To Love a Shifter: A Paranormal Romance Boxed Set (2 page)

This is a two-part book.

The first part, My Werewolf Prince Commands,

is a short story that has been merged for publication with the rest of The Werewolf Prince and I.

            Domenico Moretti gazed down at the young woman walking swiftly up the street, knowing that in a while she would be entering the twenty-floor skyscraper he was in – and owned. He was – to put it simply – an extremely wealthy man, yet he knew instinctively that wouldn’t matter to her – just as she would likely be indifferent to the fact that he was one of the most eligible bachelors in the world. A hackneyed phrase to be sure, but one he deserved. For four straight years, his lawyers had consistently sent legal notices to People magazine on his behalf to ensure that he would not make it to the annual Sexiest People Alive list. His kind shunned such publicity, after all, for very good reasons.

Then again, even if she happened to be a shameless gold digger, Domenico felt he would have chosen her still. Pressed for time as he was, he would settle for any woman who could truly accept him for what he was, fur and all.

His eyes strayed back to the woman he had been observing.

Her dark hair was so straight it didn’t even curl inward to frame her face. It simply shot straight past her shoulders, revealing her ears, which were adorned by a pair of tiny silver hoops.           Soft long lashes further defined her brilliant gray eyes. They dominated her small, heart-shaped face and complemented her rosebud lips. Those lips begged to be kissed -- Domenico knew that sometime within the day, they would be. She matched a loose-fitting white blouse with a black skirt that flared wide from the waist, emphasizing its trimness while concealing most of her magnificent legs.

He supposed she wanted to keep her curves hidden. If she did, she had failed drastically. There was no denying how her bountiful breasts strained against their confines, a tantalizing hint of her gloriously voluptuous body. Perhaps she wanted to imitate the ridiculous trend of toothpick figures that most women now had. One day, he would tell her she had no reason to aspire to another woman’s figure. Her curves were a rare blessing – made to be shaped by a man’s hands.

His hands. Nobody else’s. Misty Wall.

He smiled at the irony of the oxymoron that made up her name. A misty wall? There must be a reason behind it. His kind was superstitious, after all. For them, everything in this world had a meaning to it, a deeper purpose to fulfill.

“Mine,” he couldn’t help whispering, staking a claim that the heat of his blood demanded.

She stopped just before entering the rotating glass doors of the lobby, raising a hand to shield her eyes from the sun. Then she looked up.

Her gaze was an arrow striking his heart, making him catch his breath, freezing him in place.

It was as if she was looking up right at him, sensing his regard even though he was hundreds of feet above her, an unseen figure behind tinted windows. Even this far from her, he could feel the tug of sexual attraction, a promise of the intense chemistry that would explode between them once they finally – irrevocably – crossed paths.

It was a connection, he thought with satisfaction as she took one last look before disappearing into the building.

Domenico took that as a good omen for the wedding he had already planned. Never mind that the bride he had so carefully chosen didn’t actually know about it yet.

8:12 AM

The crack on the northeast wall in the third floor of Building 2 in Lot A of the project site is five centimeters long. 1 centimeter is equivalent to 100 millimeters. A crack is—

A
crack
is exactly what’s going to happen to my head if I have to read one more word of the report. The rest of the words, all printed in a squint-inducing font size, swim before my eyes. I take a deep breath.

I can do this, I can do this.

A crack may form a straight horizontal or vertical line on a surface. A crack may also have an irregular line. The crack on the northeast wall on the third floor of Building 2 in Lot A of the project site is believed to have been caused by aging. Aging is a process in which--           

The pep talk doesn’t work on my eyelids, and they fall heavily to a close.

I shake myself awake, forcing my eyes to open. I am going to pry them open with a screwdriver if I have to.

God, I’m bored.

10:24 AM

Tony stops at my desk, Cubicle #55. It is at the end of the line, a long way from home for Tony, who occupies Cubicle #07 in the East section of the office. I’ve been taking notice of him since day 1, not because I like him or anything – we’re batting for the same team – but mostly because I’m fascinated with his ability to wear bowties with
everything.
I’ve seen him wear a bowtie with tuxes (acceptable), leather jackets (questionable), and even a sleeveless Hanes undershirt (remarkable)!

“Hi, Tony!” I hope it’s not obvious I’m dying for even the tiniest bit of interaction. The organizational hierarchy of Moretti Inc. is very easy to understand. Each promotion gets you a bigger cubicle and – eventually – a move to a higher floor until you reach the 17
^th
, where the corporation’s top five executives work in the lap of luxury. They have their own gym, an indoor pool, a regularly stocked bar, and their own
shiatsu
therapist.

I work at the Administration Department. We share 4/F with Maintenance, and we’re the level directly above the building’s two-floor indoor parking garage. You get the picture, right?

Admin is a death trap. I’ve been to most floors, being everyone’s favorite errand girl, and
none
of them is as murderously tedious as Admin. Most floors are like beehives, with people constantly rushing around. They’re too busy to bitch at each other – like the women in my department frequently do.

In Admin’s case…well…let’s just say that if Moretti Inc. was a hospital, our floor would be
Ze Morgue
and we’d all be zombie attendants.

Tony wordlessly hands me a stapled set of papers.

Absently tucking my hair behind my ears – I usually keep it tied but I couldn’t find my elastic band this morning – I thanked Tony for bringing the Supplies Inventory Update Report to me. “I can get it from your cubicle next time----”

Not surprisingly, I’m already talking to his back. 

Like most people in
Ze Morgue
, Tony doesn’t think I’m worth even the semblance of small talk. It’s not just because I’m an unpaid intern, which basically means I get the privilege of being at everyone’s beck and call. No, what really makes me Ms. (Un) Popular with Tony and everyone here is that I’ve also been hired to be their Grammar Nazi.

