The Worth Series: Complete Collection Read online

  The Worth Series

  Complete Collection

  Lyra Evans

  Copyright © 2016 Lyra Evans

  All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof

  may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever

  without the express written permission of the publisher

  except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Twitter: @WriterLyraEvans

  Cover design by Designran

  This book contains scenes of explicit sexual content and is not suitable for readers under 18 years of age.

  Table of Contents

  Worth a Shot

  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

  Worth the Trouble

  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

  Epilogue

  Worth the Wait

  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

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Acknowledgments

  Worth a Shot

  Lyra Evans

  Chapter 1

  Oliver moaned. Sweat trickled down his chest as he heaved, rocking himself harder and harder atop the man on the bed. Oliver didn’t know his name; that was sort of the point of trawling for guys at nightclubs, after all. He wasn’t interested in names or backstories. All he needed was a solid body and a willing participant. Ideally a rock hard cock, too, but Oliver’d settle for what he could get.

  The man under him was spewing dirty promises and adulations. In the club he’d promised Oli the fuck of his life, which was precisely what Oliver wanted. So far he hadn’t quite delivered though.

  “Fuck, you’re so tight,” the man moaned, pounding his hips upward, his fingertips digging into Oliver’s thighs as he did. He arched his back and lifted his shoulders off the bed, aiming to change positions, but Oliver placed his palm flat to the man’s chest and pressed him down. “Fuck, yeah, ride me.”

  Oliver leaned forward onto his palms, pinning his partner down, and pounded harder, letting the man’s thick cock piston into him. He moaned again, his movements getting jerkier and jerkier. He was close now. He licked his lips, the taste of sweat and scotch on his tongue. Throwing his head back, he arched into the pounding and moaned again, louder, throatier. His partner’s cock hit him at exactly the right—

  “Come for me,” the man said, his hand leaving Oliver’s thigh to wrap his fingers around Oli’s throbbing erection. His skin was rough; there was too much friction. Oliver wanted to shut him up, to push his hand away. But he was too far gone already.

  He ignored the chafing, the rawness his partner’s hand was rubbing into his cock, and focused on the cock inside him, on the pulsing as his orgasm built. Finally, he rocked back harder, deeper, and held there. He came hard, but quietly, and left a messy splatter on his partner’s heaving stomach.

  “Yes, yes, fuck,” the man groaned as he jerked and tensed, pulsing deep into Oliver. Oliver wavered slowly, back and forth, letting his orgasm settle into him and relishing the calm of it, the heaviness. He breathed in for only a moment or two before lifting himself off the man on the bed.

  Fuck, he was tired. Haziness moved into his brain like fog, but he pushed through it. He couldn’t stay here. He didn’t even know for sure where here was. Oliver hadn’t been concerned with addresses when he agreed to come back to this guy’s place. He never was.

  “Fuck, you’re good,” the man said, rolling onto his side to smooth a hand over Oliver’s leg. Oliver sat at the edge of the bed, collecting his energy, then made a move for his discarded clothes. “Hey, come on. Come back to bed. No need to run off so quickly.”

  Oliver cast a glance over his shoulder. The man in bed shone with exertion, his thin lips parted to panting. His sandy hair was a mess, matted with sweat in pieces around his temples and forehead. Oliver shrugged.

  “Sorry. Got to—” he said, cut off by his work ringtone. Attention immediately diverted from his one-time partner, Oliver searched his pockets until he pulled out the phone. “Worth,” he said into the receiver. Short, clipped tones were the standard for work calls. He tried to speak away from the man in the bed, hoping he wouldn’t hear his name, but it was a stretch.

  “We’ve got a body,” the Sergeant on the other end of the line told him.

  “I’m not on—” Oliver started.

  “Captain’s orders. It’s a bad one. In need of your particular—expertise.” The Sergeant broke off with a bitter laugh before rattling off the address. Oliver shut his eyes and exhaled slowly, counting heartbeats.

  “On my way,” he said and hung up. Pulling on his pants, he turned to the guy in the bed. “Sorry. Urgent call. Got to go.”

  “No way,” the man said, leaning back against his pillows. He sprawled his legs in what he, perhaps, thought was an appealing manner. It just looked cocky to Oliver, and not in the good way. “There’s no way that wasn’t planned. That’s cold.”

  If only, Oli thought.

  He shrugged into his shirt and jacket, surreptitiously checking for his badge hidden in the inner pocket. With a glance around the room to ensure he wasn’t forgetting anything, Oli nodded to the man in the bed.

  “It’s been—fun,” he said, locating his boots.

