Breaking the Alpha Beast Page 4
“Perhaps,” he whispers hoarsely into the room, “she’s as cursed as I am.”
SEVEN
It is now three hours before the full moon rises, another hour until the show begins. The private “pre-show” begins an hour before that.
Ian paces the floor of his cell, ankles chained and anchored to the floor. He thinks of it as a cell, yet it looks anything but with its comfortable, plush furniture. In the center of the room is a queen size bed, unmade and with a bare mattress atop the matching box springs. The bed resembles a marble altar. Its purpose is clear. In an hour he and Claire will be writhing upon it.
Claire.
Whenever he’s near her he senses something he has never found in any of the other women: a feeling, dark as an ancient cracked caldron buried deep in the loam of the l’Argent estate grounds. Is she a witch unaware of her powers? Ian smiles wryly at the thought. “Well,” he says aloud to the empty room, “the girl has certainly bewitched my cock—and that’s all that matters right now.”
The tendons all over his body give a powerful tug, the worst over his belly, and he drops to the floor, teeth clenched. The transition is beginning. He feels new follicles blooming beneath his skin, ready to push thick hairs through the darkening dermis. Instinctively, he brings a hand up before his face and watches as the nails lengthen and grow sharp and pointed.
Still staring at his changing hand, Ian uses the other to grasp his phone and dial Mal’s number. Before his manager can utter a greeting, Ian growls, “It’s begun. Fetch the girl. Now.”
* * *
Mal Tranter bursts into Claire’s office, eyes wide and eyebrows arched. Claire’s head floats up like a fishing bobbin at the sound. Mal splays his palm flat against the door, holding it open as he barks, “It’s time to go down. Ian’s ready for you.”
Claire’s eyelids draw up until she feels them pressed against her eye socket. She feels a mingling of fear, anxiety, curiosity…and excitement. Her cunt clenches convulsively, sending a phantom bubble of pleasure directly to her G-spot. The crotch of her panties fill and absorb the resulting trickle.
Wordlessly, she rises from her chair, legs trembling behind the desk. She smells her musky arousal, rising like invisible steam to her nostrils.
Mal stretches his other arm toward her, wriggling his finger urgently in her direction. “Don’t dally, luv,” he growls. “If Ian’s face isn’t in your muff within the next few minutes we’re done for.”
Before Claire rounds her desk, Mal lunges at her, shaking his head in extreme irritation. “Come on,” he says as he grabs her upper arm and pulls her away from the desk. “You’re as stiff as a bloody doll. Come along, must I fucking carry you?”
Claire allows Mal to guide her out of her office as if she’s lost her sight. She moves like an automaton, like the femme robot from the film, Metropolis. This is what she has both anticipated and dreaded, this ritualistic coupling with Ian l’Argent. She is still not fully convinced of the act’s legitimacy, yet something buried deep in her memory tells her his story is true.
Claire follows Mal as if pulled by a tractor beam, her head never turning, eyes focused on the back of her boss’s head. Mal unlocks a small unmarked door, glancing quickly over his shoulder either to see if she is still behind him or to spot any curious onlookers. Perhaps both, Claire thinks.
They both quickly slip through the door. Mal grasps Claire’s arm at the crook of her elbow and pulls her beside him. “Come along, luv. I can hear the minutes ticking in my noodle right now,” he says absently in a low monotone.
There is a short hallway leading to a single elevator with only one button which Mal stabs with the tip of his index finger. Claire has never been in this section of the building, yet she knows where it must go.
* * *
After a brief ride in the small elevator the car ceases humming and glides to a gentle stop. The door opens to a short uncarpeted foyer with no exits on either side. There is only a double door with the kind of elaborate deadbolt locks you see in maximum security prison cells—or a cell for the criminally insane.
Mal doesn’t have to tell Claire who is on the other side of the door. She senses Ian, feels his lungs breathing in time with her own. Now she understands why he came to her office earlier. He wants her fully ready for the act that’s about to happen; he wants no embarrassed hesitation at such a crucial moment.
