Read Online A Curse Unbroken by Cecy Robson - Free Book Online Page B
Authors: Cecy Robson
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dealt with the aftermath of Anara’s deceit.
The young wolves and weres who resided at the Den had only been given minimal information about my injuries. If Peter had known what I endured, I doubted he would have led me back to the suite.
We walked up to the third level and down the long wide corridor without either of us breaking a sweat. Each floor had been crafted of that same dark wood and designed with a more masculine feel, which was why the bright pink floral couch set near Aric’s door gave me pause.
“Peter. What’s that?” I asked, motioning ahead to the eruption of prissiness.
“Huh? Oh.” He rolled his eyes. “That belongs to the girls.”
I continued alongside of him. “What girls?”
“You know, the ones who want to have sex with Aric.”
Peter continued on his merry little way while the world stopped spinning on its axis directly below my feet. “What?”
He answered while he fumbled with the keypad to Aric’s door. “Yeah, they have a club and everything. Anyway, they got tired of standing around waiting for him so they all chipped in and bought that ugly thing.” He punched in a few more numbers. “Sorry, I forgot the code,” he said when the light finally flashed green.
He reached for the handle, but became distracted by my death grip on his wrist.
Anger spread through me, heating my body so fast perspiration gathered along my crown. “Just so I’m clear, there are women—who want to sleep with my fiancé —and they sit there”—I motioned with an accusing finger to the fucking couch—“so they can pounce on him the minute he shows?”
Peter stared down at his wrist, then back at me. “Ah, perhaps I’ve said too much.”
I tore my eyes away from Peter and looked down the hall to where playful giggling echoed from the level below. Two of Aric’s fans skipped up the steps, pausing when they caught sight of me.
Instead of running for their lives, as they very much should have, they strutted like runway models on a catwalk. Then again, runway models didn’t typically dress like whores.
The one with red hair down to her elbows wore a black mesh top, no bra, and tiny black shorts. The other one, a brunette with short spiky hair and long bangs, let her open red robe sway behind so I’d have a direct view of her lacy panties and massive boobs stuffed into the matching bra.
Neither was barefoot. It seemed clear heels were the preferred footwear of were tramps everywhere.
I stood there with my mouth hanging open, still attached to Peter who’d begun to struggle. The members of the slut club smiled, obviously pleased by my dumbfounded reaction. They fell onto their couch, crossing their long legs and laughing.
The redhead who sat nearest to me tossed me a wicked grin over her shoulder before ignoring me completely. “So,” she said to her friend. “Did you get a new car yet?”
“No,” the brunette pouted. She stuck out her bottom lip in a way that made me think she’d practiced that move in the mirror about a thousand times. “But you know what they say, ‘Don’t have a car? Ride Aric Connor.’ ”
Peter dropped my basket and shot off like a jet the moment I released him. He hadn’t quite made it to the second flight of stairs when bimbo number one and bimbo number two crash-landed in the foyer with their demolished love seat on top of them.
I kicked off my shoes and leapt down into the foyer after them, landing in a crouch. It was the furthest and hardest I’d ever landed. And it hurt.
But hell would freeze before I’d show them weakness.
The redhead charged. I had enough time to flip her to the ground and knock her out before the brunette tackled me. Her scent of pine and musk told me she was a werecougar. She was tough. I was tougher. We exchanged a few hard blows before I punched her in the nose and tore her pouty lips right off her face.
She screamed, a ghastly, wet scream, stopping to gape at what remained of her mouth on the floor.
The
The young wolves and weres who resided at the Den had only been given minimal information about my injuries. If Peter had known what I endured, I doubted he would have led me back to the suite.
We walked up to the third level and down the long wide corridor without either of us breaking a sweat. Each floor had been crafted of that same dark wood and designed with a more masculine feel, which was why the bright pink floral couch set near Aric’s door gave me pause.
“Peter. What’s that?” I asked, motioning ahead to the eruption of prissiness.
“Huh? Oh.” He rolled his eyes. “That belongs to the girls.”
I continued alongside of him. “What girls?”
“You know, the ones who want to have sex with Aric.”
Peter continued on his merry little way while the world stopped spinning on its axis directly below my feet. “What?”
He answered while he fumbled with the keypad to Aric’s door. “Yeah, they have a club and everything. Anyway, they got tired of standing around waiting for him so they all chipped in and bought that ugly thing.” He punched in a few more numbers. “Sorry, I forgot the code,” he said when the light finally flashed green.
He reached for the handle, but became distracted by my death grip on his wrist.
Anger spread through me, heating my body so fast perspiration gathered along my crown. “Just so I’m clear, there are women—who want to sleep with my fiancé —and they sit there”—I motioned with an accusing finger to the fucking couch—“so they can pounce on him the minute he shows?”
Peter stared down at his wrist, then back at me. “Ah, perhaps I’ve said too much.”
I tore my eyes away from Peter and looked down the hall to where playful giggling echoed from the level below. Two of Aric’s fans skipped up the steps, pausing when they caught sight of me.
Instead of running for their lives, as they very much should have, they strutted like runway models on a catwalk. Then again, runway models didn’t typically dress like whores.
The one with red hair down to her elbows wore a black mesh top, no bra, and tiny black shorts. The other one, a brunette with short spiky hair and long bangs, let her open red robe sway behind so I’d have a direct view of her lacy panties and massive boobs stuffed into the matching bra.
Neither was barefoot. It seemed clear heels were the preferred footwear of were tramps everywhere.
I stood there with my mouth hanging open, still attached to Peter who’d begun to struggle. The members of the slut club smiled, obviously pleased by my dumbfounded reaction. They fell onto their couch, crossing their long legs and laughing.
The redhead who sat nearest to me tossed me a wicked grin over her shoulder before ignoring me completely. “So,” she said to her friend. “Did you get a new car yet?”
“No,” the brunette pouted. She stuck out her bottom lip in a way that made me think she’d practiced that move in the mirror about a thousand times. “But you know what they say, ‘Don’t have a car? Ride Aric Connor.’ ”
Peter dropped my basket and shot off like a jet the moment I released him. He hadn’t quite made it to the second flight of stairs when bimbo number one and bimbo number two crash-landed in the foyer with their demolished love seat on top of them.
I kicked off my shoes and leapt down into the foyer after them, landing in a crouch. It was the furthest and hardest I’d ever landed. And it hurt.
But hell would freeze before I’d show them weakness.
The redhead charged. I had enough time to flip her to the ground and knock her out before the brunette tackled me. Her scent of pine and musk told me she was a werecougar. She was tough. I was tougher. We exchanged a few hard blows before I punched her in the nose and tore her pouty lips right off her face.
She screamed, a ghastly, wet scream, stopping to gape at what remained of her mouth on the floor.
The
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