  “Wait,” the man called, blinking hazily at him as though seeing him clearly for the first time. “Don’t I know you from somewhere?”

  Oliver froze momentarily, playing it off as though he was checking his pocket for something. “No, don’t think so.”

  “Yeah, yeah,” he said, sitting up now, squinting at Oliver as though that would make the matter clearer. “I’ve definitely seen you somewhere before.”

  Oliver turned away from him to pull on his boots. “At the club maybe. Not my first time there.”

  “No,” the man said. “From the paper, I think. Aren’t you that cop who was involved in the Thrasher case? Caught the most wanted Dark Wizard in the last twenty years or something, right? Was the medical examiner the whole time. Right under the nose of the police.”

  Oliver snapp
ed his laces and stood up a bit too sharply. He coughed, then laughed and turned back to face the man in bed. Oliver gave him a once-over, licking his lips. “C’mon. Do I look like a cop to you?” He leaned over and pulled the man into a slow, searing kiss. His tongue swiped swiftly over the man’s lower lip, and he pulled away, lingering within an inch of him for a moment. The man followed him forward as Oli pulled away. “See you around.”

  He turned and walked out the door, leaving the man dazed and half-hard.

  “Wait,” he called after Oli. “I don’t even know your name!”

  Chapter 2

  Cold air bit Oliver’s face as he ducked past the police tape and entered the perimeter of the crime scene. He rubbed his hands together, breathing hotly on them, then shoved them deep into his pockets. He hadn’t had a chance to head home and did his best to ignore the looks and muttered comments of the other officers on duty as he passed. His thin, fitted t-shirt and hip-hugging jeans weren’t the usual uniform he wore to work cases, even with his badge clipped to the front of his jeans. The leather jacket did little to cut the cold of mid-winter, but it had worked well enough the previous night. He ran a hand through his messy, dark brown hair, trying to smooth out the bedhead, but gave up after a moment. His hair was always a mess anyway.

  He nodded a hello to the forensic techs as he passed them, amber eyes squinting in the reflected sun; his heart sank further with every step he took. A group of detectives stood around the body of the victim in the distance. All dressed in black coats and discussing fervently with one another, the officers already on scene parted to reveal Captain Marks. Oliver heaved a low sigh. So it was as bad as it seemed.

  “Captain,” Oliver said, trying his best not to visibly shiver. Captain Marks turned, her expression bleak, ashen.

  “Worth,” she said. “About time. We need to contain this as quickly and efficiently as possible.”

  “Sir?” he asked, finally coming level to the victim. The other officers raised their eyebrows and one or two coughed suspiciously upon seeing him, but they mostly just moved aside to let him stand next to the Captain. Oli looked down at the victim and almost pulled back. But the urge to run from death, to vomit, or cry—these were the urges they trained out of you in the Academy. And Oliver hadn’t been top of his class for no reason.

  He fought the gagging in the back of his throat, every muscle in his body wrought as steel. Glad he hadn’t managed to eat anything, he tried to see past the obvious to the clues that might be hiding underneath.

  “Is that—” he began, and the Captain heaved a disappointed sigh.

  “Yeah,” she said. “Eloise Carmichael. Of the East Brook Carmichaels. Recently assumed control of Obscura Industries, heiress to the Carmichael fortune, and vocal opponent of anything ‘non-Human.’ That’s her. Bloody and very dead and on the front steps of Nimueh’s Court.” The Captain wiped at her forehead. “This is a fucking mess.”

  “Literally,” Davin, another detective and largely a crass idiot, added. The Captain shot him a withering look, and he backed away slightly.

  Oliver, pleased to witness Davin scolded, squatted down by the body to try and understand what he was seeing. The smell of decay was missing. It was obviously a very recent murder, given their location. Nimueh’s Court, though the title for all the lands Nimueh ruled over, was a literal place. The building to Oliver’s right was tall and stately, white marble with perfectly sculpted columns. It was the governing centre for her monarchy, and naturally, a place frequented by all the most important people in the kingdom. There was no way the body could have been there more than a couple hours, given how often people went in and out of the Court House.

  Oliver bent down, as close as was still appropriate, and looked into Eloise Carmichael’s glassy, clouded eyes. She gazed endlessly up, beyond Oliver, to the grey sky. The heavens reflected back, and Oliver shut his eyes a moment. The smell of decay was missing, yes, and the cold weather would certainly have prolonged the process of rot, but another smell was present. The smell of magic.