Despite the urgency Mal patiently unlocks each mechanism as if one wrong move might cause an explosion. The door parts slightly with a perfunctory click. With his fists Mal punches the doors open, moving aside quickly to allow Claire entry first. She takes a slow step over the threshold as if testing the temperature of a pond. Mal splays his hand at the small of her back and gently pushes her all the way into the room.
Claire’s breath catches in her throat as she sees Ian. He is already nude, heavy manacles around his ankles anchored to chains bolted to the granite floor. There is just enough play for him to walk the circumference of the king-sized bed dominating the center of the room.
Now Claire fully believes Ian’s story. Pragmatic logic advised her not to believe that it is impossible for a man to be transformed into a beast. Such transformations belong on the movie screen or in a horror novel. A frightening, yet exciting notion that she had fantasized ever since Ian had told her the story. Here he is before her, obviously undergoing some sort of unnatural change.
Ian l’Argent, for the moment, still presents as human but there is an underlying bestiality desperately pushing outward. His chest is heaving deeply as if he’s growing a bellows within it. Thick dark hair has sprouted across his chest, fanning downward to his swollen sex, curling along his arms, legs and shoulders. His eyebrows have grown into dense raven’s wings above dark amber eyes. He cannot clench his hands into fists because his fingers and nails have lengthened and folding them would cause the sharp and pointed fingernails to stab into his palms. She notices that his cock has lengthened and thickened, curving upward in a firm erection.
Ian’s expression is malevolent, his eyes miserable and sad.
“Okay,” Mal says, clasping his hands together. “No need for courtships, just get on with it. I’ll be outside…just in case.” Then pivots on his heel, leaves the room and shuts the heavy door. The series of clicks echo outside in the small foyer.
Claire stands with her hands at her side, waiting for an order, although she knows what comes next. She gestures helplessly with her hands and shrugs, shaking her head.
Despite his feverish expression, Ian’s voice is calm. “Mal’s right: there’s no time for niceties. To put it bluntly: you must strip and get on the bed.” He winces suddenly, and bends over, arm across his belly and moans. “Please. Now. In a few minutes I’ll become fully a wolf and I’ll tear a hole in your throat.”
Claire begins fumbling with the buttons on her shirt, fingers trembling. Ian catches her arm and pulls her to him. “That’s not going do,” he tells her. “Sorry.” He grips her shirt at the collar and rips it away, buttons flying like small bits of shrapnel. Fortunately she’s wearing a front-clasping bra and that comes away neatly. She reaches around and unzips her skirt and wriggles out of it. Ian is about to grasp the waistband of her panties, but she brushes his hand away. “I think I have the idea,” she says, now more irritated than frightened.
Without preamble Ian shoves Claire onto the bed, presses her flat to the mattress. She closes her eyes and arches her neck as she opens her thighs to him. She feels him grasp her buttocks, lifting her to him. She wraps her calves around his waist, keeping her knees canted so that her cunt yawns wide. She feels his tongue lap slowly, lingering, along her labia then swirls it round the swollen nub of her clitoris, which she envisions must now resemble a plump red pomegranate seed. He drinks deeply from her all the while dipping his tongue into her, drawing it out slowly, then stabbing it inside again.
Claire focuses on the pleasure, giving herself completely over to it. He’s getting what he needs, she thinks to hersel
f. He won’t hurt me. She arches her pelvis higher, wriggling in rhythm with his darting, stroking tongue. She feels the beginning of the sweet heaviness of orgasm ready to soak through her loins and she groans weakly.
Ian stops his ministrations abruptly, leaving Claire with only a tingling between her legs. Impulsively, she reaches her fingers toward her cunt needing to climax. Ian pulls her hand away. He slides her higher on the bed and mounts her. This is what she wanted in her office when he came to her. She moans again as Ian slides the length of his cock into her, halfway at first, then all the way in, grinding and pushing.
