Monsters Before Men, page 1
Monsters Before Men
A beastly Paranormal Romance Anthology
© 2022 Reticent Desire Publications
ALL RIGHTS RESERVED
No part of this book or the images contained herein may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without prior written consent of the author. This includes electronic or mechanical transmission, photocopying, recording, information retrieval systems, or storage.
This book is a work of fiction and is intended for adults only. Some scenes may contain explicit material that could make some readers uncomfortable.
Any names, businesses, places, or events used in this work are fictional. Any similarities to living or dead people, incidents, companies, products, or organizations are purely coincidental.
Table of Contents
The Satyr’s Sin
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
About Ophelia Bell
Myra’s Monster
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
About Leslie Chase
Rutted by the Raptor
Dedication
Chapter 1
About V.T. Bonds
Monster’s Prey
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
About Leann Ryans
Demon by Night
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Epilogue
About Godiva Glen
Abducted
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
About the Cass Alex
The Orc In My Closet
Intro
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
About Cara Wylde
The Tiger and the Swan
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
About Cassie Alexander
Full Moon Heat
Intro
Prologue
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About Chloe Parker
The Governess and the Wolf
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
About Hannah Haze
Wild Berry Wine
Intro
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
About Layla Fae
The Naga's Faerie Mate
Intro
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
About Elizabeth Austin
The Boon
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
About Jocelyn Montana
Reticent Desire Publications
The Satyr’s Sin
by
Ophelia Bell
Chapter 1
Nemea
“Do muses only come to writers or do artists have them too? If artists get them, mine needs to be fired.” My blank sketchbook taunts me with its utter absence of any inspiration, the white paper as blank as my head.
Audra chuckles from the next bench over. “Trouble coming up with ideas, Nem?”
“I have the exact opposite of any sort of spark. How do you do it?”
I look up from the evidence of my failure as an artist. As usual, for this week’s assignment in our precious metals class, Audra’s nearly complete and it’s only Tuesday. An elaborate jeweled collar, made of precious stones and platinum. An ornament befitting a deity, which was the theme of our assignment.
“Contrary to appearances, I have dry spells. This assignment just happened to speak to me on a deep level.”
I eye the sparkling creation on her bench, watching as she attaches a clasp, then lifts it to her neck to check the size. When she pushes her hair back, she reveals a deep purple bruise right over the pulse point at the side of her throat. I narrow my eyes.
“I see,” I say with a knowing nod. “So the trick to inspiration is getting laid on the regular, huh?”
She reddens, and I smirk. When I catch her surreptitious glance toward the front of the studio, I turn, eyes widening when none other than our teacher smiles back at her, then rises to come toward her bench.
I gape when Steven, our beefy, plaid-shirted ursa teacher, reaches Audra’s bench and leans into her personal space to inspect the ornamentation now circling her throat. His green eyes reflect the emeralds she spent all morning painstakingly securing in each small, leaf-shaped setting. I don’t need to know how to read auras to feel the raw sexual energy sparking between them.
“Beautiful work, Audra,” he says in his growly voice. Her eyelashes flutter and her flush deepens.
I lift one eyebrow as I glance between the pair, locked in a stare that says everything about how she got that hickey.
“Get a room,” I mutter, before turning back to my work.
I tap the tip of my pencil on the edge of the pad and force myself to sketch, trying to ignore the exchange going on behind me and kick-start my creative gears into motion. The conversation is all about Audra’s technique, but the whole undertone of desire is frankly distracting. I haven’t had sex in too long, and it’s hard not to notice all the banging going on around me. Not literally in this room, thank fuck, but there are signs more obvious than Audra’s love bite. There’s also a common rumor that the real reason members of the Bloodline come to this art school, consciously or not, is to find mates. Me, I’m here to learn what flavor of elemental powers I possess. I don’t need a mate. I need to understand why I’ve been an outcast most of my life.
The St. George School of Art is a haven for students like me. All of us are hybrid humans who carry higher race’s blood, with a strong potential for magical abilities, if we can harness those latent talents. Since each higher race possesses power over a single element, those of us with strong bloodlines from any race can manifest that power to a degree.
Dragon blood carries power over fire, ursa blood over the earth and metals, turul over the air, and nymphaea over water. The founder of this school, April Vincent, discovered this in the process of her glassblowing and metal-sculpting work. She possesses a mix of ursa and dragon blood, which is why her glass and metal sculptures are so breathtaking—and loaded with magic.
