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  Alpha Knight

  Renee Rose

  Burning Desires

  Copyright © February 2020 Alpha Knight by Renee Rose

  All rights reserved. This copy is intended for the original purchaser of this book ONLY. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any printed or electronic form without prior written permission from the author. Please do not participate in or encourage piracy of copyrighted materials in violation of the author’s rights. Purchase only authorized editions.

  Published in the United States of America

  Renee Rose Romance

  Editor: Simone Elise

  This book is a work of fiction. While reference might be made to actual historical events or existing locations, the names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imaginations or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  This book contains descriptions of many BDSM and sexual practices, but this is a work of fiction and, as such, should not be used in any way as a guide. The author and publisher will not be responsible for any loss, harm, injury, or death resulting from use of the information contained within. In other words, don’t try this at home, folks!

  Contents

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  Prologue

  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

  Epilogue

  Acknowledgments

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  Other Titles by Renee Rose

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  Prologue

  Bo

  On the day everything goes to shit, you don’t wake up thinking, Today my whole life changes.

  It wasn’t like that the day the two service members showed up at our door when I was eight to give my mom the news Dad’s helicopter got shot down in Yemen. And it wasn’t like that today.

  Today was like any day. I woke up, showered, went to school, stayed after for football practice, same as ever.

  I never expected the screech of tires as Sheriff Gleason skids to a stop in the parking lot by the field. Didn’t foresee him marching out with his hands on his hips like he’s about to arrest one of us.

  Coach Jamison jogs over to meet him on the edge, his body rigid with alert.

  And then they both turn their heads and look at me.

  “Fenton!” Coach’s voice booms. His alpha wolf authority ripples through me, all the way to my shoes.

  Fuck.

  What did I do?

  I whip off my helmet and stalk over like I’m pissed about the interruption, but it’s just my wolf rearing up to face perceived danger. There’s no flight in the fight or flight for an alpha male—especially not in a teen wolf who doesn’t always have aggression under control.

  “Get it the car,” Sheriff Gleason snarls.

  “Why?” I demand.

  Coach’s hand drops on my nape, above the shoulder pads. His fingers tighten in warning. If it were anyone else, I’d already have him on his fucking back, but Coach is like a god to us. A better father figure than most of us have and always, always in our corner.

  I turn to look at him searchingly.

  “It’s Winslow,” he says because he’s not a dick like the sheriff, keeping me in the dark.

  Winslow—my older brother.

  “Fuck.”

  Coach doesn’t call me on the language violation, which tells me this is as bad as I’m thinking.

  And then I know exactly what it’s about.

  Or at least I think I do.

  Because I saw this shit coming way back when it started.

  The only question is, what do they want from me?

  Chapter 1

  Six Weeks Earlier

  Sloane

  Stealing the 2016 Porsche 911 is the easy part. At least it’s the fun part. This is only my second car theft, but I think I have a real gift for it.

  I’m dressed as daddy’s spoiled princess in a pair of Rag & Bone skinny jeans with wedge heels and a Balmain cropped tee. All remnants of my past life, when I really was daddy’s spoiled princess. When stealing a car meant lifting a pair of keys out of my dad’s lock box and choosing one of the twelve sports cars in his garage.

  My hair is pulled up in a twist, and I have a khaki rhinestone ball cap pulled over my eyes to hide my face. Anyone who glances over in this crowded parking lot will see someone who matches the car.

  It’s just a matter of finding the right make and model in a location without camera surveillance. I’ve been walking around the Scottsdale mall parking lot for days now, dodging cameras and mall cops.

  Finally, I spot one. A blue Porsche 911 Carrera 4 GTS, and it looks to be full leather interior. MSRP can range from 100k to 200k depending on the engine and gadgets inside. I know because my father had one just like it sitting in our garage before... before the fall. Before everything went to shit. Before I had to learn how to poach pretty cars out of mall parking lots.

  In theory, ordinary cars are best—the kind that blend in. But I don’t have the luxury of time or lower risk. I’m on a payment schedule with dangerous people, and the Porsche will bring in big bucks.

  So the Porsche it is. I already bought a totalled version at the salvage yard, so I have a salvage title. Now all I have to do is swap some parts out, including the VIN, and retitle this baby to sell.

  Unfortunately, that means trusting a chop shop to do the swapping and cutting them in on half the proceeds because I don’t have the skills.

  Yet.

  I plan to learn. In fact, I think I’ll see if the guy can teach me on this one, so the next car I can do on my own.

  I walk up to the car like I own the place. Like I own the Porsche, I mean.

  Like I own the house and job or father or husband that match this car. It’s a role I know intimately. Lived my whole life. Entitled. Cosseted. Spoiled.

  Daddy’s little girl has fallen far from grace.

  My device does its work, and the locks pop. Another few seconds and the car revs, and then I’m driving wild and free.