As proofreader and copy editor, I learn all their dirtiest secrets…well, the ones on paper, anyway. Suffice it to say, it doesn’t endear me to the rest of the zombies one bit. They’ve even gone as far as exiling me to an isolated corner of the office since Cubicle #55 has the esteemed honor of being located between the door and the giant trash bins.

Supervisor Ed – the guy I report to – says I’ve been moved to this gloriously exclusive spot because my revered colleagues think the location’s
strategic
. Being next to the constantly swinging doors – which occasionally send my papers flying all around the office – is supposed to remind everyone to get their stuff spell-checked before they leave the office.

I had nodded and pretended I was clueless like him. I didn’t have the heart to break his illusions about his happy place by letting Ed know that all was
not
fine in
Ze Morgue
.

I try to concentrate on Tony’s document but fail. Sometimes, their hatred really gets to me because I know I don’t deserve it. It’s not my fault that the orphanage I came from only had Scrabble. Honestly, I wished it were Monopoly instead.

Glancing at the report like it could detonate any moment, I take another deep breath before diving straight into yet another grammatical quagmire.

SUPPLIES INVENTORY UPDATE
 

Four (4) AA batterys

Forteen (14) ballpens (black)

Three (3) AAA batterys 

“Misty?”

I perk up. Tony’s back and – even better - he knows my name! Most people here call me
Minnie.
I tell myself it’s accidental and not because I’m so wimpy I remind them of a mouse.

I beam up at Tony, all the while crossing my fingers under the desk. Please let him
not
ask about how he’s doing. It’s such a friendship killer.

He returns my smile with an upper curl of his lip. “I forgot to change something in my update.”

Oh. Right. Maybe he’s too busy for a friendly chat. There’s always tomorrow.

I give Tony his papers back and he takes them without a word.

“Thanks.”

Pretending I don’t hear the lack of, well, thankfulness in his tone, I look back at the document, wondering which of his mistakes he’s corrected.

SUPPLIES INVENTORY UPDATE

Four (4)
Five (5) AA batterys

Forteen (14) ballpens (black)

Three (3) AAA batterys

Right.

It’s time for another breathing exercise.

I pick up my red-ink pen with a sigh. Tony’s going to hate me even more when he gets his update report back and sees all the red circles, strikethroughs, and text inserts I’m about to make.

God, I’m bored.

12:00 NN

Lunch break in Moretti Inc. is torture. Outcasts like me eat alone. Taking my lunch bag from the bottom drawer of my table, I lock everything up and quickly leave Cubicle #55 and the rest of
Ze Morgue
behind me before the zombies blast me with pitying looks again. If they pity me so much, why don’t they give me a chance and let me have lunch with them?

But of course I know the answer to that. They don’t actually pity me. They just plain hate my guts for whatever reason.

Finding a private space to enjoy my peanut butter sandwich and orange juice is never easy. You see, my workplace also happens to be one of the city’s major tourist attractions, thanks to its 18
^th
floor viewing deck, which continues to snap up architectural awards left and right.
Veganista
is also located on that floor, a world-renowned restaurant that caters exclusively to human herbivores. It’s always fully booked for months in advance, but twenty of its 200-plus seats are reserved every day for walk-in patrons. The lines for those twenty seats sometimes force me to take the stairs instead.

I take a short trip to the ground floor lobby to see if there are any available spaces left in the lounge areas. There are none, with every seat occupied by Asian tourists. I smack my forehead. I forgot about that. A memo was posted about it last week, telling us that we’re having busloads of tourists from China for some cultural exchange project Moretti Inc. has with a Beijing company.

Stepping back into the private employees’ elevator, which is surprisingly empty, I swipe my card then punch 5 on the digital keyboard. It’s where the library and records center is, and in the two months I’ve been working here, I’ve never bumped into another soul there.

I take out my peanut butter sandwich and start eating. It’s been my favorite since my orphanage days, mostly because we only got to choose between this and rice broth for breakfast. My BFF back then, a Chinese girl named Mei Li, was the only one who went for the rice broth. Nothing against it, but my Western mind’s been pre-conditioned to only want it when I’m burning up with a fever.

Then again, there’s always a first for everything,
I think moments later with a sinking heart. The good news: there are finally employees other than myself who appreciate what 5/F has to offer. The bad news: we don’t appreciate it for the same reasons. I come here for the free books, these two come here for the free — personal space, I guess? Or so they thought.

In full view of the elevators is Janice Rudely, the glamazon lipstick monster who works as receptionist of
Ze Morgue
. She’s on her knees, head bobbing up and down, like a constantly bowing servant.

Before her is William Grant, the balding octogenarian mid-management executive from the 10
^th
floor, with his pants pooled around his ankles.

Ding-dong.
It’s the elevator, alerting the lovers to the fact that they have a reluctant Peeping Tom in their midst.

Oh, shick.

It’s a word I made up for the twins and me so we wouldn’t end up swearing in front of Nicole and Andy. And if this moment isn’t shicky, then I don’t know what is.

I spin back to the elevator, stuffing my half-eaten sandwich into my mouth so I can slam my free hand on the down button.

Sharp fingers dig deep into my shoulder.

SHICK!

Clawed in place, I turn around to face Janice with a weak smile, but she’s clearly less than thrilled to see me.

“
Hello, Janice
.” The words come out all wrong since I’m speaking with my mouth full. In the background, I see William Grant hastily tucking his shirt back into his pants, which are still unzipped, revealing a protruding, limp --