Michele Hauf - The Billionaire Werewolf's Princess

Indi had never been one to let opportunity pass, but...

She also wasn’t stupid.

“Thank you for, uh...” She wandered to the door, tugging up her wet skirt and realizing a long piece of it dragged behind. The outer tulle layer had torn, and the hem was blackened with dirt. One of the chiffon poppies dangled from a thread.

“Oh, God, you must think I’m the worst case. I was...upset. And yes, he broke my heart. I have this tendency to get attached, too—” What was she doing? She didn’t need to detail her pitiful emotional failings to a stranger. “I needed a good cry and...”

She turned, thinking Ryland looked like the man she’d seen in her dreams. He had been. She’d never forget such a handsome face. And those brown eyes pierced her with intensity. “Last night.” Peering intently at him, she asked, “Did you change?”

“Did I, uh, what?” He set the mug on the table and approached her.

Indi backed up until her shoulders hit the door. She slumped. Her head was spinning and she predicted the hangover would play revenge on her soon. And she did not want the guy to witness that.

“Change,” she muttered, though she wasn’t sure why she’d asked him that. How could a person change? Yet she had seen something odd last night. Maybe? “Were there flying creatures?”

He bent before her, and long brown hair spilled over his chest and the T-shirt that he wore inside out to expose the seams. Earth-brown eyes studied her for a pitiful moment. “I think you might still be a little drunk, Princess Pussycat.”

“Princess...” She reached for the top of her head and felt the cat ears sitting up there, but at a tilt. “I’m not drunk. Not anymore. And my name is...”

She should leave. Right now. Before things got weird.

Indi turned and grabbed the doorknob, hoping the door wasn’t locked and that he didn’t have plans to toss her in a dirt pit in his basement. It opened. She exhaled and dashed across the threshold.

“I hope you feel better!” he called after her. “And I hope the guy who did that to you gets his just. No woman deserves to be treated so poorly.”

Indi paused at the top of a stairway that led down to the building’s entry. She lifted her skirts and imagined she must look a nightmare to him. A kind man who had only wanted to ensure that she was safe last night.

“My name’s Indigo,” she said, then took the stairs, hands firmly clutching both railings for support.

By some strange luck that she was not accustomed to, a cab was parked curbside. Indi climbed into the back seat, gave the driver her address in the eighth arrondissement, then flopped down, hugging the seat as if it were a life raft. Shoving her hand in her skirt pocket, she was relieved her phone was still in there. She checked her texts. There were none.

Had she expected to hear from Todd after his night with Melanie?

Oh, that she could even think of him again. Stupid, stupid, stupid!

She needed to talk to Janet. To spill all the details of her horrible, terrible, no-good very humiliating night. She’d call her when she got home.

Ten minutes later, the cabbie offered to help her to the front door, but Indi said she’d manage. She paid him with a scan of the credit card app on her phone and then meandered up to the house.

Her head wasn’t quite so spinny now, but her limbs felt heavy. As if she’d run a marathon. Exhaustion hit her hard as she opened the front door and wandered inside. She could only think to lie down. Right. Now.

She eyed the alpaca rug before the white velvet couch and stepped down into the sunken living room. Dropping the phone on the couch, and then falling to her knees, Indi collapsed onto her stomach on the soft, inviting rug. She curled her fingers into the fur and closed her eyes.

And then she fell asleep.

For a very long time.

* * *

Ry strolled into the small office he kept in the fourth arrondissement. His secretary, Kristine, blew him the usual good-morning kiss and handed him a full and steaming mug of coffee.

“How’d hunting go last night?” she asked while focusing on a spreadsheet she had opened on the laptop before her. Her long purple nails clattered on the keys.

“It was...” Ry sipped the coffee and winced. He could never get her to add even a smidge of cream to the wicked black concoction she brewed. “Different.”

That got her attention. Turning on the swivel chair and crossing her legs, she dangled a very large pink vinyl high heel and eyed him through a flutter of thick false lashes. She didn’t need to speak. He could hear her thoughts plainly.

“A human woman stepped onto the scene while I was slashing through collectors.”

“Oh, mon cher . That is not acceptable. How did that happen? I thought FaeryTown wasn’t something we humans could even access.”

“Exactly. Not unless you’re wearing an ointment to see the sidhe. I’m not sure how she saw me or the collectors, but she did, and...” He sipped again. He probably shouldn’t tell Kristine everything. But then, she was a confidante, and he trusted her with the information about his nature. “She was scratched by one of them. Would have died had I not rushed her to a healer. By the way, I need to send Hestia a million-euro check.”

Kristine sighed. “Really? The old girlfriend? I’ll take care of that.”

“She was not a girlfriend. More a—”

Kristine put up a palm. “Nope. Don’t want you to mansplain that one to me. So, what happened after that big adventure?”

“I took her home with me, and she spent the night on the floor under the coffee table.”

“Ryland Alastair James.”

He winced at the admonishing tone. “I put her on the couch, but she wouldn’t stay there. She was drunk and...the healer drugged her with some wacky faery stuff. I’m surprised she could even stand to run away from me this morning.”

“You let her run away? Without making sure she got home safe? Who are you?”

He sighed heavily. Kristine knew him well. Normally he would never allow a woman to run off like that without seeing to her safety. But she had been freaked by him. And he’d not been given an opportunity to explain the cut on her chest, which might have been a good thing, all things considered.

“She’ll be fine,” he said. “And both collectors are dead. No babies stolen last night.”

Kristine crossed her arms, and her dangling foot increased in bobbing speed.

“I don’t know her last name, so it’s not like I can look her up and check in on her. She was dressed fancy and I think she’s probably well-off.”

“Doesn’t mean she made it home safely.”

“I accept your admonishment, and confess I’m worried about her, too. But there’s nothing I can do now.”

“Can’t you track her down with your sniffer? Didn’t you once tell me you werewolves can smell a peppermint candy five miles away?”

“She wasn’t wearing peppermint. She smelled like champagne and roses.” And not just any kind of rose perfume. She’d smelled like fresh-from-the-garden roses.

“Was she pretty?”

“Does that matter?”

“No, but she’s going to stay in your brain until you know what became of her after she fled your place. Fled! Seriously, Ry, what did you do to her?”

“I offered her coffee.”

Kristine chuckled and turned back to her work. “Only you can manage to simultaneously slay weird faery marauders and hook up with a pretty young thang.”

“We didn’t hook up. I set her on the couch and...in the morning I found her under my coffee table.”

Kristine raised an eyebrow in judgment.

“And that’s the end of this conversation. Did you compile research on the Severo Foundation?”

“I did. And I’ve a report for you. I’ll print it up and bring it into your office in two twitches. This is a good one, cher . You’ll want to donate to them.”