  Out of the parking lot. Onto the highway.

  Up to Wolf Ridge, the weird-ass community just past Cave Hills.

  Right where I landed when my dad went to jail.

  * * *

  Bo

  I ride my 1984 Triumph to the shop after football practice because we’ve been slammed, and my brother and uncle need me around more than just on the weekends.

  Plus, my best friend Cole’s been no-showing for work lately. I don’t know what the fuck his problem is, but I’m not gonna bust his balls considering the shit he’s been dealing with at home this semester.

  I’m starving, which makes me cranky as hell.

  But I forget all about the hunger because… hot damn.

  The first thing I see is her ass. Fuck-hot-amazing ass in tight jeans that show every curve of her muscular cheeks. And looooong fucking legs punctated by platform heels that lift everything.

  I give a silent hooty-hoo whistle in my head in appreciation.


  She’s leaning over the engine of an electric blue 2016 Porsche. My brother Winslow is beside her, pointing something out.

  At first, I assume she’s a shifter, like most everyone in Wolf Ridge and try to figure out who she can be.

  Then I catch her scent.

  Human.

  Human who should’ve been a shifter. Because she’s built like a she-wolf. Tall. Big-boned. Sturdy, athletic. She didn’t get those lean muscular legs lying around on her bed playing on her phone.

  No, she works for them.

  And—holy hell—when she lifts her torso and turns, my dick gets hard. Because she’s young. Maybe my age. And beautiful. Caramel-colored hair with reddish highlights, copper eyes that match, and a beauty mark that makes her look like an old-fashioned movie star.

  I want to fuck her right up against that 911. Then I see the logo stretching across the front of her tits. Cave Hills Cross Country.

  That explains the legs. And the expensive car. Looks like someone wrecked Daddy’s ride and brought it up here to get it fixed before he finds out.

  Maybe because I’m hangry or maybe because she got my dick hard and I know I can’t have her, but I take an instant dislike to her. Fucking Cave Hills spoiled little rich bitch. Cave Hills kids only come to Wolf Ridge when they’re looking for trouble. And this girl is definitely trouble.

  Winslow catches sight of me. He stops what he’s saying to level me a what-the-fuck-do-you-want? look.

  And that’s when I know something’s off.

  Because he wouldn’t use that expression because I interrupted him with this chick. He wouldn’t be hot for a human girl—Winslow hates humans.

  Which means he wants me to stay away for some other reason.

  “Don’t you have a door to replace on that VW?” he jerks his thumb toward the other bay. We were waiting for the new part to be delivered, and the VW was his project, not mine. Now I’m certain he’s trying to get rid of me.

  “Yeah. Okay.” I still don’t move.

  Prickles raise on the back of my neck. I look at the Porsche again. Maybe it’s not her daddy’s ride. What were they looking at under the hood?

  Unease washes over me. It’s a familiar warning—the kind I get every time my big brother is about to do something really stupid. Or dangerous. Something I’m gonna have to try to talk him out of or stop.

  Fuck.

  Please tell me it’s not a stolen vehicle, and he’s about to help this girl fence it.

  When I don’t move, Winslow’s lip curls, and his eyes flash yellow. The wolf in me experiences the threat viscerally.

  I have no choice but to drop my gaze and lift my chin, showing my throat. My brother has a mean streak, and he’s dangerous as hell, even though we’re family. I toss my backpack down and head to the bay with the VW Beetle in it.

  Winslow turns the radio up on his side.

  * * *

  Sloane

  “Is that your brother?”

  “That’s Bo.”

  Not really an answer to my question, but I’m taking it as a yes. This Wolf Ridge Body Shop guy is scary as hell. I was given his name as a possible fence for stolen cars, and he panned out. But I don’t trust him for a second.

  Seeing his younger brother, on the other hand, calms me a bit. He looks as all-American as his older brother looks thug. Yeah, his jeans are ripped and greasy, but a Wolf Ridge High football t-shirt stretches across his bulging muscles, and the rest of him is clean-cut. Good-looking, even.

  I’m not used to being treated with the disgust Winslow Fenton has been throwing my way, but I feel better just having his brother here. Like he wouldn’t let anything bad happen to me.

  And of course, that’s probably one of those really stupid assumptions one of those psychology studies would prove shows bias based on good looks. Or clothing. Or general hotness. Just because he’s my age and gorgeous doesn’t mean he’s going to play knight in shining armor if his brother crosses me.

  “He’s not a part of this,” Winslow says, the threat evident in his lowered voice. “Understand?”

  “Yeah, definitely. I understand.” We’re both leaning under the hood of the Porsche, like we’re conferring about her horsepower. I have to resist peering into the other bay at Bo’s broad back and muscular ass. Focus, Sloane—jeez. “So how soon do you think you can get the new title on this?”

