Captured Boxed Set: 9 Alpha Bad-Boys Who Will Capture Your Heart (70 page)

The Princess' Dragon Lord

Mandy Rosko

A dragon's desire will burn for a thousand years...

Timid
Diana Winters doesn't get much excitement, until she goes for a hike in the
woods and is attacked by the trees.

Like
out of a fairytale nightmare they uproot themselves and go on the offensive,
and she is chased through the forest before tumbling down a waterfall, only to
wake up in the bed of the most gorgeous man she's ever seen, who claims to be a
dragon lord, and her husband who killed her a thousand years ago on their
wedding day!

Lord
Azoth Dracamire vows to never have meant her any harm. Someone put a potion in
his goblet on the day of their marriage, and he has paid for it every day since
for a thousand years.

Although Diana
struggles with the physical pull she feels towards him and Azoth's obvious lust
for her, one thing is certain: someone sent those monsters after her in the
forest, and they still want her dead. Now she must decide if her new and
conflicting emotions towards her husband, a man she doesn't know, are worth
risking her life.

Excerpt

Diana awoke to the lingering, warm
tingle that came from being kissed. A lot. Her lips and tongue were being
caressed, the smooth glide of another tongue inside of her mouth, lovingly
licking her deep, made her arch forward for more. Her breasts were being
squeezed, her body caressed. The scent of arousal was in the air, thick and
musky, which drove her body wild. Hotter and hotter until she could hardly
stand it.

Her heart pounded like it was in a
race, and her legs and arms, her whole body, trembled from the warm release of
pleasure that usually came after making love. It rushed through her and bloomed
in a release that made her shudder and moan.

She sank back into her pillows and
sighed, catching her breath with a smile on her swollen lips. That had been the
most intense sex dream she'd ever had. That had been the most intense orgasm
she'd ever had. Too bad she didn't get a lot of either.

Diana released another breathy,
satisfied, exhale, and then opened her eyes to look around. Her buzz left her
as she took in her surroundings, and the fact that she was on a bed that wasn't
hers. It didn't look like something the park had for first-aid either.

She sat up again, ignoring the
twitch in her still sensitive sex as her survival instincts kicked in. Uh,
where was she?

There was a roughly carved red
stone wall all around her. There was no light bulb or fire anywhere that she
could see, but the cave that she was in, if it could be called a cave, was as
bright and dry and warm as her own living room. Minus all the rock, of course.
The domed ceiling stretched high above her. Like, several stories high above
her, and it didn't seem to be connected with any of the four stone walls around
her.

She'd been in the park, last she
could remember. Hadn't the trees just been chasing her? It seemed like a stupid
thing to be pondering, but that's what they'd been doing.

She reached behind her head where
she remembered bashing it in under the water. There was no bandages covering
her hair, only a slight bump. No bigger than a mosquito bite. After falling
fifty feet into water and rocks, that shouldn't have been possible. It
wasn't
possible.

"You have risen."

Diana spun, her eyes wide and heart
surging into her throat so fast her head rushed from the adrenaline.

A man, in incredibly
large
,
handsome man, stood between the uneven rock that acted as her doorway. The long
curtain that was her door pushed to the side by his outstretched hand,
connected to a well muscled arm, as he leaned against the stone frame. He was
half naked, wearing only a pair of boots and brown leather pants that were
tight on his thick, muscular thighs. That left practically nothing to her
imagination as far as how his body looked.

Wide shoulders tapered down to slim
hips. He had abs so deep she thought she could climb them like a ladder, and a
chest so large it reminded her of a cover model on the old romance novels in
the library. His muscles shined bright with a thin layer of sweat, as though
he'd just come in from a jog. Long, red-brown hair that nearly matched the
stone fell to his bare shoulders in crooked waves.

He. Was.
Huge
.

His eyes, those big eyes that were
the same color as his hair, were half lidded with lust. That musky smell she'd
inhaled during her dream was back, and it was making her own body react to him.
Her sex swelled and her nipples tightened. A wolfish smile pulled on his full
lips. They were puffed out and ever so slightly reddened in the way that
happened when someone used their teeth to bite down on them. They looked like
he'd been kissed, recently.

"Finally, I have been kept
waiting for you, princess. It was difficult with the noise you made."

He spoke with an accent she
couldn't place. So strange, but it was so familiar. She must've heard it in a
movie sometime before, but she was hardly worried about that right now. Diana's
dream came back to her as harshly as a slap to her face.

Her
dream, the sexy dream with a sexy someone, had
not
only been a dream,
but a recollection of something she'd done. With him. And she was still in the
man's bed.

