Shifter Crown: Valley of Truth and Denial (The Shifter Crown Series Book 1)

  Valley of Truth and Denial

  The Shifter Crown Series Book 1

  Desni Dantone

  Copyright © 2019 by Desni Dantone

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  eBook design/illustration by The Illustrated Author Design Services (www.theillustratedauthor.net)

  Created with Vellum

  Contents

  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

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  About the Author

  The Shifter Crown Universe

  Chapter 1

  This is how “inspired by true events” Lifetime movies begin. The longer I stand in this field, holding a red plastic cup filled to the brim with warm beer and surrounded by my common-sense lacking, sex-obsessed peers, the more I convince myself that I am in the opening scene of a cheesy, low-budget slasher flick that people who like that sort of thing eat up. All the vital cliché elements are present.

  Irresponsible young adults. Check.

  Drugs and alcohol. Check.

  Sex. I’m pretty sure some of that has been going on behind a cluster of trees for a good five minutes—but I refuse to confirm my suspicions. For two solid reasons. One, I don’t want to see Jeremiah Stone’s pasty butt, or Sarah Miller’s boobs. Two, I’m not stupid.

  I’m not one of those movie characters. I’m the girl who points out glaring plot holes and insists the book is always better than the movie—on the rare occasion I spend my hard-earned paycheck on a theater stub and an overpriced bucket of popcorn. I’m not the dumb, big-breasted girl who unwittingly finds herself the first victim of the mask-wearing, butcher knife-yielding psychopath headlining the film.

  For starters, I graduated today with a three-point-nine. As far as I am concerned, Calculus is my only enemy. I have brains and a modest B-cup. I’m the lone survivor. The shining star you don’t see coming. I’m the girl who gets dragged into a bad situation, but manages to come out on the other side with only superficial wounds and a few lingering emotional scars quickly erased by a handful of therapy sessions.

  At least, I hope that will be me by the end of this disaster-prone party.

  It certainly won’t be Jill Dugway—aka “the evil stepsister.” Nor will it be Steve Sullivan—her pretty-but-dumb boyfriend. They will meet their fate together. Because karma.

  Because Steve used to be my boyfriend until he banged Jill in the back seat of his mom’s Buick on my eighteenth birthday. In my driveway. At a party thrown in my honor.

  That was nearly seven months ago—Halloween night to be exact—and the last time I voluntarily spent any amount of time, not required by the Department of Education, with these people. In fact, I’m surprised I got an invite to tonight’s festivities.

  No doubt my best friend, Vienna, had something to do with that. No matter how many times I tell her I’m perfectly happy as an introvert in social exile, she hasn’t given up trying to “help” me. She is the only reason I left a perfectly good book on my pillow and agreed to attend this sorry excuse for a graduation party.

  And then she ditched me.

  Not really. She took off a few minutes ago to see if there was any truth to the rumor about a few “hot guys” who didn’t go to Castien Valley being spotted near the keg. Knowing Vienna, she will not return until she secures the promise of marriage from at least one of them.

  I take a sip of beer and face the heart of the party, where a cluster of classmates assembled around a poorly-constructed bonfire laugh in unison. In an attempt to appear casual, I put my back to the trees, the shadows, and the vast wilderness that surrounds us.

  That’s dumb mistake number I’ve-lost-count. I’m smarter than that. I’m smarter than this entire situation, yet here I am. The smart girl doing the dumb thing.

  Because there is one thing I know that my classmates obviously do not. The wilderness can be a dangerous place. It’s unpredictable and unforgiving.

  Sure the cops probably won’t bother to break up an underage drinking party this far up the mountain, but there is always a chance that a territorial bear may crash. Or worse, the pack of wolves that have been known to terrorize campers in the area might stop by for a late-night snack. The first to go will be the ones who have slipped away into the forest for privacy. The dumbest of the dumb.

  They should know better, having grown up in the Cascades—aka Grizzly Territory—their entire lives. The wolf problem hasn’t been an issue until recently, but it’s been a frequent discussion on the front page of the newspaper every morning for all to know—including self-absorbed high school students.

  I’m not self-absorbed, I pay attention to the news, and I have respect for the wild. So why am I here, cheap beer in hand, flashing a “Come Eat Me” sign on my back?

  I inch closer to the bonfire. Not to fit in, but to blend in. Unfortunately, my attempt to avoid being mauled by wild animals gets the attention of someone in the group—the last person whose attention I want.

  “I’d rather be eaten by a bear,” I mutter as I tip my chin down to examine the cup in my hand. Anything to avoid Steve’s gaze.

  All I want to do is get through my summer unscathed and watch as he, Jill, and the other evil spawn leave the nest for their expensive, big-name universities while I gear up for an exciting semester at community college.

  The mere thought of dreams not coming true is worth another drink of beer. I swish it around in my mouth like a shot of Listerine as Steve stands and turns toward me.

