Beast Behaving Badly
978-0-7582-6051-2
Author: Shelly Laurenston Compatibility: Adobe PDF List Price: 11.20 Imprint: Brava
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Some men just have more to offer. Like Bo Novikov, the hard-muscled shape-shifter hero of this wildly funny, deeply sexy new novel from Shelly Laurenston—part polar bear, part lion, pure alpha…
Ten years after Blayne Thorpe first encountered Bo Novikov, she still can’t get the smooth-talking shifter out of her head. Now he’s shadowing her in New York—all seven-plus feet of him—determined to protect her from stalkers who want to use her in shifter dogfights. Even if he has to drag her off to an isolated Maine town where the only neighbors are other bears almost as crazy as he is…
Let sleeping dogs lie. Bo knows it’s good advice, but he can’t leave Blayne be. Blame it on her sweet sexiness—or his hunch that there’s more to this little wolfdog than meets the eye. Blayne has depths he hasn’t yet begun to fathom—much as he’d like to. She may insist Bo’s nothing but a pain in her delectable behind, but polar bears have patience in spades. Soon she’ll realize how good they can be together. And when she does, animal instinct tells him it’ll be worth the wait…
Chapter One
The face slammed into the protective glass, blood spurting out
as cartilage was demolished, bone shattered.
The crowd around her either roared and howled in approval
or hissed and barked in disapproval, depending on which team
they supported. But Blayne Thorpe could do neither. Instead, she
only gaped at the behemoth hybrid continuing to force that poor,
battered feline face into the glass by using nothing more than his
hockey stick and overwhelming size.
She had heard he’d gotten bigger since she’d last seen him
nearly ten years ago, but she thought they were talking about the
man’s career. Not his size.
Career wise, the minor shifter league’s onetime left defense-
man from nowhere Maine had gone on to become one of the
greatest hockey players the pro shifter league had ever known.
Bo “The Marauder” Novikov was one of the first—and at one
time, one of the only—hybrids to ever play on a professional
team in any league. Of course, his saving grace had been that he
wasn’t one of the more feared—and, to be quite honest, more
unstable—canine hybrids like Blayne, but a rare by-product of
species crossbreeding. Specifically a polar bear–lion. Or, as Blayne
always secretly thought of him, a mighty bear-cat. A much cuter
name in Blayne’s estimation than polar bear–lion. But bears breeding
with felines was such a rare thing—and damn near nonexistent
more than twenty-five years ago—that they didn’t have any cute
nicknames like coydogs for coyote-dogs or ligers and tigons for
lion and tiger mixes.
Yet that didn’t mean Blayne saw Novikov as one of the top
representatives of the hybrid nation. How could she? He represented
everything she loathed in sports. Where was the sportsmanship?
Where was the team spirit? Where was the loyalty?
Nowhere.
In ten years the Marauder had become one of the most hated
and feared players in any shifter league in the States, Asia, and
most of Europe. Although in Russia and Sweden, he was merely
considered “tough—for an American.” Adored and loathed by
fans in equal amounts, Novikov was equally detested by both his
opponents and his own teammates. Bo Novikov had made a name
for himself by being what Blayne could only describe as pure ass-
hole on skates. If you were in his way, Novikov would either make
you move or plow right through you. If you had his puck—and
it was always his puck—he’d find a way to get it away from you,
even if it meant permanent damage and learning to walk again
for the opposition. From what Blayne had heard, he never had a
friendly word for anyone, even the cubs and pups who worshipped
at his feet.
None of this surprised Blayne. How could it? She’d met the
man when he was a much shorter, nineteen-year-old minor league
player. Tracey, a tigress that Blayne liked about as much as her
best friend Gwen detested her, had seen Novikov playing and
had begged Blayne to somehow get Gwen to invite her to one of
her uncle’s practices. At the time, the O’Neill males ran the Philly
Furors minor hockey team. Two of Gwen’s uncles were the managers
and six of her cousins were either coaches or players. Although
Blayne was invited anywhere that the O’Neills were, Tracey
couldn’t risk just showing up whenever she felt like it. Not unless
she wanted to get her ass kicked by Gwen and her female cousins.
It took some pleading, begging, and whining on Blayne’s part,
but eventually Gwen agreed that Tracey could come to one of
the practices.
The idea had been that Tracey, wearing their Catholic school
uniform—appropriately adjusted for after-school boy hunts—
would show up and transfix the hybrid with her tigress beauty. It
seemed like a solid plan as far as Blayne was concerned. And
Tracey, not being real shy about that sort of thing, had made her
move during one of the team’s breaks. Blayne had barely noticed,
too busy sitting in the stands and wolfing down a cheesesteak
from the bear-owned restaurant across the street. She was halfway
done with her sandwich when she felt like she was being watched.
She had been, too. She’d looked up to find piercing blue eyes staring
at her through the protective glass between the stands and
the rink.
He didn’t say anything, either. He just . . . stared. And he kept
staring while glaring. He glared at her like she’d stolen his wallet
or cut him with a razor. The bite of cheesesteak in her mouth
went down her throat hard, and she tried to figure out if she could
make it to the exit before he reached her. He looked like he wanted
to eat her alive, and coming from a predator that was not a good
thing. Especially a predator who, it was rumored, had descended
from Genghis Khan on his mother’s side and the Cossacks on his
father’s.