Claire’s legs drop from Ian’s torso then draws her knees up and flattens them against the mattress, trying to open as wide as possible. She can’t possibly make her pussy any wider, but she tries. Now she’s arching upward, meeting his thrusts and she feels as if her sex is a seam that will burst at any moment. The climax is building again and she is ready to catch it and keep it. The orgasm hits her hard and she cries out. Ian keeps moving, mashing and thrusting and she comes again, harder than the last.
Ian stops moving on top of her. He lifts his body from her and pulls his cock out of her. Claire remains on the bed, limbs still spread wantonly. Her cunt is sore and tingling and she draws her knees together and presses hard, squeezing out a tiny orgasmic aftershock. She shivers. Ian leans down and kisses the side of her forehead, whispers, “Thank you.”
Before Claire can rise from the bed, Ian is gone and out the door.
EIGHT
Claire is watching the l’Argent concert in Mal’s office on his 60” flat screen television. The sound would be deafening if they were watching from off stage; Claire is grateful for the volume buttons.
“Fucking brilliant, isn’t he?” Mal says, grinning. It’s more a rhetorical statement than a question. He takes quick excited swigs from a small crystal sipper filled with Harvey’s Bristol Cream port. The delicate stemmed glass seems too refined for her boss, Claire decides. “The transformation halted perfectly. Just look at him. I’ve been watching a decade of performances and Ian never ceases to amaze me.”
He is amazing, Claire thinks as she watches Ian’s darkly furred chest writhe around the microphone stand. As he sings—shouts lyrics to a melody—Ian’s hair, dampened to black ringlets by his sweat, whips over his forehead and around his high cheekbones. Even through the television screen she sees how his icy stare cuts through the photons and bores into her own eyes. Ian is naked to the waist, wearing only jeans torn at the knees—no doubt sans underwear because she sees the bulge of his crotch wriggling like a heavy bag of fruit as he sways his narrow hips in time to the throbbing beat.
Claire closes her eyes and leans her head back. She feels the thrum of the underlying bass melding with Ian’s vocals as it travels through the floor and up her body. She starts to sway her own hips to the music. It’s as if she is participating in another ritual, separate from the one in the cell below, yet just as sensual and erotic. She fights the urge to strip off her clothes and dance around the room. She imagines that Ian must have the same power over his audience.
She opens her eyes and sees that the camera is panning the crowd. Indeed, everyone of both sexes appears in some sort of erotic thrall. She sees one young woman pull off her tank top and fondle her own breasts, then attempt to climb the stage. A roadie spots her in time, grabs her roughly around the waist and tosses her back into the throng. She appears to have lost her tank top and will likely have to watch the rest of the concert with her large artificially enhanced breasts exposed. Claire smiles. She’s certain the girl doesn’t care.
“You know,” Mal says with a contemptuous snort, “half of Ian’s fan base believe he’s truly a werewolf and the other half believe this is all just special effects. I mean, he is a fooking werewolf, but when you think about it, it’s still ridiculous for anyone to actually believe in what should logically be considered fantasy. I absolutely love it.”
“Kind of like people who’ve convinced themselves that they’re vampires and file their canine incisors to points and drink blood.”
Mal gives her a sidelong glance and arches his eyebrows. “Oh, good analogy. In fact, we have fans who dress as werewolves come to the concert. Don’t know if they actually think they’re werewolves, though. I reckon they simply like the theatrics of it, or maybe it’s some sort of homage. Anyway, vampires are overdone rubbish.”
Claire smiles and picks up a sipper, pouring a generous amount of port into it. She’s not much of a drinker and this is the first time she’s tasted port. She decides she likes its smooth taste. “So what happens tomorrow? There’s another full moon, you know.”
Mal shakes head. “There won’t be another performance until Monday. Ian has to completely transform tonight after the show and again tomorrow night.”
“But why? Shouldn’t we—“
“There’s no need,” Mal says, his voice an irritated burr. “Ian must completely transform into a wolf at least thrice a month, with a day off from performing in between. He needs to resume the transformation after each show, however. He’ll have to become a complete snarling werewolf from start to finish on his night off, though. Completing the transformation helps stir up the lycanthrope wigglies I suppose. Anyway, it helps. We tried to do three performances in a row at the beginning of his career—that nearly ended it completely.”