  I recognize the look on his face. He’s thinking too hard. Debating. He wants to come over and flash a smile to remind me of what he thinks I should be missing.

  He will be lucky if I don’t spit my drink all over his expensive Under Armour jacket.

  I reposition the bag on my shoulder, fully aware of the can of bear spray inside. One shot of aerosolized pepper will keep him away—well worth the misdemeanor assault charge I’ll undoubtedly be slapped with afterward.

  Steve starts in my direction, then stops. I count my blessings before I realize the whole group is gawking at me. My throat squeezes shut as I wait for the plot twist.

  I’m not the survivor, after all. I’m the punch line. I’m the misunderstood heroine, standing on a stage while a bucket of pig’s blood is dumped over her head.

  Nothing happens.

  I scratch the bridge of my nose self-consciously.

  Do I have a booger playing peek-a-boo? A twig in my hair? A salivating wolf about to pounce on me from out of the shadows?

  My fingers comb through the honey-colored locks spilling across my shoulder as I resist the urge to turn around and look. I twirl the humidity-frizzed ends around my pinky, and my back stiffens when I feel a presence behind me. Not a wolf, or bear
, or any of the dangers I half expected to make an appearance tonight.

  Something worse.

  “I don’t know what it is,” a smooth, deep voice suddenly drawls from behind me. “But I get the impression that this isn’t your scene.”

  I whip around as a young man comes to a stand beside me. He is nothing like the boys I walked across the stage in Castien Valley High’s auditorium with today. While his wider frame and taller height give him an obvious physical advantage, it is the way he stands that sets him apart from the other, inferior males on the mountain tonight.

  No wonder my classmates are staring. And now I am staring.

  He oozes confidence and influence, and when his gaze meets mine, I feel a nuclear-like blast of charm. A shade of blue I thought only possible in Disney films, it’s hard not to feel something peering into them. A flicker of recognition is the last thing I expect.

  “Do I know you?” I blurt.

  He stares at me for a long moment. Almost long enough to encroach on creepy territory. Then he looks away with a barely-there smirk on his lips. “If you have to ask, then the answer is no.”

  Oh. He’s one of those guys. There’s a fine line between confident and cocky, and it is clear what side he is on. It’s a huge turnoff, but I would have to be blind to not recognize how attractive he is otherwise. I still can’t stop staring.

  He lifts a plastic cup to his mouth for a drink, drawing my attention to his stubble-covered jaw. The thin layer of scruff looks good on his handsome face and matches the ruffled dark hair on his head that makes me want to fish the spare brush from the glove compartment of my car. A silver chain hangs around his neck and disappears underneath the black long-sleeved shirt that clings to him. Even under the thick material, I can see the movement of his bicep as he lifts and lowers his arm. I have no doubt he is all smooth planes and solid muscle everywhere.

  So this guy might actually have a reason to be cocky. Whoever he is, he must have taken a wrong turn to end up in Castien Valley.

  “Who are you, and what are you doing here?” I ask the necessary questions as politely as I can despite the “stranger danger” siren blaring in my head.

  So what if he’s hot? Psychopaths can be hot.

  “I’m camping nearby with a few buddies. We got wind of a party, and thought we’d crash it.” He glances at me and winks. “For the free beer and girls.”

  My apprehension melts away like Nisqually Glacier in the sun. Call me gullible, but I happen to think I have good instincts, and my gut tells me that anyone who can wink and flash a dimple like this guy just did can’t be all that bad. Not in the raped-and-murdered sense anyway.

  I decide to play nice.

  “Good luck,” I tell him with a smile. “The beer is cheap and the girls are young. Might want to check some IDs before you sneak behind the bushes.”

  I take a sip of beer to fill the painfully awkward silence that follows. When I finally get the nerve to glance up, I find him watching me with an amused smile on his face. I see that he has not one, but two, dimples and my knees grow a little weak.

  “Why do I get the feeling this is the last place you want to be?” he asks me.

  I shrug. “Because I’m not exactly hiding my chagrin?”

  “So why are you here?” He faces the bonfire and takes another drink. He’s casual. Cool.

  “I graduated,” I answer simply, trying to mimic his nonchalance.

  “And?”

  “This is a graduation party.”

  He nods a few times, quickly, as if answering a slew of unvoiced questions in his head. After a pause, he asks, “You always do what’s expected of you?”

  A wave of embarrassment washes over me at the thought that this guy has drawn the wrong conclusion about me. At least, I hope he’s wrong. Considering where I’m standing right now, I have my own doubts.

  “Not usually,” I admit quietly. “Though I am starting to think I should have listened to the voice in my head that told me to stay home tonight.”

  “Hmm.” He nods thoughtfully. “I always listen to that voice. It’s usually correct.”

  I study his profile out of the corner of my eye. While his body language gives the impression that he is merely enjoying the bonfire, the constant shifting of his gaze suggests otherwise. He’s observant. Focused. Alert.