Putting down the remainder of her sandwich, Blayne had slowly
stood. As she did, those blue eyes studied her every move. He
watched her pick up her backpack and, in her saddle shoes, slowly
make her way down the aisle. He’d skated along with her, oblivious
to the fact that the O’Neills had noticed his interest. Blayne
had reached the end of the bleachers and took the steps down to
the massive hallway that the players entered through. Slowly, not
wanting to startle him, she’d eased the straps of her bag over her
shoulders. With the bag on, she’d looked over her shoulder one
more time, expecting to see Bo Novikov still on the ice. He wasn’t.
He was right behind her. Blue eyes fierce as they glowered down
at her.
And Blayne, as always, handled it with her usual skill and subtlety.
She screamed like someone was stabbing her to death and
took off running. Gwen called her name and ran after her, but
Blayne didn’t stop until she’d run out of the building, across the
street, and all the way home. She burst into her father’s house,
slamming the door behind her, locking it, pushing her father’s favorite
chair in front of it and then the side table. She was working
on getting the piano over there, when her father had walked
in from the backyard. “What are you doing?” he’d asked, and
Blayne had been forced to calm down because there was little her
father “tolerated” from his daughter. And her “irrational bullshit”
was at the top of his “No Tolerance” list.
After taking a breath Blayne had replied, “Nothin’. Why?”
Her father didn’t seem to believe her much, but he let it go.
Tracey, however, did not let it go. She blamed Blayne for blowing
the tigress’s chance at being the future—and very wealthy—mate
of a hockey star. Tracey never spoke to her again, which Gwen
was very happy about, while Novikov lasted another month with
the minor league team before landing his first major league deal.
She hadn’t seen him since that day and didn’t bother to go to many
hockey games, so she hadn’t seen him play. But she’d heard about
him. It was impossible to be around sports lovers and not hear
about Novikov.
To quote her father, who loved sports so much he even watched
the full-humans on TV, “That boy would take down his grandmother
if she had his puck.” And as usual, her father was right.
If she had any doubts about the accuracy of his statement, all she
had to do was continue to sit in this stadium with five thousand
other shifters and watch that vicious barbarian batter the much
smaller leopard into the ice. And why was he doing that? Because
the smaller leopard had taken his puck.
The opposing team, the Charleston Butchers, tried to stop
Novikov, but he tossed them off his back like they were puppies.
The buzzer sounded and Novikov immediately stopped what he
was doing, which somehow made Novikov seem even more cold-
blooded.
The New York Carnivores newest center and enforcer stood.
He was no longer the six-one, two-hundred-fifty-pound serial
killer looking sub-adult she’d met all those years ago. Nope. He
was now a seven-one, three-hundred-seventy-eight-pound serial
killer looking adult.
Thankfully, though, she couldn’t see his face or those frightening
eyes because of all the blood he’d splattered over the protective
glass between Blayne’s and Gwen’s primo seats and the rink.
But Novikov didn’t move away. She could see he was just standing
there, facing in her direction.
“He can’t remember me,” she thought desperately. “There’s no
way he can remember me.” She kept chanting that in her head
while a gloved hand reached up and wiped at the glass. The blood
smeared, but it was clear enough for Novikov to look through it
and directly at her.
He was chewing gum. So was she. Cold blue eyes that had not
changed to gold like most lion and lion hybrids gazed coldly at
her. Blayne gazed back. She wouldn’t run this time. She’d done her
research and had a better grasp of serial killers. Not that she had
proof Novikov was one, but a girl could never be too careful.
And what she’d learned was to not show fear. Serial killers preyed
on those they considered weak. She may not be all wolf but she
had enough of her father in her to give her a backbone. So . . . so
there!
If someone asked Blayne later if she had any idea how long
they were staring at each other, she knew she’d have to honestly
say she had no clue. It felt like hours, but basic logic told her it
was more like thirty seconds or so. Long enough for one of
Novikov’s teammates to push his shoulder to get him to move
off the ice. Probably not a good idea. Novikov caught the pushy
wolf’s right arm and launched him the entire length of the rink
and right into the other team’s unprotected goal. He didn’t score
anything by doing that, but the crowd loved it.
Her mouth open, Blayne gaped at him. That was his own teammate.
Not the opposition. Where’s the loyalty? she wanted to know.
She wouldn’t know there was any fan love, though, from the
way Novikov looked back at her, ignoring all his cheering, screaming
fans. That impossibly angry—okay, fine! And gorgeous!—
face glaring at her through all that blood.
The man may have been a sub-adult bear-cat when she’d first
met him all those years ago, but he was a full adult predator
now. Not only had he hit his bear shifter growth spurt, but his
gold-brown lion’s mane had grown in under the white hair that
poured from the crown of his head, the two hair colors mixing
into a silky mass that tumbled to just above his wide shoulders,
giving him a kind of “rock-and-roll meets punk” look that worked
for him. And although his eyes may be blue, the shape of his eyelids
combined with sharp cheekbones, full bottom lip, and blunt-
ended nose that faintly resembled a cat muzzle revealed his
Mongolian descent.
