Be My Swan Read online

  Table of Contents

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Epilogue

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Contents

  Dragon’s Oath

  Chapter One

  Chapter Two

  Chapter Three

  Chapter Four

  Chapter Five

  Chapter Six

  Chapter Seven

  Chapter Eight

  Chapter Nine

  Chapter Ten

  Chapter Eleven

  Chapter Twelve

  Chapter Thirteen

  Epilogue

  Author

  Readers!

  More shifters!

  Red: Into the Dark

  Prologue

  1.

  Be My Swan

  Sophie Stern

  Copyright © 2018 by Sophie Stern

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Malcolm is a shifter living on the edge of Perfection. The little town isn't big enough for someone like him, and with so many prying eyes, he prefers to keep to himself. His life is fine, ordinary, complete. Then Cordelia moves in next door and everything changes.

  The swan shifter is everything he wants in a mate and so much more. She's sweet, smart, funny, and scared. Cordelia is the most skittish, terrified shifter he's ever met, and he plans to find out why.

  She's his mate, after all.

  He'll do whatever it takes to make her his.

  He'll do whatever it takes to save her.

  This is a sweet, Valentine's Day paranormal romance with no cheating and a guaranteed HEA! If you enjoyed Dragon Isle, Honeypot Babies, and Honeypot Darlings, you'll love BE MY SWAN.

  Chapter One

  Malcolm

  The sun sets every day.

  People think it’s this big, romantic gesture, but it’s not. Not to me, anyway. To me, it’s just a sign that I haven’t finished everything I need to do yet. To me, it signals that I’m behind on yet another project, behind on another thing I need to complete. The sun setting just means I’ve failed again and right now I’m tired of failing.

  Still, I sit on my porch every night and watch that sun set. I can’t explain why I torture myself this way. Maybe it’s because I haven’t been the same since Lindsey died. Maybe it’s because I haven’t really properly grieved for her. I should be okay with death at this point in my life. I’m 27 now. I’m old enough to know better. I’m old enough to understand that part of loving someone means letting them go when it’s time to say goodbye.

  But I can’t.

  Tonight is the worst it’s ever been. I won’t let myself cry out here in public, out where my neighbors could see if they were paying any attention to me. They aren’t, which is good. I still don’t want to cry, though.

  It’s been a year since she died.

  It’s been a year and somehow it seems like it’s been both an eternity and no time at all. When I close my eyes, I can still hear her laughing. I can still hear her giggling and running and being silly. I can still hear her whispering my name.

  “Excuse me,” a quiet voice says, and I open my eyes and jump to my feet.

  “What the hell are you doing on my porch?” I growl at the intruder.

  “I’m sorry,” she says quickly. She. It’s a woman. She’s tiny: petite, and her hair is pulled back in a ponytail. “I was just going to ask if I could borrow a flashlight. I didn’t mean to intrude. I’m sorry,” she says again, and then she turns to leave.

  Fuck.

  Me.

  I was so absorbed in my thoughts and my own misery and pain that I was rude to someone who was simply stopping by for help.

  “Hang on,” I tell her. “I’ve got one inside.”

  “Thanks,” she says, but her voice is quiet now and I know she wishes I would have just let her leave. After my outburst, I don’t blame her. Still, I don’t want to be known as the neighborhood asshole. I dart inside, grab the flashlight I keep by the door, and come back out.

  “Here,” I hand it to her.

  She takes it and nods. “I’ll bring it back as soon as I’m done.” She turns to leave, but once more, I stop her.

  “You’re new around here, aren’t you?”

  “Yeah,” she says slowly. Then she jerks her head toward the run-down two-story house next door: the one that’s been abandoned for five years. “I just moved in this morning.”

  I didn’t notice because I was at work. There was a rumor that the house had sold, but until now, I didn’t really believe it. I look over at the house. There’s no car in the driveway and there are no lights on inside. No wonder I didn’t notice anyone was living there.

  “I’m Malcolm,” I tell her. “Nice to meet you.”

  She hesitates, but then she almost whispers her name.

  “Cordelia.”

  “Are your lights out?” I ask.

  “Yeah,” she says slowly. “I didn’t notice earlier because, well, it was daytime, but now with the sun setting…” Her voice trails off.

  “Might be a problem with your electrical box,” I say. “The house was empty for a long time.”

  “That’s what my realtor told me,” she agrees. “I’m going to try to mess with it and see if I can get it figured out. If not,” she shrugs. “I guess I’ll call someone tomorrow. Not that I want strangers roaming around my house,” she adds, but that part is almost a whisper. She seems nervous and anxious. It’s just her electricity. There’s nothing to be afraid about. Suddenly wanting to make up the fact that I was a jerk to her, I spontaneously offer to help.

  “I could take a look if you want me to.”

  “No thanks,” she says quickly. Too quickly.

  I raise an eyebrow.