  What is a guy like him doing here? And what is he looking for?

  I glance down at my hooded sweatshirt, skinny jeans, and hiking boots ensemble, and conclude that he’s probably looking for another girl to talk to. Someone a little more . . . in his league. Someone like my stepsister.

  “Maybe I should go home,” I murmur.

  This gets his attention, albeit briefly. “You have a ride?”

  “I drove.”

  He shrugs, drawing my attention to his broad shoulders. “You would probably enjoy yourself more in the comfort of your own home than you would standing here, watching a couple of idiots wrestle each other.” He looks away from the scene he described to shoot another wink in my direction. “I’m sure you have a worn-out copy of something written by a Bronte sister waiting for you there.”

  I blink. His assumption is so close to the truth I can’t claim to be insulted. His accuracy flusters me. And that tends to bring out the sarcastic tongue my stepmom insists will ensure I die an unmarried, childless hag.

  “Look at you,” I fire back at the sexy stranger now grinning at me. “Throwing down a Bronte reference to impress me? That’s adorable.”

  His grin grows. “Did it work?”

  Maybe a little.

  “No,” I lie.

  “Damn.” He fakes a disappointed grimace. “I guess I’ll have to settle for the free beer.”

  Our eyes meet, and I can’t help it. I smile. The ice is officially broken.

  He returns the smile and, after a brief pause, extends a hand. “I’m Luca.”

  I take it and am immediately enveloped in warmth. “Savannah.”

  He doesn’t hold on to me longer than acceptable, and when he lets go, I feel surprisingly cold. He stuffs his hands in his pockets and looks straight ahead. “Too bad you’re leaving.”

  “Not yet,” I point out.

  I resist the urge to tell him I may have found a reason to stick around. It sounds too much like flirting, and I’m not good at flirting. The few times I tried, at Vienna’s insistence, I screwed it up. Not going to do that now. Not with this guy.

  He nods thoughtfully before shifting his attention to the bonfire, and the group centered around it. I can’t get a read on him. I’m not sure if he doesn’t want me to leave, or if he is purposefully trying to get rid of me. Considering he was the one who approached me, I decide to go with the theory that he keeps bringing up my plans to leave because he doesn’t want me to leave.

  That’s it. He’s trying to reverse-psychology me. Is that a tactic guys use?

  Dammit. Where is Vienna when I need her?

  “Since you’re staying for a while longer.” Luca leans closer and lowers his voice. “And we’re officially friends now,” he adds with a grin, “perhaps you can tell me who that guy is?”

  “Who?” I follow his gaze toward the fire.

  “Black jacket, surfer-blond hair, eyes cutting me like a knife . . .”

  I spot Steve glaring at us. “That would be nobody.”

  “Really? Because he either drank some stale beer, or he’s trying to intimidate me. It’s hard to tell.”

  I notice the strained look on Steve’s face. “That’s his soccer scowl. He gets it every time they have a big game when he’s in the zone. It means he’s out for blood.”

  “Soccer player?” Luca’s voice raises in mock amazement. “Wow. Should I be worried?”

  I glance at Luca and find a poorly-concealed grin on his lips. My eyes drift down to his shoulders and thick arms straining against his shirt. “Yeah, you should definitely be worried. He was the star of the team. Very good. Very fast.”

  I spit the last word out with a l
augh. When Steve’s eyes narrow on me, and Jill’s eyes narrow on Steve, I laugh harder. Tears cloud my vision by the time I pull myself together enough to glance at Luca. He’s watching me with a warm smile on his face—the kind of smile that hits the eyes and it somehow makes him even better looking.

  Again, I’m slammed by a puzzling sense of recognition. Then I realize that Luca’s reply earlier wasn’t cocky. He stated a fact. I would remember meeting him. There is no way what I feel is recognition.

  Hormones, maybe. Definitely not recognition.

  “Please tell me you didn’t date that guy,” he says.

  “Who?” I ask, forgetting what we were talking about.

  Luca nods his head toward the group. “Soccer star.”

  “Oh.” I shrug. “I did. A long time ago.”

  The smile fades from his eyes, but not his lips. “How long is a long time?”

  “You don’t want to hear this,” I groan.

  “Sure I do.” He turns to survey Steve. “A man needs to understand his competition. That’s why he’s watching me so closely. He knows I’m competition.”

  “There is no contest,” I scoff.

  “That comment can be taken two different ways.” Luca slowly turns his body toward mine. “Some may argue that you’re not interested in either competitor, so there’s no contest to be had.”

  I mirror him so that we are standing toe-to-toe, and fight to hold back the smile threatening to rip me wide open. “What’s the flip side of that argument?”

  “That I’m the clear winner,” he tells me confidently. Thrusting his chin in Steve’s general direction, he adds, “That guy shouldn’t even bother to show up.”

  A smile cracks through despite my best efforts to contain it. “You’re good.”