2.1 Marcus

Marcus Riviera considered himself to be a good man. At the very least, he tried to be a decent person. A life spent honing his instincts to fit in with normal human society had taught him how to ignore the auditory dissonance of information that bombarded his ears every day, and parse through the mishmash of olfactory sensations that assaulted his nose. Many times, after returning home with a splitting headache he had caught himself wishing that he was a wolf shifter and not a bear, if only to give his brain a break from the odorous overload.

In addition to that, society was far more accepting of smaller shifter types. Cats, dogs, rabbits, they all tended to get first dibs when it came to lobbying for public acceptance. Even werewolves, vicious as they could be, were the most common shifter group and were thus better able to argue from a point of statistical significance in the population. Marcus didn’t begrudge them that, but he missed his little hideaway farmhouse. The small cottage was located nice and deep in the woods; far enough away from any other humans for him to remain unseen, and looked out into a span of forestry that was perfect for running without the potential of bumping into another sapient creature.

Coming to the city had been something he’d done on a whim, just to see some friends and check up on his business. He hadn’t expected to be contracted for a job the same day he’d planned to return home. In truth, he had almost turned it down on the spot without even checking who the sender was. Only a minor stroke of luck, a quick glance down while packing his bags, had caused him to stumble and rethink his earlier decision.

The following day, Marcus had woken earlier than usual; a side-effect of falling asleep in a new place no matter how comfortable it was. The guest room smelled clean, but stale, as was expected of an enclosed space that had not been used for a while. Yet, beneath the faded scent of expensive floor-cleaner and old dust, Marcus quickly picked up a subtle hint of honey and roses. Sweet and floral, and so innocently enticing.

And inappropriate. The man pinched the bridge of his nose hard, as though by doing so he could squeeze out the molecules torturing his mind. So inappropriate. She is too young for you. And married.

Unfortunately, it didn’t work, and only landed him with a mild headache and a bruise that healed almost as soon as it appeared. He was getting pent up and worked up over this.

I really need to shift soon.

Not that there was anywhere close enough for him to transform at, save for the shifter gyms which only allowed partial transformations. That would be fine, but the place always smelled overwhelmingly of canine pheromones, sex, and whatever pointless dick measuring contest had broken out over the weight machines. It was a stench that lingered perpetually, no matter how many bottles of scentless soap were used to scrub down the walls and mats.

Still, if he couldn’t shift, then maybe a hard jog around the lawn would do the trick. After all, he would be here for a while, he figured. He might as well take advantage of all the manicured space outside while also scoping out the perimeter. The clock on his phone indicated that it was just barely past five in the morning, which gave him plenty of time to get all the adrenaline out of his system and return for a shower long before his…client woke up.

The rain had cleared up sometime during the night, leaving the ground soaked and muddy, and perfuming the air with the rich scent of petrichor. Butterflies fluttered lazily through the air and a lone bullfrog croaked at the dawning sky. The early morning wind would have chilled the skin of an ordinary person, but Marcus was aware that he would warm up soon enough. After a few cursory stretches to limber up, he took off down the stone path that bordered the trimmed grass, letting his mind wander as he moved.

Marcus had never started out with the goal of becoming a bodyguard, but after quitting the army he’d needed the money and shifters were in high demand. Why wouldn’t they be? Healing factor and enhanced reflexes aside, shifter senses were so heightened that – with minimal training – they were able to spot most threats coming a mile away. Bombs, knives, guns, none escaped his notice when he was focused.

Additionally, Marcus was a big man, and most wannabe assailants were put off by the mere presence of a shifter, let alone one that was pushing 6ft 8 and had a gun license that he barely needed to use. It was easy money for relatively little work, and very few of his clients had ever complained about his behaviour. Even if they had, Marcus wasn’t ashamed to say that he didn’t care what they thought. They were alive, and he was several thousand dollars richer. It was purely transactional and nothing else.

This was a good job. A good job that had gotten him away from the life he had been forced into after the Romaniello Family had blackmailed him into becoming nothing more than violent muscle. After the military had chewed him up and spat him out like old gristle for being a ‘traitor to the cause’. It was a good job that he was good at, and yet…

And yet…

A muscle in the side of Marcus’s neck twitched, and the man tore his eyes away from the unknowing sway of Mrs. Hardison’s – Vivienne’s – womanly hips. He had expected her to still be asleep by the time he returned from his run and had even attempted to be quiet while walking into the house. What he had found was this scene: she was standing in the pristine, open-concept kitchen, in perfect view of the front door, humming a melodious ballad cheerfully over a sizzling frying pan.

Thick hair tied up in an off-kilter ponytail that was still messy from the pillow bounced in time with the music and pops from the oil. Her pajamas weren’t overtly sexy – nothing more than an oversized grey shirt and a pair of tiny black sleep shorts – yet he couldn’t stop his eyes from gluing themselves to the triangular gap between her thighs.

Tearing his gaze away did nothing, as it almost immediately fixed upon the vulnerable nape of her neck. Unblemished skin exposed by the high ponytail she had tied her hair into, the perfect canvas for his teeth to just dig into and–

A flood of saliva filled his mouth, and Marcus gulped it down, shocked and repulsed by his own coarse behaviour. Shutting his eyes, he forced his thoughts into submission. What the hell was going on with him? He wasn’t some barely pubescent cub, high off his first shift and still tripping over his paws at the sight of a pretty face. For god’s sake, he was in his thirties!

Over the sounds of her humming, he heard the creak of the overhead cupboard, followed by the subtle clink of porcelain plates being set down on the countertop. When he glanced back Vivienne was scooping perfectly yellow scrambled eggs onto two slices of toast. With her head turned, he could see white earbuds tucked into her ears, and hear the same peppy love song playing through the tinny speakers. Ah, so that’s why she hadn’t moved or said anything; she hadn’t heard him come into the house from his jog. Or – judging from her too-revealing and too-casual clothing – perhaps she had forgotten that he was staying in the house at all.

Unintentionally, Marcus’s eyes dragged lower again, taking in the tempting expanse of her thighs and the ridiculous length of her legs. Shit, he definitely should have added a few more laps to his run. He could feel the way the beast inside him paced and growled with the urge to let loose. The way the animal sang and pleaded to be at the forefront so that he could drape himself over her body and shield her from the world.

Marcus had come close to letting it out when Mr. Hardison had yelled at his wife, and it had taken every single shred and strand of self-control he’d had in him to simply hold the man’s arm in place instead of leaping over and ripping the man’s tiny head from his stupid neck. How dare he lay anyone lay their hands on their loved one like that? Marcus could hardly fathom the reasons. Realistically, he understood the psychology behind abuse, but internally it simply made no sense. It went against every bit of shifter instinct that he’d been born with. If you loved someone, then you didn’t beat them. Harming your mate was sacrilege. It was one of the worst things one could do.