  “It’s just that,” she says, pausing. I know she’s trying to figure out the best way to word this without sounding mean or harsh. “I don’t know you,” she finally says. “I appreciate the offer, but I…I don’t know you.”

  Then she turns and leaves. She scurries up the steps to her front porch, pauses at the door, and takes a deep breath. She doesn’t turn and look at me. Not once. Instead, she opens the door with a tug and goes inside. After a minute, I see the flashlight shining randomly through the windows.

  Interesting.

  My new neighbor is going to be an interesting one.

  “Met the new girl, did ya?” Harold, the older shifter who lives next door, appears at the bottom of my steps.

  “What is this, ‘Visit Malcolm Day’?”

  “Don’t be fussy,” Harold climbs my steps slowly with the help of his cane. I don’t move to help him up. He’s much too proud for that sort of thing, and we both know it. Instead, I scoot over just a little so he can join me on the porch swing. He sits carefully and we both stare at the setting sun for a few minutes.

  “Met her this afternoon, did you?” I ask finally. I shouldn’t be curious about her. I have a good life. I have a quiet life and I really don’t need a woman running around in it. Women make things messy. I don’t need messy right now. I need stable.

  I need quiet.

  I need to be alone while I sort out my life.

  “I did,” Harold says. “She’s quite the sprightly little thing. A bit skittish, too, if you don’t mind me saying.”

  “Skittish? Seems like a strange word to describe a young woman. What do
es someone like her have to be afraid of?”

  “Never know,” Harold shrugs, glancing over at the house. “Must be something bad for her to move into a place like that.”

  “The house isn’t that bad,” I murmur, but Harold shoots me a look that says we both know I’m lying. The house the girl bought is in complete disrepair. It’s falling apart and if she hadn’t purchased it, chances are the city would have condemned it soon enough.

  “She’ll be safe here,” Harold says quietly, and I know what he’s thinking. Everyone on this street is a shifter. Oh, we don’t advertise it. That’s the sort of thing you don’t want too many people knowing about, but shifters? We look after our own, and Cordelia is definitely one of us.

  Chapter Two

  Cordelia

  “Fuck you,” I say to the old house.

  As far as I can tell, it doesn’t give a shit that I hate it.

  “This fucking place,” I grumble, swinging the flashlight around. I shouldn’t. I know that. I should be focusing on staying as invisible as possible. The light could shine out the front window and then people would know the house is inhabited, but then, I kind of already messed that up when I met Harold this afternoon: the old wolf-shifter who lives two houses down.

  And then there’s the guy who lives next door.

  Malcolm.

  The sexy, cut, too-hot-for-his-own-good Malcolm.

  He’s a shifter, too.

  I shouldn’t be okay with that, with him, with them. I shouldn’t be okay with any of them. I should be frightened knowing that two people now know that I live here and what my name – my real name – is.

  I’m not, though.

  I’m scared of a lot of fucking things, but I’m not scared of them. I can’t really explain it, and it doesn’t really make sense. All I know is that when I’m around other shifters, I feel a certain peace. Somehow, I know that they’re going to look out for me just as I will look out for them.

  Is this what it means to belong to a pack?

  To a family?

  Is this what it means to have someone?

  Shaking the sappy thoughts from my head, I move throughout the house. It’s dusty and dirty. No one has lived here in years and as far as I know, I was this poor house’s last chance. If I hadn’t snatched it up, it would have been torn down.

  And soon.

  Couldn’t let that happen.

  As soon as I laid eyes on the kitchen, I was sold. Then again, it helped that the house was dirt fucking cheap and in the middle of nowhere. I’m not going to be bothered here. I’m not going to be fucking hunted for sport here.

  Nope.

  Here in Perfection, I can just be me. I can work and sit on my porch and just enjoy being by myself.

  That sounds lonely.

  My inner swan whispers to me a lot. I try to ignore her, but I can’t always manage it.

  We need to find someone.

  I know she’s right. We need someone to connect with, someone to love. My mother always told me stories of true mates and people falling in love, but that was a long time ago. That was before the cancer. That was before I was sent into foster care. That was before I found out that being a shifter isn’t always a good thing.

  My mother warned me before she died that I might need to hide my identity. She told me to guard it closely as a careful secret.

  Not everyone understands what it’s like to be special, Cordelia. Not everyone views it as a gift.

  How right she was.

  Years went by and nothing bad happened. No one chased me. No one caught me. There was just nothing. Eventually, I stopped being careful. I stopped hiding as much. I stopped worrying.

  And that was my mistake.

  I should have been worrying.

  I should have been watching.

  I should have been waiting.

  I should have known that sooner or later, someone would discover my secret, and they would want to hurt me.

  Mother knew. She tried to protect us.

  My mother has been dead for a long time, though, and there’s only so much she can do from the grave. Her memory fills me with hope most of the time, and sometimes, when I think of her, I feel so brave I could burst.

  Right now, though?