For some of us, like Audra, our talent appears quickly, the second we touch the element we’re most attuned to. She’s got ursa blood, and a lot, it seems, judging from the way Steven hovers. It hits me that Steven has a boyfriend… another ursa male who teaches one of the pottery classes. Does that mean Audra’s banging both of them? Shit, I don’t need to let my mind wander down that path.
Before I realize what I’ve done, I’m looking at a photorealistic sketch of an enormous erect dick.
“Argh! This isn’t working!” I slam my pad down and bury my face in my hands.
“What seems to be the problem, Nemea?” Steven says in a gentle tone that somehow calms me. He rests a hand on my shoulder and nudges the corner of my sketchpad. I press down on it, but he wrests it from beneath my elbows.
It’s my turn to blush when his eyebrows lift and his lips twitch.
“I see,” he says. “Don’t give up hope—believe it or not, this actually fits the brief. Did you know the phallus was a popular ornament in ancient times? Fertility-focused jewelry was quite common. Also, consider adding a dance class to your schedule if this was the first thing that came to you. You might have nymphaea blood, and their magic manifests most easily through performance art.”
“Why can’t there be a quick and easy test to find out what mix of Bloodlines I have?” I ask. “I’m happy to donate blood if it means finding out what I should focus on.”
Steven gives a sympathetic look, but shakes his head. “Only a god could tell you for certain.”
He says it as if I should know. I blink, drop my jaw to speak, then stop and clear my t
“So I need to find a god to get answers. Any tips on how I do that?”
He tilts his chin toward my penis sketch. “Fashion the right offering, and you might lure one to the mortal realm to tell you. Be careful because not all gods are benevolent.”
My eyebrows shoot up because I realize he isn’t joking. “Tell me more.” I lean toward him, propping my chin on my palm. “About luring gods, I mean, not about whether or not they’re benevolent. I just really need to know what element I’m supposed to be attuned to.”
He chuckles. “If you’re short on magic, you’ll need material that’s infused with power. Most precious stones possess their own power. Audra’s emeralds, for example, can call to Gaia or another fertility god or goddess without additional magic. Materials found in nature have traces of elemental magic. A bird’s feather, a seashell, even a chunk of granite, if presented pleasingly. And don’t discount the power you have already imbued into this sketch. You wouldn’t have been accepted to St. George if you didn’t have the potential. It’s inside you. Use it near the god’s chosen element and they may hear your call.”
I thank him absently then resume my sketch, as the image of the creature the phallus belongs to materializes. Not a man, but a god. I have no idea if he’s an actual god or not, but this is just practice.
By the time class ends, I have the most unconventional idea for a piece of jewelry. Not something that depicts a dick, but something to be worn by one. The idea both elates and terrifies me. Creativity has been painfully lacking since I came to St. George and this is the first time I’ve felt excited about a project in the two weeks since I arrived. Does it mean I have ursa blood, since my idea requires working with metal and precious stones? I could just as easily craft the thing from glass, which is more of a dragon-blood medium.
I’m so excited, I carry the sketchbook to the dining hall and continue working through dinner. I flip to a fresh page, sketch the outline of the item, and picture the appendage it will adorn. Audra sits across from me, along with two of our classmates from another studio.
Rachel says under her breath, “So, Aud, are you going to spill? Were you with both of them or just Steven? What’s sex with an ursa like?”
“God, Rachel, can we not do this while we eat?” Shawn says.
“You know if she were banging a turul you’d be asking the questions,” Rachel says.
I glance up to see Shawn shrug and grin as he takes a bite of his dinner roll. He winks at me, and I roll my eyes back to my sketch.
“I’m feeling some dragon love, too,” Shawn says. “I made a blown-glass flute today. We’ll see if it actually makes music.”
“Too bad there aren’t any single dragons at the school,” Rachel says, gaze drifting across the hall to the table where four of the resident dragon shifters sit, chatting. They’re all spoken for, but that doesn’t stop us from speculating.
“I heard dragons can heal wounds if they absorb sexual energy,” Shawn says. “And sometimes they use their own sexual energy to heal an injured partner. Handy if they like it rough.”
“They should totally have Higher Races Sex Ed, don’t you think?” Rachel suggests. “All of them are so… special… in that way.”
“How are the turul sexually special?” Audra asks. “I thought their thing was just singing… and having their one true mate who they know the moment they set eyes on them. There isn’t anything particularly sexual about that.”
“No, but they’re rumored to have epic skills in the bedroom. They control the weather. Lightning, thunder, wind, and rain…” Shawn gets a dreamy look, as if he’d happily chain himself to the pier in a storm just to find a mate.
