Marked: Three Werewolves* for Warren (Alpha Bait #2)

Chapter 1 Warren

WARREN

Warren was early.

He parked his car about halfway up the long driveway, steadied his nerves, and looked up at the spooky mansion ahead.

Unlike the last place he’d worked, this was exactly the kind of place you’d expect to find a vampire. There were turrets, gothic arches, and elaborate ornamental finishes lining the doors and windows, and there were actual gargoyles sitting on the edge of the roof.

He lifted his phone and snapped a picture, trying to get the turrets in the frame, and sent it off to his friend Josh along with the text:

New client’s house. What do you think?

Knowing Josh, he would either find it hilarious or be freaked out and tell Warren to cancel the appointment and get out of there.

A sharp knock on the window next to him had him nearly jumping out of his skin. He lost his grip on his phone, sending it flying through the air, and though he frantically tried to catch it, it fell into the crack between his seat and the console.

Turning his head, his heart hammering in his chest, he looked toward the sound of the knock.

Nothing could have prepared him for the sight of the man looking down at him.

Dressed in a motorcycle racing suit and wearing a full-face motorcycle helmet, the man stared down at him through the car door window. He was bent over at the waist, his shoulders blocking out everything behind him, the mirrored visor of his helmet reflecting Warren’s startled face.

He was enormous.

Even though Warren couldn’t see the man’s expression through the reflective visor, he could feel the intensity of his gaze boring into him.

Warren had no idea what to do.

They looked at each other – the seconds seeming to stretch into an eternity – before the man stepped back, turned on his heel, and strode up the driveway like he hadn’t just stolen years off Warren’s life by scaring him half to death.

Warren blinked, his heart slamming away in his chest, and wondered if he was supposed to know what that was all about.

No one at the agency had said anything about a werewolf.

That was what the colossally tall biker had to be, Warren was certain. He’d spent enough time ogling werewolf thirst traps to recognize the shoulder-to-waist ratio of the real deal.

He gave himself a stern mental shake.

Werewolf or not, Warren had an appointment that he could not afford to miss.

He needed to get his head in the game. Pocketing his keys and fishing his phone out from the crevice it had fallen into, he took a long, calming breath and stepped out of his car.

He glanced down at the screen of his phone before slipping it into his pocket.

Josh’s reply to his text was disappointing:

Wow, creepy.

The air outside the car was freezing. Warren wrapped his arms around himself and started a slow jog up toward the house.

The mystery werewolf stood at the top of the stairs, facing out and making no move to ring the bell or use the knocker. His stance was relaxed, his arms hanging loosely by his sides, and even though Warren couldn’t see his face through the mirrored visor, it was clear that he was watching him.

He wondered what he was waiting for.

Climbing the steps, Warren looked up at the red brick facade rising up behind the leather-clad giant. The three-story gothic mansion stretched wider than the width of Warren's apartment building, and he was pretty sure it was taller, too.

Keeping his face turned away from the werewolf – glancing quickly to see if he was still being observed – Warren looked at the carvings decorating the arch around the massive front door.

He wrinkled his nose in distaste.

The archway depicted a pack of werewolves – ranging from fully shifted to human – their bodies writhing in agony as they were slaughtered by a grotesquely fanged vampire.

It was beyond disturbing.

Slowing his steps, the violent carvings creeping him out, Warren wondered what he’d gotten himself into. Alarm bells were going off all over the place, and he debated if he should go back to the car and call the agency.

The spooky house was one thing. Gross carvings glorifying inter-species violence were another.

The werewolf waited in silence, the faceless visor giving away nothing.

Warren’s stomach did a nervous flip. Not being able to see the werewolf’s face was unnerving, but still, he was probably the hottest thing Warren had ever seen in his life.

His thighs were insane.

When Warren reached the top step, the werewolf turned and opened the door.

Hesitating, feeling awkward at the thought of entering the house without ringing the bell, Warren dithered. The last thing he wanted was to get caught up in drama if the werewolf wasn’t supposed to be there.

He wished that the man would take the helmet off and just say something.

“I’m sorry I’m early,” Warren said, crossing the threshold. “I don’t mind waiting outside.”

His stomach clenched at the realization that the top of his head didn’t even reach the werewolf’s chest.

