Cinder's Wolf: A Shifter Retelling of Cinderella (A BBW Shifter Fairy Tale Retelling Book 2) by Sylvia Frost Page B
Authors: Sylvia Frost
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give me a mom—”
Rex hung up before she could find another excuse for her obscene incompetence. Dropping his phone, he turned and slammed his fist into the wall. Compared to the burning of his matemark, it didn’t even hurt.
When Rex withdrew his fist, there was a claw where his pinky finger had been. He stared at it and the hole he had punched in horror. His pinky shrunk back into a finger.
What the hell was he turning into?
Maybe he should’ve told Samson the truth long ago. That he had lost his mate. That he couldn’t, no wouldn’t shift to find her. But just as Rex contemplated calling his brother, his phone pinged.
It was a number and a name, the very first one on the list in fact.
No, he could do this. Just a few moments longer.
Reagan, Christine & Lucille Miller, 1-517-392-1092
Chapter 14
Acceptable Things To Do When You’re Sad/Stressed
•Listen to Vanessa Carlton’s “White Houses.”
•Watch the first five minutes of Up (the part where the sweet old man loses his wife) over and over again.
•Stare at puddles morosely while humming “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music .
Unacceptable Things To Do When You’re Sad/Stressed
•Throw things.
•Destroy clothing.
•Call Daniel Hawthorne and scream at him that he ruined your life.
•Put restraining order from Daniel Hawthorne through paper shredder.
•Sleep with men who were designated for stepsister.
E ven in a ball gown , Cynthia felt surprisingly inconspicuous as she tapped her phone’s screen to bring up the spinning wheel logo for her favorite ride-sharing app. Seconds later a black, unmarked car slid up next to the empty valet stand of the Plaza hotel. Plenty of cars were around, and at six in the morning in Manhattan, she wasn’t the only person doing a walk of shame in black-tie attire. As she opened the door herself, she risked one last glance back at the hotel’s red-carpeted steps.
Rex wasn’t there.
“You didn’t put in an address,” a deep voice with an English accent drawled from the front seat.
Cynthia flinched at the sound.
The man in the driver’s seat was not the usual cabbie. For one, he was dressed in a tuxedo. For another, he looked vaguely familiar, with his swarthy skin and black, burning gaze. Cynthia would’ve said something, except she had long ago learned that ride-sharing was a whole new game. One time her driver had been a dancer at Julliard, still in her leotard.
Cynthia sighed and shut the door behind her. “81st and 2nd, please.”
“Not far, not far,” the driver murmured in baritone singsong, not bothering to enter the address as he pulled into traffic. His voice was undeniably sensual, although it made the hairs on the back of Cynthia’s neck stand up on end. Or maybe that was just her impending hangover.
Cynthia pressed her head into her hands, trying to soothe the throbbing at her temples. “Shit.”
“Difficult night, princess?”
“What?” Cynthia started at the nickname, eyes wide.
“I asked if you were all right.”
Cynthia slunk back down into the leather seat. “Yeah, fine.”
Sighing, she put her open palm against the window. The glass was cool on her fingertips, a welcome respite from the feverish pain running up her leg. She really did have to go the doctor to get that mark checked out.
“Seems like you came from a rather fancy party? Didn’t go as planned?”
“Nope, this was the plan.” Cynthia shrugged blankly and stared at the edges of Central Park as they sped up 5th Avenue. In the purple light of dawn, the trees seemed taller, more twisted, tiny green sprouts just beginning to pop from their mahogany bark. The touristy souvenir carts were just rolling up.
She was tempted to tell the driver to turn around so she could run back into Rex’s arms. He was such a heavy sleeper that he hadn’t noticed her leave. He probably wouldn’t notice if she came back either.
But no.
Rex was dangerous.
Cynthia knew she was only one step away from
Rex hung up before she could find another excuse for her obscene incompetence. Dropping his phone, he turned and slammed his fist into the wall. Compared to the burning of his matemark, it didn’t even hurt.
When Rex withdrew his fist, there was a claw where his pinky finger had been. He stared at it and the hole he had punched in horror. His pinky shrunk back into a finger.
What the hell was he turning into?
Maybe he should’ve told Samson the truth long ago. That he had lost his mate. That he couldn’t, no wouldn’t shift to find her. But just as Rex contemplated calling his brother, his phone pinged.
It was a number and a name, the very first one on the list in fact.
No, he could do this. Just a few moments longer.
Reagan, Christine & Lucille Miller, 1-517-392-1092
Chapter 14
Acceptable Things To Do When You’re Sad/Stressed
•Listen to Vanessa Carlton’s “White Houses.”
•Watch the first five minutes of Up (the part where the sweet old man loses his wife) over and over again.
•Stare at puddles morosely while humming “My Favorite Things” from The Sound of Music .
Unacceptable Things To Do When You’re Sad/Stressed
•Throw things.
•Destroy clothing.
•Call Daniel Hawthorne and scream at him that he ruined your life.
•Put restraining order from Daniel Hawthorne through paper shredder.
•Sleep with men who were designated for stepsister.
E ven in a ball gown , Cynthia felt surprisingly inconspicuous as she tapped her phone’s screen to bring up the spinning wheel logo for her favorite ride-sharing app. Seconds later a black, unmarked car slid up next to the empty valet stand of the Plaza hotel. Plenty of cars were around, and at six in the morning in Manhattan, she wasn’t the only person doing a walk of shame in black-tie attire. As she opened the door herself, she risked one last glance back at the hotel’s red-carpeted steps.
Rex wasn’t there.
“You didn’t put in an address,” a deep voice with an English accent drawled from the front seat.
Cynthia flinched at the sound.
The man in the driver’s seat was not the usual cabbie. For one, he was dressed in a tuxedo. For another, he looked vaguely familiar, with his swarthy skin and black, burning gaze. Cynthia would’ve said something, except she had long ago learned that ride-sharing was a whole new game. One time her driver had been a dancer at Julliard, still in her leotard.
Cynthia sighed and shut the door behind her. “81st and 2nd, please.”
“Not far, not far,” the driver murmured in baritone singsong, not bothering to enter the address as he pulled into traffic. His voice was undeniably sensual, although it made the hairs on the back of Cynthia’s neck stand up on end. Or maybe that was just her impending hangover.
Cynthia pressed her head into her hands, trying to soothe the throbbing at her temples. “Shit.”
“Difficult night, princess?”
“What?” Cynthia started at the nickname, eyes wide.
“I asked if you were all right.”
Cynthia slunk back down into the leather seat. “Yeah, fine.”
Sighing, she put her open palm against the window. The glass was cool on her fingertips, a welcome respite from the feverish pain running up her leg. She really did have to go the doctor to get that mark checked out.
“Seems like you came from a rather fancy party? Didn’t go as planned?”
“Nope, this was the plan.” Cynthia shrugged blankly and stared at the edges of Central Park as they sped up 5th Avenue. In the purple light of dawn, the trees seemed taller, more twisted, tiny green sprouts just beginning to pop from their mahogany bark. The touristy souvenir carts were just rolling up.
She was tempted to tell the driver to turn around so she could run back into Rex’s arms. He was such a heavy sleeper that he hadn’t noticed her leave. He probably wouldn’t notice if she came back either.
But no.
Rex was dangerous.
Cynthia knew she was only one step away from
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