  Right now I’m scared because I don’t know if I’m going to make it out of this one alive. I don’t know if everything is actually going to be okay this time. I just don’t know. Trish and Frank…they’re a long way away. They’re far, and the chances of them finding me here of all places…well, the chances are slim.

  And I like to take my chances.

  I can’t live holed up forever, I tell myself. Eventually, I’m going to have to go outside again. I’m going to have to interact with people again. I’m going to have to get active and brave and wild again, but right now I need some time to nurse my wounds and feel sorry for myself.

  And I need to get my fucking power to work.

  I know the utilities are turned on because I did that earlier today. The woman at the city office assured me that everyone would be turned on by 5:00. Well, that time has come and gone and they still aren’t working, so maybe something really is wrong with the house.

  My super-hot neighbor’s flashlight is much brighter than I thought it would be. I have a clear view of my entire living room and the dust that flutters in the air.

  “Note to self,” I say out loud. “Clean every-fucking-thing tomorrow.”

  I make my way through the house looking for the fuse box. It’s got to be around here somewhere. This is one of those things I probably should have noted when I first toured the house, but no, I was too caught up in adoring the kitchen cabinets and the woodwork on the built-in China cabinet to notice any of that.

  The kitchen is a dead end, as is the pantry, the first-floor bathroom, and the office. I want to go upstairs and say fuck it and climb into bed, but that would be much too simple. Besides, I’ve never been one to give up on a challenge before and if this isn’t a challenge, well, I don’t know what is.

  I carefully peruse the rest of the first floor, but I can’t find what I’m looking for. Sigh. Why don’t houses come with an owner’s manual? Soon the only place left to check is the dusty old basement, and there’s no way I’m okay with that.

  Am I a bit of a sissy?

  Maybe.

  Do I care about that right now?

  Not so much.

  I’m not embarrassed because I’m too busy being afraid.

  Afraid of the dark, like a little kid.

  My inner-self whispers to me, begging me to be brave, reminding me of how far we’ve come.

  We’ve overcome so much. Is this really what you want to take us down? A basement? After all we’ve done, this can’t be the end of us. A basement can’t be what destroys us.

  “No,” I say aloud. “Not this. Not a stupid basement. Not a dusty basement.” I kick the basement door. “Not a fucking basement.”

  Then I open the door and take a deep breath.

  “This is it, Cordelia,” I say. “You can do this.”

  The stairs creak as I make my way down them. They’re so terribly old I fear they might crack beneath my weight. I swing the flashlight back and forth as I move down the stairs. The light illuminates piles of boxes that have long been forgotten, a dusty old couch, and a round throw rug that’s definitely infested with mold: probably dust mites, too.

  I reach the bottom of the stairs. There’s a chill in the air, but I fight the urge to wrap my arms around myself and run back up to the perceived safety of the first floor. Nope. Today is all about being brave. Today is all about being bold. My life was almost taken from me, but now I’m taking it back.

  I’m reclaiming my life and my future and my hope.

  Today is for me.

  I spot the fuse box in the corner. It’s dusty and covered in cobwebs, but it’s there. Good. Okay. I can do this.

  We can do anything, my inner-swan whispers, and I breathe a sigh of relief. When I first started hearing
her, talking to her, I felt like I was going crazy. I thought it was nuts. Now, though, her words wrap around me like a comfortable blanket of understanding.

  Most shifters don’t really develop the ability to shift or to communicate with their inner-animal until they’re past puberty. For me, I was closer to 15 when I first started hearing her. Definitely a late bloomer in every sense of the way, I didn’t let it bother me. I was just happy to have someone who understood me, someone I could talk to.

  I was just happy to know I really could shift, that I wasn’t defective.

  I move toward the fuse box and take another deep breath. I shine the flashlight around the room once more. There’s no one here. Nobody is lurking in the basement. I don’t even see any spiders. Yeah, there are cobwebs, but that doesn’t mean anything. They could be old. Those spiders could have moved on.

  The door to the fuse box sticks for a minute, but finally swings open and I stare at it for a second. Okay, so I’m not really sure how this thing works. I probably should have let hottie-the-shifter help me, but whatever. I reach out and flick every switch to the opposite side. Then I switch them back.

  I look around, but nothing happens, so I close the box and head back upstairs. When I reach the top of the staircase, I flick the basement light switch on and the entire room is filled with light.

  We did it, my swan whispers.

  “That’s right,” I say, and a sense of pride and accomplishment fills me.

  We did it.

  If we did this, then we can do anything, and maybe everything really is going to be all right.

  Chapter Three

  Malcolm

  When I see the lights flicker on in Cordelia’s home, I finally go inside my house and close the door. I should lock it, but I don’t bother. I live in Perfection for a reason, and that reason is that this town is ridiculously safe. The last time there was a break-in was…well, never. There’s never been a break-in in this town that I know of, so that’s saying something.