“What happened?”
“It’s not what happened, it’s what didn’t happen. Ian started losing what transformation had begun. Right up there on stage. He started reverting back to fully human and nearly passed out. Had to be rushed off stage. Gave a story that he’d caught the flu or something. Refunded every bloody ticket. That’s all you really need to know, luv.”
Claire watches the screen as Ian caresses the microphone as if it is a woman’s face, his eyes closed and mouth seeming to devour it. She watches as he straddles the microphone stand and drives his hips rhythmically against it.
She wants to be that microphone stand.
* * *
Once the concert is over Mal won’t let Claire visit Ian. His roadies nearly carry him off the stage once he’s reached the wings. Apparently there will be no after party.
“Time for you to go home,” Mal says as he puts his hand at the small of Claire’s back, gives her a tight smile. “You’ve had a rather…busy day. Get some rest.”
“So…I assume the roadies are taking Ian back down to his cell?”
“Yep, back to the cell down below.” His curt tone informing her that this is all she needs to know.
“To finish the transition from man to wolf. Of course.” Brightening, “Can I visit him before I leave for home? Maybe I can help him.”
“You don’t want to see it. Trust me, luv.” He gives her a stare that tells her no further questions will be tolerated. “He has guards outside the door if he requires any help. What he needs is to be alone. Now, off with you. Get some rest.”
Claire knows better than to protest when her boss takes a stern tone. She nods her head and stifles a yawn behind her fist, feigning fatigue. “Good idea. See you on Monday.”
Mal looks relieved, obviously expecting protest. “Yes, see you on Monday, luv.”
Claire turns and heads for an exit leading to the parking garage. Curiosity has her key-up and she has no intention of going home and falling into bed. Not with the information that Mal has just dropped on her. Transmogrification…into a wolf? She must see this.
She finds her silver Audi in the parking garage and slips in. She watches as Mal enters the parking garage a few minutes later. Fortunately his black Mercedes S Class is parked several spaces ahead of her and her car is shielded by a couple of large SUVs. As he unlocks the driver’s door he whips out his phone and barks orders that Claire can’t understand. Then he pockets the phone and slides into the Mercedes, the sleek German car starts with a perfunctory growl.
When she hears the parking garage door open and close Claire gets out of her car and heads for the elevator. She de
cides to take the elevator all the way up to the main office section of the mansion. Once there, she can retrace her steps in locating the particular elevator that will take her down into the bowels of the mansion and Ian’s cell.
* * *
Claire reaches her office, glances around furtively. Only the cleaning crew remain. A woman emptying wastebaskets looks up from her task, giving Claire a look that says I don’t care what you’re doing here. Just don’t get in my way. Claire returns the woman’s stare with a quick polite smile before she enters her office.
She can’t just stand at her door and pivot, then walk away like a robot on an unseen tether. So she rummages through her desk drawers, pretending to search for some important item she has forgotten. She’s putting on a good show, running her fingers through her hair and shaking her head as she pulls a drawer open, then slams it shut. She does a mimed double take and pulls an empty red folder out from under a stack of papers in her in-box, then shouts, “Ah HA! There you are!” She glances through the open door at the cleaning crew. It’s obvious they haven’t noticed and aren’t interested.
Claire closes the door to her office, empty red folder in hand and walks purposefully in the direction of the elevator. When she reaches it, she tosses the folder in the trash.
* * *
Ian is in his shackles again, crouched beside the bed, naked and waiting for the change from man to beast to resume. He hears the heartbeats of the two men guarding his door, smells their sweat through the thick steel door. A blade is beginning to turn in his gut, serrated and spinning. He leaps onto the bed and crouches again, feeling a slow growl inch up his throat. He feels the thick follicles pushing through his skin everywhere, worse than earlier that evening.