  “You leave that to me. I’ll get it sold. Then I’ll give you your cut.”

  Fuck no.

  “That wasn’t the deal. You get the title. I’ll sell it.”

  He snorts. “You’re gonna sell it.”

  “Yeah, that’s what we discussed.”

  He sneers. “Sorry, honey. No one’s gonna buy a six figure Porsche from a sixteen-year-old.”

  “Seventeen,” I correct, although that’s not the point.

  “If I can steal a car in broad daylight from the Scottsdale Mall, I can pull off the car sale.” Turns out, I’m a pretty good hustler. I had to pick up a lot of new skills these last six months.

  He gives me a mock apologetic shake of his head. “Sorry, sister. If I get the title, it’s mine.” He waits a beat. “Right?”

  My heart starts pounding harder. This guy is slimy, but I knew that from the beginning. That’s the risk associated with stealing cars.

  He rubs his nose with a greasy finger, leaving a smear of black on his face. We’re nose to nose under the hood. He smells like metal and stale sweat and faintly of the sour alcohol scent people get when they over-indulged the night before.

  Now that I’ve seen his brother, I can see where he might be attractive in a different situation. If he took care of himself and had a decent haircut. And didn’t look so damn mean.

  I clench my jaw. “We split it fifty-fifty.”

  “Sixty-forty.”

  I don’t have to guess which one of us gets the sixty.

  This guy’s going to keep pushing me around. It’s going to change to seventy-thirty next time I see him, if I even see him again. I need to get leverage back, and fast.

  I draw a deep breath and try to channel my dad. He could talk a guy into anything. And he never used fear to get through to them, the way some salespeople do. Because that’s essentially what any con is—a sales job. No, he made them feel good about doing what he wanted. Made them think that’s what they wanted too.

  “Listen, Winslow.” I lean a hip against the bumper of the Porsche. “Like I told you before, I’m looking for a business partner. I already scoped out a Mercedes-Benz S Class at the salvage yard for the next car jack. But if you’re the kind of guy who makes a deal and doesn’t honor his word, this isn’t going to gel going forward. We have to have enough trust between us to make this work.”

  I throw in words like honor and trust hoping it might bring out some whisper of those qualities in him, but I doubt he ever had them to begin with.

  If I hadn’t seen his all-American brother, I wouldn’t have even thought of it. But unbelievably, it seems to work.

  Winslow draws his chest up and nods. “Fifty-fifty,” he concedes. “But I’m selling it.”

  “We both go,” I counter.

  He sneers again. “I’m not taking you. You’d fuck it all up. But I’ll give you your cut, fair and square.”

  “You stand to lose more than I do. I’m not eighteen yet. If I get caught, it would be a slap on the wrist. If you get caught, it’s a felony.”

  He pinches his lower lip between his thumb and forefinger, considering me. His gaze darts to his brother, like he’s thinking about having Bo sell the car instead. But then he shakes his head. “I’ll take the risk.”

  “I’m coming along,” I insist again.

  “You’re not. Go back to your prep school in Cave Hills and wait until I text you.”

  My stomach churns. I try not to show my misgivings, though. We’re partners, who honor and trust each other. That was the bullshit I was throwing out. I have to walk the talk.

  “I need a ride back.”

 
; Winslow rolls his eyes and pulls his head out from under the hood of the Porsche. “Fuck.” He considers me, then looks over at his brother.

  “Bo!”

  The younger, far hotter version of him walks over, wiping his hands on a clean white rag. “Yeah?”

  “You gotta take this one down to Cave Hills.”

  He narrows his eyes. “In what?” He throws his arms wide and looks around the place.

  “On your bike. Hurry the fuck up. I need you back here to finish that job tonight.”

  A muscle in Bo’s jaw flexes, and he appears to be drawing in a measured breath. “Right. Okay.”

  He flicks his brows at me and extends his arm like a butler. “This way, ma’am.”

  Okay, maybe he’s as big a dick as his brother.

  All that hotness wasted on a cocky asshole. Too bad. Not that I was hoping for anything. I just… liked to look.

  I follow him to the front of the shop where he picks up a helmet on a motorcycle and hands it to me. “Your limo awaits.”

  I’m not a total chicken, but I haven’t ridden on the back of a motorcycle before. And when I pictured it in the past, it was always riding behind some very trustworthy boyfriend type. Someone hot, but not dick-ish and surly like Bo.

  Basically, I’m putting my life in this total stranger’s hands.

  I take the helmet and swallow.

  “Scared, princess?” he sneers. He's wearing a set of dog tags around his neck. Up close, he’s even more beautiful than I initially absorbed. He has ice blue eyes that pop against his tanned skin and rumpled brown hair. His lips have a sensuousness to them, but that’s the only part. All the rest of him is one hundred percent hard muscle. He probably plays defense, and he probably makes the Cave Hills players cry when he hits them.