The Werewolf Tycoon's Secret BabyBy: Saranna DeWylde
(The Woolven Secret Book 2)
The first thing Drew Woolven noticed about the kid outside the small artisan chocolate shop was that he had to be part demon. Kid was a complete holy terror.
His knuckles stung in remembrance of the jill-of-all-trades witch, Mrs. Westwood, who’d helped raise Drew and his brothers. If he’d even considered behaving like that kid, his knuckles would’ve been bloody for a week. Or worse, she have forced him to Change, trapped him in his wolf form and left him tied to a tree outside with only kibble and water until he learned how to behave properly.
Observing the child again, he concluded that he would’ve been on the business end of a newspaper, too. There was nothing more humiliating than being swatted with a newspaper and treated like a puppy.
Terrible little bastard. Drew shook his head.
As a matter of course, he wasn’t overly fond of the creatures in a general sense—sup or natural. He’d be pleased to play the doting uncle once Blake and Randi decided to have pups. He’d let them climb all over him, take them running, teach them how to shift, fill them up with sugar, and then send them home. He didn’t do diapers, bedtimes, or…this.
The boy had to be about five. Where was his mother? Didn’t she know kids could get snatched and terrible things could happen to them? Although, he kind of pitied anyone who snatched this kid. They’d have their hands full.
To be fair, crime was mostly non-existent in Den Hollow. The Woolvens treated the town as if all of its residents as if they were family. Not only was it the right thing to do, but a well-loved and protected community didn’t question the needs or habits of the eccentric family that provided the lifeblood of the town. Its residents were either other kinds of supes or supe friendly. Like Gin Goodwich, the genius behind Which Sweet, and the magic chocolate that made Drew the happiest of beasties.
And contrary to popular belief, she wasn’t a witch at all, but a sugar fairy. She’d fled to Den Hollow after being held captive by bone fairies, using her to rot the teeth of children and steal them in the night.
Speaking of kids, the current one attracting Drew’s attention had climbed behind the counter and was rubbing all of the champagne truffles—Drew’s favorite and reason for sponsoring the shop—into his blond hair that had sadly been cut into the shape of a bowl.
His mother should be taken to task for the hair alone.
Where was the woman?
Or, he grudgingly admitted, it was more likely the kid was out with some absent father. Mandatory time, as he’d seen with his friends in prep school. The man probably just didn’t know how to handle him and the kid himself didn’t know how to get any attention, besides the bad kind.
All in all, a bad lot. But not Drew’s fault and it wasn’t fair to deny him the champagne truffles just because of their family angst. His wolf was strangely silent. In his youth, he’d been known to bite a person who tried to get between him and his chocolate. He was relieved that he had no urge to bite the child. There were some things one just didn’t do.
A strange scent hit him. Something familiar and warm. It was at war with the shrieking of the kid as Gin separated him from his bounty with a practiced hand.
The scent reminded him of the summer he spent in Santorini. Long days on the beach, nights spent on the water under the stars, and there’d been no responsibility. Nothing for him to do except be. He’d read so many books simply for the pleasure of reading, not because his tutors told him to. He’d eaten so much lamb, if he’d had a human metabolism he’d have been fat as a suckling pig.
And there’d been a woman. Of course there’d been a woman, there was always a woman. She’d been so beautiful. He remembered her long blond hair, wavy with salt water, pale streaks bleached white by the sun, and her tan skin, her long legs and her laugh… he’d been completely captivated by her. She’d been interested him, not because he was Drew Woolven, billionaire. Or Drew Woolven, Beta to Blake. He was just Andrew Phillips, a guy she met on the beach on vacation.
She smelled like summer, honey and apples.
Goddess, every time he thought about that night when she’d tasted like honey and apples too—the beach, and the stars… He’d never met another woman like her.
That was the scent taunting him now—honey, apples and Emmie.
“God, Gin. I’m so sorry. You know how he gets.” She shook her head. “I’ll pay for everything he ate.” She sighed heavily. “Noah Phelan Anderson.”
Her tone was sharp, but calm and the boy immediately stopped struggling, hung his head and, when placed on his feet, trudged over to Emmie.