The guy’s muscles were unreal. His shoulders were massive – his arms corded with tight muscle that pressed against the sleeves of his black leather racing suit – and his slab-like pecs looked like they were one flex away from bursting a seam.

Glancing down, Warren immediately jerked his gaze away from the werewolf’s crotch.

The force of his blush made his face feel hot.

Tucked against the biker’s tree-trunk thigh, huge and straining the leather of his suit, was the most obscene bulge that Warren had ever seen.

“Sorry,” Warren mumbled, blushing and looking around the foyer as the biker closed the door behind him.

He had an insatiable urge to look back and double-check if that really was the outline of the werewolf’s cockhead he could see pressing against the soft leather.

At least Warren imagined it was soft.

“For what?”

Warren jolted, startled to hear the werewolf speak. He turned around and watched as the man pulled off his helmet and set it down on a small table next to the door.

Underneath the helmet, the werewolf was wearing a balaclava, the tight black fabric framing his green eyes and heavy brow.

The werewolf stared at Warren, his green eyes luminous, the piercing stare making him feel rooted to the spot.

With casual movements, the werewolf reached a gloved hand up and pulled off the balaclava. He tossed it into his helmet and took a step toward Warren.

“You are Warren Master, right?”

If the werewolf was hot with his face covered, seeing him like this was a revelation. Clean-shaven, with aristocratic cheekbones and a thin, wide mouth that somehow perfectly complemented his wide jaw and the dimple in his chin, the man was inhumanly pretty.

He was also pale to the point of looking sickly.

“Yes, that’s me,” Warren squeaked, taking a step back.

The biker watched him, his expression considering. He held out his hand and closed the gap Warren had put between them.

“Harland Hill. Are you ready to get started?”

Warren’s eyes widened, his breath catching as he processed what the man had just said. This was Harland Hill? The Harland Hill that had hired him to-

The vampire?

Warren accepted the handshake, his fingers disappearing into Hill’s massive grip. The glove covering his hand was made from stiff leather, armored over the knuckles to protect the rider in a fall, still cold from the chilly winter air outside.

Could werewolves be turned into vampires? That was the only explanation Warren could think of for the man standing in front of him.

He was just so… big.

Hill watched him, his face revealing nothing.

“It’s okay if you need a minute.”

Hill’s voice was smooth and deep, his tone rich.

“No, no, I’m fine,” Warren said. He pulled himself together, gathering up all his horny, confused thoughts and shoving them into a drawer inside his mind and slamming it shut. “I’m ready to begin at your convenience.”

Warren was going to be a professional. He would not let his attraction cost him his job. It didn’t matter how attractive Hill was. He was still just his client.

“My convenience,” Hill repeated, tasting the words. He stared at Warren, his head tilting minutely to the side. He smirked. “How polite.”

Placing his hand on Warren’s upper back, between his shoulder blades, he wordlessly steered Warren into the house.

The tips of his fingers pressed into Warren’s back, five points of contact, each one making a little shudder run down Warren’s spine. He glanced to the side, staring at the towering form of the man walking next to him.

He had to have been a werewolf when he was alive. He couldn’t be an inch shorter than six-foot-nine, and his body was proportioned exactly like the werewolves Warren had seen on TV and on social media.

Warren had known that there would be a chance that he’d be attracted to his new client, but he hadn’t expected to be bowled over by lust.

How was he supposed to be professional when all he wanted was to lie down and let the man step on him?

Ignorant of his mental turmoil, Hill guided him down a long hallway leading down the left side of the house.

Eventually, they reached a conservatory.

Hundreds of plants filled the room. The scent of wet earth and moisture filled the air, heavy and moist, while the glass ceiling showed off the starry night sky above them.

It wasn’t often that Warren saw the stars so clearly, living in the city. He looked up, enchanted.

“The glass is treated to block UV rays,” Hill explained, dropping his hand from Warren’s shoulder and taking a seat in an oversized wicker chair next to a little table.

His black leather suit was a stark contrast to the blue-and-white pattern on the cushion beneath him. “I like spending time in the daylight.”

Hill’s motorcycle getup suddenly made sense. He’d been out during the day – which Warren hadn’t known was a thing vampires could do – and the leather suit and full-face helmet must be to protect him from the sun.

Feet planted firmly on the floor, his hands resting on his thighs, Hill studied him intently.

Warren wondered what he was thinking.