# # #

Debt Inheritance

Pepper Winters

Jethro Hawk receives
Nila as an inheritance present on his twenty-ninth birthday. Her life is his
until she’s paid off a debt that’s centuries old. He can do what he likes with
her—nothing is out of bounds—she has to obey. 

There are no rules.
Only payments.

Copyright 2014 Pepper Winters

Table of Contents

Chapter 1—Jethro

Chapter 2—Nila

Chapter 3—Jethro

Chapter 4—Nila

Chapter 5—Jethro

Chapter 6—Nila

Chapter 7—Jethro

Chapter 8—Nila

Chapter 9—Jethro

Chapter 10—Nila

Chapter 11—Jethro

Chapter 12—Nila

Chapter 13—Jethro

Chapter 14—Nila

Chapter 15—Jethro

Chapter 16—Nila

About
The Author

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Contents

THE WORLD WAS a dangerous place,
but I was worse.

The human race left the dark ages
behind—technology improved and ruined our lives in equal measure, and the
devils in society hid with better camouflage.

As the years rolled by, and we left
our barbaric ways behind, people forgot about the shadows lurking in plain
sight. Men like me morphed into predators in sheep’s clothing. We preyed on the
weak with no apology, and everything landed in our fucking laps. Civilization
cloaked us, hiding the animals at heart.

We traded caveman mentality and
murder for suits and softly spoken curses. I hid my true temper beneath a veil
of decorum. I mastered the art of suave.

People who knew me said I was a
gentleman. They called me distinguished, accomplished, and shrewd.

I was all of those things, but none
of them. We might live in a civilized world, but rules and laws didn’t apply to
me. I was a rule-breaker, curse-maker, life-stealer.

The projection was a farce—but even
the worst of us had someone who owned us. Whether family, honour, or duty.

I’d embraced my inner barbarian,
yet was governed by a hierarchy and when the Hawk matriarch snapped her
fingers, we all came running.

Including my arsehole of a father,
Bryan Hawk.

There, in the cigar and cognac
laced library, I learned a truth that forever changed my life.

And
hers.

My family owned another.

An IOU on their entire existence.

To this day, I didn’t know why, and
I didn’t bother asking.

Who gave a shit why a wealthy
family called the Weavers were indebted to us? Who gave a damn that they’d
royally fucked off my family and earned the wrath of my ancestors?

All I cared about was the news I’d
inherited something more than just money, possessions, or titles.

My twenty-ninth birthday gave me a
pet. A toy.

A responsibility I didn’t want.

Debts I had to extract from
unwilling flesh.

A job to uphold our family honour.

Nila Weaver.

One mistake six hundred years ago
put a curse on her entire family.

One mistake sold her life to me in
a mountain of unpayable debt.

I inherited her.

I preyed on her.

I owned her life and had the piece
of paper to prove it.

Nila Weaver.

Mine.

And my task…

…

…

devour
her.

 "TOLD YOU THIS collection
would be your break, Threads."

I smiled, not taking my eyes off
the model prancing down the runway. My stomach churned like an overworked loom
with stress and adrenaline.

"Don’t jinx it. There’s still
the couture collection to go." I flinched as the model sashayed too much,
wobbling in the insanely high heels I’d buckled to her feet.

My cell-phone buzzed in the only
place I had available in this dress—my cleavage.

No, no. Not now.

I’d been waiting to hear from him
for two days. Lying in bed in the fancy hotel, willing my phone to chime,
granting me the intoxicating rush of flirtation. But nothing. Not a peep.

A month of this…
what was this?
It wasn’t a relationship. Liaison? Nameless courtship? I had no name for the
craziness I indulged in. I panted for scraps of communication like a
high-school wallflower.

It’s time to end it.

Another message vibrated,
shattering my willpower to ignore him with his impeccable timing—as usual.

"You know the couture line
will raise the roof. Stop being modest." Vaughn nudged my shoulder with
his.

Ignoring my brother and the
suddenly heavy cell-phone, I winced as the model flicked her hair pirouetting
at the end of the runway, before flouncing away in a whirl of pink silk.

Too much attitude for that dress
. I shook my head, stopping the inner monologue that never shut up
when it came to models flaunting my creations.

"I don’t know anything
anymore. Stop nettling me, V. Let me focus."

Vaughn scowled. "I don’t know
why you’re so worried. Cheque books are already open. You’ll see."

Another message arrived, sending my
phone into throbbing excitement. Even my phone got excited when he texted.

