Legendary Shifter

She wanted a wolf...

...and she found a man.

Once upon a time, Elena Pavlova was a ballerina. Now she is a fugitive, looking for the great black wolf who can save her from the witchblood prince who haunts her dreams. The cursed shifter Ivan Romanov knows he is no longer the hero Elena needs, but he cannot say no to this graceful warrior, the beautiful woman who may well be his destined mate.

BARBARA J. HANCOCK lives in the foothills of the Blue Ridge Mountains where her daily walk takes her to the edge of the wilderness and back again. When Barbara isn’t writing modern gothic romance that embraces the shadows with a unique blend of heat and heart, she can be found wrangling twin boys and spoiling her pets.

Also by Barbara J. Hancock

Brimstone SeductionBrimstone BrideBrimstone PrinceLegendary ShifterDarkening Around MeSilent Is the HouseThe Girl in Blue

Discover more at millsandboon.co.uk

Legendary Shifter

Barbara J. Hancock

www.millsandboon.co.uk

ISBN: 978-1-474-08203-7

LEGENDARY SHIFTER

© 2018 Barbara J. Hancock

Published in Great Britain 2018

by Mills & Boon, an imprint of HarperCollinsPublishers 1 London Bridge Street, London, SE1 9GF

All rights reserved including the right of reproduction in whole or in part in any form. This edition is published by arrangement with Harlequin Books S.A.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, locations and incidents are purely fictional and bear no relationship to any real life individuals, living or dead, or to any actual places, business establishments, locations, events or incidents. Any resemblance is entirely coincidental.

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For the warrior in us all. Because she rocks.

Contents

Cover

Back Cover Text

About the Author

Booklist

Title Page

Copyright

Dedication

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

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Epilogue

Extract

About the Publisher

Prologue

All he could do was watch and wait.

He found pleasure in it, surprisingly enough. Anticipation made the torment sweet. Elena Pavlova’s mother had slit her wrists to protect her daughter ten years ago. Her sacrifice hadn’t kept him from visiting her daughter’s nightmares with delicious visions of the future they’d have together. He couldn’t physically have Elena, yet. Her mother’s blood had bought her a reprieve. But the protective power of the spilled blood was running out.

As a witchblood prince of the Dark Volkhvy, Grigori was used to getting what he wanted. He was part of the royal family in a culture that condoned Darkness. He stood just inside the open window of Elena’s bedroom and watched her toss and turn in her sleep. The soft sounds of her fretful sighs were mere whispers compared to the noises she would be making in the nightmare that disturbed her sleep. Because he was in control there, unbound by her mother’s rough folk magic.

What a shocking surprise that had been.

The voluminous curtains on the window billowed outward to brush against him, stirred by a midnight Saint Petersburg breeze. He’d seen the girl dance. He’d decided to have her. But her mother had been raised to believe in the old ways. She’d died so her daughter could live.

Or so she’d thought.

The curtains continued to flutter around him like white wings on either side of his tuxedo-clad body. When he was finished here, he would make other clandestine appearances throughout the city. He was a royal among Dark Volkhvy circles and the Dark Volkhvy ruled from the shadows. Their power was rising, bubbling to the top of a world rent by betrayal and hunger.

The mother’s blood had run out before he was bound forever. At best, she’d bought her daughter time. Time to be stalked. Time to be hunted, night after night in her dreams. Elena had been a lovely swan as a teen. She’d only grown more graceful and more alluring as she’d aged into a prima ballerina. His anticipation had grown with every passing year. Every time she donned the pristine white feathers and pirouetted across the stage.

Then an injury had interfered with her dancing, and her vulnerability had inflamed his desire to even greater heights. He had fought against the binding. He’d done everything to try to break it, to no avail. She still had a grandmother who lived and watched over her with all the old folk magic most modern-day Russians had forgotten. He could only send more violent and vivid visions to Elena each night, fueled by his frustrated passions.

Finally, her grandmother had died and he’d sensed the power of Elena’s mother’s blood fading. She’d sacrificed every last drop to fuel a protective barrier spell around her daughter, but it wouldn’t last. She might have known some of the old ways, but she was no Volkhvy. Lately, he’d been able to approach Elena and speak to her. He’d added to the torment of the visions he sent to her nightmares by telling her that they were true.

She would be his.

When the protective spell her mother’s blood had created ran out.

Grigori watched his delicate swan whimper in her sleep. He couldn’t even approach her bed to get a closer look at the rapid rise and fall of her chest, the flush on her porcelain cheeks, the heat rising off her sweat-dampened skin.