Blayne would never say it out loud, but there had to be a cool
factor to saying that his birth-Pride had descended directly from
a lion shifter bloodline dating from the time of Genghis Khan.
Novikov’s ancestors ran before Khan’s armies, destroying—and
eating—whatever was in their way, helping the barbarian leader
expand his territories until the cats grew bored and wandered off.
Of course, Novikov’s family on his father’s side wasn’t exactly
filled with peace lovers, either. Nope. The Novikovs were descended
from mighty Siberian Cossack polars dating back to the
early 1600s, and they still ran some tough towns near the Arctic
Circle.
Finally, after their endless staring, Novikov glided back from
her, gave her one last hard look, and skated back to his team.
Once gone, Blayne crumpled into her seat.
“You’re panting, hon.”
“I am not panting,” she told Gwen. “I’m trying to not breathe
in fear. I thought he was going to rip my face off.”
Gwen held out a bag of popcorn. “I don’t know why you find
him so scary.”
Now Blayne gawked at her best friend. “Gee, I don’t know.
Maybe it’s because it looks like he wants to cut my throat and
watch the life slowly drain from my body so he can fuck my
corpse without all that screaming-and-putting-up-a-fight distraction!”
Blayne cringed and, ignoring Gwen’s shoulders shaking as she
silently but hysterically laughed, turned and smiled at the family
of six behind her. The youngest about five. “Sorry,” she croaked
out. “Sorry about that.”
The father, a jackal, gave her a disapproving bark.
Blayne turned back around. Once again, she’d have to keep
reminding herself that only the derby league had a twenty-one
and older rule for their bouts. All the other sports, no matter the
level of bloodletting, were family friendly. Because your five-yearold
pup should always know how to eviscerate a cheetah that
had the misfortune of holding your ball or taking your puck.
“Popcorn?” Gwen asked.
Not looking at her friend, Blayne dug into the bag and took a
handful. “I hate you,” she reminded Gwen.
“I know, sweetie. I know.”
Bo sat down on the bench, the second string hitting the ice. He
tugged off a glove and reached under his helmet to scratch his
sweat-soaked hair. After he finished, he pulled his glove back on
and studied the ongoing game.
She was here. In this stadium. Sitting in ridiculously expensive
seats with that same girl she’d been friends with in high school.
She hadn’t changed much since the first time he’d seen her—running
away from him. Screaming. Her reaction had been a bit of a
blow to his extremely sensitive ego, but he didn’t let it get to him
because he’d been too busy studying those powerful legs under
that Catholic school girl uniform as they’d bolted off. Purr.
Yet even now she looked at him the same way, didn’t she?
Like she’d stumbled between a grizzly sow and her cubs. Funny,
most females didn’t look at him like that. Then again most predator
females were direct and rarely scared off from what they
wanted. He always knew that some of them had more interest in
his money or the hope they could breed the next big hockey star.
Some hoped he was as charming and witty as the rumor mill—
shifter sports didn’t have any media covering their every move—
had made him out to be over the years. Uh . . . he wasn’t. Charming
and witty that is. He was definitely direct, curt, and as one ex-girlfriend told him, “I used to think you were shy, which is cute.
But you’re not shy. You’re just an introvert who doesn’t really
like other human beings!” And his answer hadn’t made her any
less unhappy. “Yeah, but I told you that up front.” He had, too.
Bo was all about being direct. He liked direct. Direct cut to the
heart of the matter in seconds rather than hours of asking, “Are
you all right?” Only to get back the answer, “I’m fine.” More
than one female had left his ass because he’d taken their “I’m
fine” exactly for what it was, only to find out later that it was code
for, “I’m unhappy and it’s all your fault but you should know
that without me telling you!”
So, after several years of that constant bullshit, he’d been on
his own. He liked it that way and had had every intention of
keeping that his status quo until the day he died. Then he’d done
that thing he did every couple of years when he got an itch that
could only be scratched in one way. He’d called his agent, Bernie
Lawman, of the Lawman Clan—say what you will about hyenas
eating their young, they made phenomenal agents—and said what
he always said to the man during these calls over the years, “I’m
bored.” In less than three days, Bernie came back to Bo with offers
from nearly every major hockey team in the American league,
Russian league, and Asian league. The only team that pointedly
refused to make an offer was the Alaskan Bears and that was because
they didn’t have to offer anyone anything. The entire team
was made up of bears with two foxes as their centers. Just surviving
a game against them was considered a win. But for Bo
that was a little too easy. An entire team of bears was not exactly
a challenge unless he was playing against them. And Bo needed
challenges because when he got bored, he moved on.
Every offer involved a several-million-dollar signing bonus and
perks that full-human sports stars could only dream of. His own
seal farm was still his favorite, and he’d debated long and hard
on that one. The deals were all fabulous, and he’d narrowed it
down to the Hawaiian team—complete with his own untouched
territory in the Antarctic during his off season, so he wouldn’t
have to sit around melting in the Hawaiian weather—and the
Utah team—seal farm! While he debated, his agent had called.