors bared as he stretched his maw and howled.

  With a strangled scream, she jerked up, awake and in her own bed again. It took her some time due to the blood rushing in her ears to realize that the howl wasn’t a part of her dream. The sound of animals baying carried clear across the field and straight through her closed bedroom window.

  Sighing, she wrapped her arms around herself to still her shivering body, and lay back against the pillow. The howls continued long into the
night, and she struggled to sleep.

  Chapter Two

  The next few days passed, and Arya quickly settled into country life, becoming familiar with the many farm chores that she now shared with Eve. She had asked her aunt once more about the howls she’d heard that first night, but Eve only shrugged, reminding Arya to stay away from the forest after dark. But the howls continued, and with each passing night Arya became convinced that it was more than just the cry of wolves. The howls were infused with a kind of emotion she’d never heard from animals—sometimes an overwhelming joy, others a crushing sadness, and yet others with a kind of fury that had the hairs on the back of her neck standing on end. Each one tugged at her heart, building a longing within to find the true source of these sounds.

  Sighing, she finished up her chores, then returned to the cottage, stomping her boots on the mat before coming inside.

  “Ah, there you are, Arya.” Her aunt was at the stove, cooking up the morning meal. “Would you mind fetching some water from the well this morning?” She pointed to the wooden bucket sitting by the door.

  “Not at all.” Arya picked up the bucket. “I’ll be right back.”

  She stepped back out into the sunshine and went to the stone well sitting in the middle of the field. It took her three tries to get it onto the hook, and another two tries to fill it—she’d watched her aunt do it before, but seeing and doing were two different things.

  “Having some trouble?”

  Arya jumped, startled, the bucket falling from her hands. She bit back a curse as she heard the bucket clank against stone as it fell down the well, and turned to level a glare at the person who had interrupted her—and he took her breath away.