Love was abhorrent to him. The residual love of her grandmother was infused into every object in this house and, combined with her mother’s sacrifice, continued to hold him at bay...for now.

Power was everything to one of his kind. Once a witch turned to darkness, the taint was passed down through the generations—growing stronger with every birth. And his family was the oldest and darkest of all the Dark Volkhvy. He gloried in subjugating innocence. His conquest of Elena would be more satisfying because it hadn’t been instant. Her fear and his anticipation fed the dark taint in his blood, making it—and him—stronger.

The breeze from the window must have soothed her. She quieted as he watched, and he knew it was time for him to leave.

But soon. Very soon. He would be free to make her nightmares come true.

Chapter 1

Wind blew stinging clouds of icy dust from the jagged gray rocks on the side of the mountain. The snow was so white the exposed rock glistened darkly against it in the fading light of the sinking sun. Every surface was coated with a fine sheen of ice. Elena Pavlova had only been outside the full cab all-terrain vehicle that had brought her this far for a half an hour, but in spite of the preparations she’d made—her ski suit, insulated boots, gloves and scarf—the protective clothing didn’t prevent her face from feeling as cold and hard as the frozen rocks.

Mountain tours never came this far in winter, but it had been imperative that she get as far as possible before she sent prying eyes away. She’d insisted that the driver leave her, but only a substantial bribe had finally persuaded the man, who obviously thought she was on a suicide mission.

And maybe she was.

Night was falling in the Carpathian Mountains in Romania and she would never survive the elements if she didn’t find the shelter she sought. Refuge. Redoubt. Haven. Her eyes teared against the biting wind and the moisture froze on her eyelashes until her lids were heavy and her vision obscured.

She’d heard the tales since she was a child. She’d listened, rapt, as her grandmother had read from the worn but beautiful book Elena currently carried in a small pack on her back. Her childhood had been two things: dancing and the Slavic legend of the Romanov wolves. Bloody toes and even bloodier stories of the fight against evil.

Hundreds of years ago, the Light Volkhvy had chosen a younger son of royal blood to stand against their dark brethren. They’d spirited Vladimir Romanov away to become their champion. He’d been given enchanted wolves and a castle enclave deep in the Carpathian Mountains. In return, he’d been bound to an endless fight. Grim fairy tales to read to a child, but, looking back, Elena realized her grandmother had been preparing her to fight the darkness herself. The old ways were wise ways, but knowing them wasn’t only a defense. Playing at the edges of Volkhvy power by telling the tales and practicing the small hearth magics with charms for luck and wellness ran the risk of attracting the attention of true witches. Ones from the dark as well as the light.

Too much dabbling could lure an ordinary person into a Volkhvy world they weren’t prepared to face. Perhaps her family remembered the Old ways too well.

Elena was living proof. She was stalked by a witchblood prince and her fascination with the legend had turned into a call she couldn’t ignore. She’d been pulled across thousands of miles from Saint Petersburg to Cerna, and the call only became stronger the closer she came to the mountains.

It was almost physical now. In spite of the cold, she was aware of a strange pulse beneath her skin that compelled her onward. Her choice had seemed so clear—heed the call or stay within Grigori’s grasp.

By the time she came to the pass, her lungs hurt with every frigid breath and her weak knee was on fire. She wouldn’t have made it this far over the ice and rugged terrain if she hadn’t spent years pushing past physical pain to achieve the optimum performance from her muscle, sinew, heart and will. Prima ballerinas weren’t born. Or made. They were forged in the fire that was the Saint Petersburg Ballet Academy.

Elena paused. She wiped her eyes with gloved fingers, but they weren’t so hindered by icicles that they missed the castle she’d come to find. She couldn’t see it because it wasn’t there.

She’d chased help that only existed in a book of legends. No more. No less. She’d followed landmarks in the illustrations and carefully tried to sleuth her way to the right place. But her beautiful book crafted of intricate, hand-painted and cut designs that leaped from the page in three-dimensional depictions of a castle, the Romanovs and their enchanted wolves was nothing more than a storybook.

Her grandmother had blamed Elena’s nightmares on the book, but ten years of bad dreams hadn’t prepared her for the true horror of the witchblood prince who stalked her. She’d been haunted by the loss of her mother, only to learn her death had been a heroic sacrifice and not a suicide. Her mother had spilled her own blood to protect her daughter from a Dark Volkhvy prince. Her blood had fueled earthy folk magic. Nothing compared to the power it faced down and held back, but her mother’s fierce love had strengthened it.