My heart fluttered. A hot flush
covered my body remembering the last sentence I’d received from Kite007. I’d
made the mistake of reading it just as I boarded the short flight from England
to Spain.

Kite007:
I don’t need to know
what you look like to get hard—guess where my hand is.

Of course I couldn’t help myself.
Because I was a sex-starved woman surrounded by over-protective men.

I replied:
I don’t need to hear
what you sound like to get wet—guess where my hand wants to be?

I’d never been so blatant. With
anyone. The moment I sent it I freaked out, wishing I could unsend.

I’d spent the trip in a confused
state of arousal and denial. And never received a reply.

Until now.

I hid my flush, pretending nothing
enticing taunted me on my phone. I loved my father and brother—so damn much—but
if they knew…the proverbial shit would hit the fan.

"Oh, God." I clutched my
heart as another stick-thin model paraded down the catwalk, failing to show off
the intricate peacock-blue dress to its advantage. "No one will buy it if
they can’t see the potential of the design."

Vaughn sighed. "You worry too
much. It’s stunning. Anyone can see that." His dark eyes landed on mine. "Allow
a thrill of pride—just once, Threads. It’s going perfectly, and I couldn’t be
prouder of you." My twin brother draped his arm over my shoulders, tucking
me against him. Considering the word ‘twin’ meant mirror image, Vaughn was
taller, better looking, and overall more vibrant than me. He made others
envious with his natural beauty, while I made others feel beautiful with
dresses sewn with twenty-four carat gold and dyed with exclusive inks costing a
small fortune.

I supposed that was my talent:
making others feel worthy while he sold products thanks to his allure. Mirror
image alright—the direct opposite.

"You’re a model. Why aren’t
you showcasing my clothes?"

Vaughn laughed. "My figure
doesn’t look good squashed into some sequinned frock. Create some decent
clothes for males, then I might stoop and be your headline act."

I thumped his arm. "You know I
don’t have the drive to stitch suits and boxer-shorts. I keep telling you to go
into business with me and create a men’s line. There’d be no stopping—"

Vaughn rolled his eyes. "Can’t
afford me."

I scowled. "Afford you? I’ve
heard a perky pair of boobs and sex will buy your attention for at least a
weekend."

He pointed at my small chest with a
glint in his eye. "I see no perky pair and…gross, Nila. You’re my sister.
Why the hell are we talking about sex? You know we were raised better than
that."

I didn’t want to laugh. I didn’t
want to lose the wound-up tension from my collection, but Vaughn never failed
to earn a lip-twitch.

I sighed, shaking my head. "Sex,
shmex. You’d be lucky if I hired your scrawny ass."

He smirked. "Who’re you
calling scrawny?" He waved at his tall frame. "My skills are on the
other end of the camera. As my track record states." His perfectly
straight teeth flashed—daring anyone to deny the truth.

I used to be jealous of his
deliciously good looks. My brother was rich brocade while I was boring calico.
But now, I was proud. I might be graced with a body requiring embellishment by
other means than fate, but I knew the secrets of illusion. I’d spun magic with
a sewing machine since I was a little girl, stepping from the shadow of my
family’s name, carving a small slice of greatness for myself.

"Well if the show tonight
flops, at least you can bail me out with all that cash you’ve earned thanks to
your god-like looks."

A laugh barrelled from his mouth,
loud but still hidden by the sultry fashion show music. The dark room hid the
large crowd but couldn’t disguise the heavy press and body heat of numerous
buyers, shoppers, and catalogue procurers.

Vaughn squeezed me tighter. "Nila,
I’m warning you. I want a smile. You’ve worked on this for months. Stop being
so damn pessimistic and celebrate."

"I can’t celebrate until the
last model has shown their garment and not tripped over their arse in a seven
thousand dollar dress."

My phone buzzed again.

I froze, cursing my twisting
stomach and the fire-bolt to my core. Kite007. The nameless teasing male who
had more power over me than any other man. A stupid secret crush. With a
stranger no less.

It’s a sad day when I’m
emotionally invested in a fantasy
. I should never
have replied to the incorrectly sent message a month ago. Then I might’ve
directed the small energy I had left after working so hard and find a real man.
One I could kiss and flirt with in person.

The jagged pain lashed again.
Rejection. I’d asked Kite, after a late night volley of messages, if he’d be
interested in meeting.

Needle&Thread:
So…I was
wondering…I’m sitting here drinking a glass of wine and thought you might like
to do that sometime? Go out for a drink, in person, together?

I’d pressed send on the jumbled,
awkward sentence before I lost my nerve. I’d never asked anyone on a date
before—it nearly gave me a heart attack.