“What about you, Nem?” Rachel asks. “Which one speaks to you the most? Kinky nymphaea? Sex battery dragons? Let me guess…”
She turns to face me and I shift uncomfortably as her stare intensifies. She’s positive she has dragon blood, so she’s been practicing her dragon sight, which allows them to see auras. After a minute, she frowns and tilts her head.
“What is it?” My stomach clenches at the odd look on her face.
“I must be doing it wrong. All I get is static and weird, broken light. You looked like a Picasso, like you were made of angular shards. Read nothing into it. My eyes aren’t used to looking at people that way yet.” She pats my arm, but seems disconcerted.
It leaves me even more off balance than I was before I came up with what I thought was the best idea ever. My idea feels ridiculous now because I’m still clueless about which medium I should use. I excuse myself, dump my leftovers in the trash and stack my plate for the dishwashers, then head outside, ready to put as much distance between myself and this school as I can.
Chapter 2
Nemea
There aren’t that many places to go, being on an island in the middle of Puget Sound. But it’s a summer evening and stays light past 9pm this time of year, so I wander for a while. Paths wind through the dense woods thick with scent. Cedar, pine, and moist, loamy earth. Ocean sounds are never far, but despite the solitude and idyllic scene, I can’t chill out. What if I never find out what I am?
When I first arrived, I took the assessment they give all new students. It was inconclusive. I thought they’d kick me out that day, but April Vincent and her six mates all insisted that if anyone even makes it to this island, we’re meant to be here. Something to do with a magical forcefield of Fate magic that keeps out anyone who doesn’t belong.
I’ve soon wandered to the edge of the water on the western side of the island. The sun burns red, casting the sky in fiery hues. Vancouver Island’s trees a few miles offshore are silhouetted beautifully and I’m tempted to stop and sketch, but can’t bring myself to bother. I’m not feeling an awe for the scenery like my first night here. If it won’t spark some deeper understanding about my nature, what’s the point?
I turn away from the sun and aim for a creek that runs downhill over mossy rocks into the sound. Red-orange light glints from within the shadows of the forest and I squint. The sunset is behind me, so what the hell is that?
Heading for it, I find a neglected path that runs along the bank of the creek. The barely visible yet unmistakable path leads up a hill to a small clearing where a quaint, run-down cabin peeks out at the sunset, its windows reflecting sanguine light.
“Rad,” I murmur, excitement overcoming my gloom. I study it, then pull out my phone to snap a photo.
The light is fading fast, but the day is at its most magical right now, with the sunset gilding the fine mist that permeates the air everywhere on this island. My camera can’t quite do it justice, but I can fill in the details from memory later. My preferred style isn’t exactly what you’d call representational, though. I’m more of an abstract expressionist. At least that’s how I describe my art in the imaginary interviews I have in my head. Interviews that take place during art shows I’ve never had with art I’ve never finished.
In those fantasies, I never quite picture the art itself. Sometimes I see paintings, sometimes mixed-media sculptures. Sometimes I’m sweaty from performing interpretive dance. Most often, the only thing on the walls in my imaginary gallery are lights and shadows, ephemeral paintings created by my careful placement of objects hung from the ceiling. Their permanence is as fleeting as my grasp on my own desires.
But this little cabin looks like the perfect place for me to figure it out. I stow my phone and tread the flagstone steps to a wide porch, railed with knobby tree branches. I have to kick an abundance of leaves away from the door before trying the knob. It isn’t locked, and when I push it open, I’m awash in sage with a tinge of must.
Not surprising. The cabin’s interior is a snapshot of another era. The furniture all appears handmade, from carved wooden chairs to the nubby woolen blanket draped over an overstuffed sofa, one half of which has stuffing pouring out of it and clear signs of some rodent having nested in its guts. There are no electric lights—only several oil lamps in wall sconces, with more on the table near the window of the main room and on the mantel of the stone fireplace.
I wander through, shivering in the chill interior. The main room contains a small kitchen with a basin carved into the stone counter, a drainpipe heading out to the creek. There’s no faucet, but the kitchen window has the perfect view of the sound through a gap in the trees. The sun has almost disappeared, but the remaining light still flickers on the waves. I glance at the nearest lamp beside the kitchen window and fish into my pocket for a lighter. I have to hold the flame to the wick for several seconds before it finally catches, flaming up bright and hot, then diminishing to a warm flicker when I replace the globe and crank it down just enough to light the space.