He had stood out from the other patrons even before he spoke—tall, lean and beautiful to the point of being unnaturally perfect as if he was a mannequin, not a man. Not a hair of his glistening gelled hair had been out of place. There hadn’t been so much as a speck of lint on his tailored tuxedo. He’d moved like oil into her path with a flow to his gestures that was less grace and more fakery. His appearance was a charade. One meant to obfuscate his true nature. Yet one that revealed all, if you looked closely enough.

The sun was almost gone. Suddenly the white glare of ice and snow turned russet as it reflected the orange glow of the sky. Elena had nowhere else to go. The guide in his all-terrain vehicle was gone. He had taken his money and followed her orders: Don’t wait for me. I won’t be coming back. The dire economics of the region precluded any squeamishness over what she might do once he drove away.

It was true. She would freeze to death rather than go back and give in to Grigori’s demands even though she hadn’t found the help she’d hoped to find.

You’ll be utterly mine. Your mother only ensured I would require even greater satisfaction from our time together because of the delay.

A sudden sound dispelled the ice in her veins. A long, echoing howl—both mournful and triumphant—filled the air and conquered the wind as the king of sound on the mountain. Adrenaline rushed lifesaving vigor to her limbs. Her heart pounded. Her breath poured from her lips in vaporous puffs of fear and hope. The call that had brought her all the way from Saint Petersburg seemed to respond to the howl. It rose in her throat as if she should cry out a reply.

But her head was more rational than her heart.

Freeze or fangs?

Probably both, yet the possibility that the legend was true sent her scrambling farther along the pass in spite of her terror and the pain in her leg. The Romanovs controlled powerful wolves that were trained to fight the Dark Volkhvy witches. The alpha wolf was her last, best chance to defeat the witchblood prince. Another howl swelled up and out from the unseen chest that gave it birth. Paired with the decreasing light, the howl seemed to raise hungry shadows to consume the world. She hadn’t brought a flashlight. Or a tent. She didn’t own a weapon of any kind. Weapons were useless against the witchblood prince, and mortal shelter would only protect her from the elements long enough for him to find and claim her.

Perhaps she’d been seeking death after all. If the call that had drawn her here was a lie, death would be preferable to a life spent as Grigori’s captive.

Even sleep hadn’t given her peace in years. Every night she suffered horrible nightmares in which she was caught by Grigori and unable to escape. She’d thought they were only nightmares. Now that she’d seen her tormenter in real life, certainty had settled into her bones. Death wasn’t the worst fate she could suffer. As his stalking had escalated, so had her resolve to escape.

The snow was deeper and softer where drifts had accumulated in the protected lee of the pass between mountainous ridges. Her legs weren’t very long. At twenty, she was thin and graceful, petite and powerful. In spite of her knee, her body responded to the desperate pounding of her heart. Go. Go. Go.

She was all muscle, tendon and sinew. It didn’t matter that the ligament in one knee had required surgery to repair. All the rest made up the difference, fueled by adrenaline and fear. But if the howl had spurred her on, the sight of the creature who had opened its maw to create the sound caused her to freeze in place. A white wolf had climbed to the top of the ridge on her left. He was immense, larger than any wolf nature could have made. He stood on the peak, a ghostly silhouette against the darkening sky, and he howled again.

Elena’s legs—her stock and trade, the one thing between her and oblivion—gave out beneath her. She collapsed to her knees in the snow. She cried out when her right knee made contact. An unnoticeable deformity in the shape of her femur had caused her to land from jumps with incorrect form. Over the course of a decade, after millions of repetitions, her knee had been stressed by the imperfection. She’d recovered well from surgery and spent over a year in physical therapy, but the snowy hike had aggravated her injury.

Another howl answered the first. On the left peak directly across the pass from the white wolf, another wolf appeared, as russet as the sunset had been moments before. Even if she could get to her feet, she would never outrun them in the deep drifts of snow. There was no castle. There were no Romanovs. As hard as she squinted against the icy wind, she could see nothing to refuel her hopes. There were only two giant wolves whose echoes sounded hollow and hungry as they bounced off the icy walls of the pass. This is better than Grigori, the blood seemed to whisper as it rushed in her ears. The ice on her eyelashes had melted as fresh hot tears filled her eyes. They shimmered there, making the gloaming world mercifully indistinct, but even now she refused to let them fall. She closed her eyes to will them away, but then it was an effort to lift her lids against her weighted lashes. She did it anyway. If she had to meet a grim fate, she would do it with her eyes open.