He’d never replied. Silence was his
usual reaction to dealing with something he didn’t want to discuss—only to
message a few days later on a completely different subject.

Where sexual innuendoes were hard
for me, Kite007 was a master. He used it as a weapon, making me forget we had
no depth to our conversations…not that they
were
conversations.

When he did reply, it’d been a
clever mix of teasing and emptiness—reminding me not to read into this shallow
form of communication.

Kite007:
I’m in a meeting and
all I can think about is your nun outfit. You wearing underwear today?

Yep. That stopped my wishful
thinking of meeting him in person.

Untangling myself from Vaughn, I
pretended to scrutinize the remaining models while I indulged in the very first
text I received. The one that began it all.

Kite007:
Tonight won’t work for
me, but waiting will only make you wetter. Be a good girl and don’t argue. I’ll
make sure to reward your patience.

A shiver worked its way under my
expensive gown. I’d never received a message like that. Ever. And it wasn’t
meant for me. I imagined some lucky woman looking forward to her reward. I
tried to delete the message—I really did. But after twenty-four years of being
hidden away from boys, I couldn’t help myself.

My reply was utterly ridiculous.

Needle&Thread:
I’m afraid
you’re talking to a nun who understands nothing of sexual hints and
not-so-subtle suggestions. Patience to me is payment after waiting for a
microwaved chocolate pudding. Wet to me is the brief enjoyment of a shower
before the slave labour of my job. If your intention was to make me (an unknown
stranger who could be your mother-in-law or an arthritic eighty-year-old) wet
and patient, perhaps you could bribe me with sugar, a hot bath, and a night off
from work—then perhaps I’ll obey and ‘deserve’ your veiled insinuation of
pleasure. (By the way…if you haven’t guessed, wrong number.)

And so began a mistake that I had
no intention of stopping.

I groaned under my breath, never
failing to suffer a wash of embarrassment. I had no idea where the flippancy
came from. I wasn’t a nun—but I wasn’t far off. Thanks to the two permanent men
in my life, dating was a rare event.

 A curvy model coasted down the
runway in my favourite creation of cream lace, Victorian collar, and external
bustle. I intended to head the trend of a historical fashion comeback.

"That would look better on
you." Vaughn’s husky voice cut through the graceful music.

I shook my head. "No chance."
Looking down at my small cup size and overly trim frame, thanks to my obsessive
running, I added, "You need femininity to pull off a corset like that. I’m
a rake."

"Only because you exercise too
damn much."

Only because I have you and
father stopping me from getting exercise in sexual form.
I didn’t believe in self-pleasuring…running was my only hope at a
release.

 The model spun in place, swirling her
train before disappearing up the catwalk. I suffered a moment of envy. It would
be nice to have boobs and hips.

Vaughn’s strong fingers caught my
chin, breaking the unlockable stare I had on the strutting model, guiding my
non-descript hazel eyes to his vibrant chocolate ones. "We’re going out
tonight. Hitting the Milan night clubs." The low lights around the runway
made his skin glow with a natural dusky tan. His blue-black hair was the one
beautiful thing I shared. Thick, dead straight, and so glossy people said it
was like looking into black glass.

My one saving grace.

Oh, and my ability to sew.

And flirt with a stranger on an
impersonal device.

My phone buzzed—a reminder my inbox
had something delicious for me to read. And it would be delicious.

Dammit. The urge to look almost
broke my self-control. What the hell was he doing messaging me? We knew nothing
about each other. We shared nothing but dirty fantasies. My mind once again
jumped back to the first relay of texts.

Kite007:
Shit, you’re a nun?
Sorry…what’s the correct term of address…sister? I apologise for the
incorrectly sent message. Despite your Godly perfection and sheltering, you
deduced correctly. It was in fact very sexual. The woman in mind would never be
welcomed into a sanctity such as yours.

I’d had no reply to that, but he’d
sent another twenty minutes later.

Kite007:
Sister…I need
absolution. I find myself consumed with the image of a sexy nun stripping and
sliding into a hot bath with chocolate sauce on her lips. Does that make me the
devil, or are you for making me lust for someone I shouldn’t?

For the first time in my life, I’d
felt the rush of power and need. This unknown man lusted for me. He’d replied
based on what I’d sent. He’d been right about the blushing, but only because I
was sheltered, not because I’d decided to dress in black and white garb for the
rest of my life. I came from rainbow fabric; I drank textile ink as mothers’
milk. I learned to sew before I could walk. I could never become a nun, purely
because of the boring fashion choices.