Only her nightmares made her cry. On waking, when she was alone with no one to see, she often found her cheeks damp. She’d grown to be terrified of enclosed spaces and the sound of frantic, fluttering feathers—the two elements of her nightmares that never changed. She’d never cried over bloody toes or aching muscles or the harsh practices meant to perfect the curve of her arms and spine. The nightmares were far worse than any real-life trials. It had been horrible to discover that Grigori was real even more so because it meant that he had witnessed the tears she’d thought were shed in private. He’d seen her weak and terrified. That knowledge and his pleasure in it caused bile to rise and burn her throat. She wouldn’t cry now that she’d found only a part of what she’d been looking for, even if the wolves turned out to be her salvation in a darker way than she’d intended. She wouldn’t season their meal with tears.

The illustrations in her book hadn’t done the wolves justice. They were more monstrous. Far above her, she could see the power in their limbs and the glint of their eyes. She could also see the flash of white that indicated deadly teeth against their damp fur.

It was only the movement of the wolves’ attention from her to elsewhere that caused her to lower her attention from the ridges back to the pass. She blinked against icy lashes as an approaching form swam into focus. A tall, muscular man clothed all in black walked purposefully through the deep snow. He came out of the swirling white clouds of flakes as if he materialized before her eyes. He wore a cloak with a fur mantle that covered his broad shoulders. Its voluminous folds whipped around his powerful strides. But it was another sight behind him that caused her to gasp in stunned surprise.

Before she’d fallen, there had been nothing but ice and snow on the cliffs of the pass. Now, in the last hazy hint of twilight, ramparts and towers seemed to solidify from the shadows high above. Behind the man, the castle had appeared as if the mountain itself had decided to morph its rocks into the shape of a king’s home. Around the highest tower, ravens circled in and out of storm clouds that clung to its pointed peak. The structure was surrounded by a stone wall that enclosed the entire keep and a small village around the foot of the castle. She could see thatched rooftops peeking over the wall. Wind swept over her in a new way. The sudden appearance of the castle and the enclave its walls created had diverted the air. This new breeze rushed over the man, and his long, tousled hair was blown into a riotous black mane around his face.

He held a lantern in his hand. Its light suddenly flared to life and its glow illuminated the man’s face. The world fell away—castle, mountain, wolves and snow—until only his face shone before her. The call had brought her to the right place and the right time. The compulsion to come here hadn’t been a lie.

“Romanov,” Elena said. Her lips were stiff with cold. Her voice was muted by the wind. The white of her breath dissipated in wisps blown away from her face, taking most of the sound with it. The snow had claimed all feeling from her legs, and the numbness climbed steadily up her hips to her waist.

He heard her. He stopped and lowered the lantern so its light shone in her eyes and on her face, leaving his in shadow.

“Whoever you are, I’m not the man you seek,” he said.

The wolves had leaped down from the peaks on either side of the pass while the castle and the man had distracted her. Their large, powerful forms had eaten up the distance much sooner than ordinary canines might have done. They came to the man—one on each side—and he chided their eager prancing without taking his attention from her face. She’d been right about the wolves’ size. Both came to their master’s chest, and he was no small man.

The wolf she’d come to find would be even larger.

She needed larger-than-life legends to help her escape Grigori’s clutches.

“I’m not here for a man. I’m here for the wolves,” Elena said. The wolf she needed was the alpha of the Romanov pack and he would be as black as midnight. The old legends said that only the alpha wolf could defeat the strongest of the Dark Volkhvy.

The creatures paced toward her, but the man called them back to his side by name.

“Lev. Soren. Heel.” Though his face was shadowed, she could see the stern set to his lips and jaw. “Then you have come for nothing,” he said to her bluntly.

He gestured and the two wolves churned snow as they spun around to rip back toward the castle in the distance. Oddly, she felt abandoned rather than spared. Her stomach hollowed within her as if she’d fallen from a great height. The cold reached relentless icy fingers into her heart. Its thumping had slowed as if the muscle that pumped her blood was beginning to freeze.

“You risked your life,” the man said. “For nothing.” He didn’t follow the wolves. He stepped closer. His clothes were fashioned with tooled leather and thick stitches. The wool of his cloak was thickly woven and the fur of his mantle blew this way and that in glossy chunks. There was a richness of texture to his entire appearance that made her frozen fingers twitch. Though she’d come for the alpha wolf, a being more fantasy than reality, this man looked solid and strong. Against the backdrop of ice and snow and plain gray rock, he was sudden, vigorous and very alive.