  It crackled on the air as he breathed in, like a snapping fire and the bitter taste of burning oil. Oliver crouched, motionless, searching for the signature beyond the moment of violence, beyond the moment of death. He ignored the snickering above him as the other detectives watched him. He ignored the snow against his ungloved hand as he propped himself up without touching Eloise’s body. He ignored it all until—the subtlest hint of a smell. Freshly pulped paper and burning ink. The sensation of a planned fall, like riding a roller coaster.

  “What’s taking so—don’t tell me you’re sensing for magical signatures again, Worth,” Davin said. He chuckled derisively. “Why can’t you use regular forensic spells like the rest of us?”

  Ignoring Davin, Oliver got to his feet, committing the smell and the sensation to memory. They were residuals of the killer’s magical signature. He wiped off his hands and took a deep breath. The smell of ice and burning wood filled him now.

  “Time of death?”

  “Closest the ME can determine is between midnight and four a.m.” Marks seemed displeased by the window.

  “Any leads?” Oliver asked, and Davin spluttered.

  “Are you blind?” he said, gesturing at her body. “A demented toddler could figure this one out, Worth.”

  Oliver shot him a look, then gazed back down at the victim. Much to his dismay, Davin was right. At least in terms of the superficial examination of the body. Eloise lay sprawled in the snow, her hand reaching out to the scattered contents of an expensive bag. The silver revolver on the ground by the purse should have been the obvious clue, but the manner of death was clearer. She was torn apart.

  Blood soaked into the snow around her, splattered like a mythical rain shower, and her neck and chest were cracked open, bloodied and tattered as though she was a doll made of cloth. The chest cavity was so badly shattered most of her ribcage was in pieces around her. And her heart was gone.

  “It’s fucking Werewolves,” Davin said, shaking his head. “Fucking Werewolves making a statement, clearly.”

  “Would you keep your loud mouth shut?” Captain Marks snapped, casting a look back at the perimeter of the crime scene where, no doubt, press were beginning to gather. “If the vultures at the Daily Spell catch wind of this…”

  “People need to be warned,” Davin said, his voice low. “Werewolves can’t be allowed to get away with something like this. It’s clearly an act of war, Captain. We should respond in kind.”

  “Are you deficient in some way?” Marks said, furious. “Why don’t you just walk inside that building and take a piss on the Treaty of Tiamh? One hundred years of hard-fought peace, and you think it’s fine to float ideas of starting a war?”

  Davin shut up, hands in his pockets, and Oliver directed his attention back to the Captain.

  “They’re going to know something happened,” Oliver said, eyeing the yellow tape in the distance. “And there’s no way they’re not going to notice Eloise Carmichael has just vanished.”

  “Obviously,” she said. “We’ll release the name of the victim and that we’re treating it as a homicide investigation, but other than that, they get nothing. We’ve got to have forensics come in and clean this scene as fast as possible. I wanted you to get a look at the scene before I okayed that.”

  Oliver, taken slightly aback, nodded. “I appreciate it.”

  “It wasn’t for your sake,” she said, waving him off. “Once the news gets out a Carmichael’s been murdered, everyone and their aunt is going to want a guarantee we’ve got our best people on it. Yours is the name they’ll want to hear.” She turned and gestured to the forensics team. “You’ve had your look. Now get to investigating. And, Worth,” she added, looking him dead in the eye. “Do it quietly, if you know what’s good for you. And do it quickly.”

  Oliver nodded. He stood watching as the forensics team took their samples and the medical examiner took away the body. He took in every detail of the scene, hoping someth
ing other than what Davin had concluded could possibly be the answer. He needed another lead, any lead that didn’t point to a Werewolf. But nothing at the scene suggested otherwise.

  He looked off down the road, in the direction of Logan’s Court. It wasn’t visible from where he stood on a clear day, but it had begun to snow, and the thickly falling flakes obscured the view even a few feet in front of him. He sighed heavily, hands in his pockets again. The snow meant that the Wolves of Logan’s Court would be gathering together, in packs. The last thing he wanted was to confront a Werewolf in front of his own pack.

  Pulling his hand out of his pocket, Oliver gave in and cast a small flame in his hand. The fire burned slowly, hovering above his palm, but the radiant heat warmed him. He needed a shower. Then he’d begin questioning.

  Chapter 3

  The police station was abuzz with the news, and like any hive of busy bees, everyone around Oliver seemed to be thinking the same thing. Werewolves were responsible—theories ranged wildly from a single rebel wolf acting out of hatred, to Logan himself leading his entire pack to bloody murder.

  Freshly showered and properly clothed, Oliver sat at his computer and searched for everything he could on the victim. The pages were loading slowly. He flicked his pen incessantly against the desk, then smacked the side of the monitor as though that might help. The Magical Network was overloaded. Everyone was searching, following the news, trying to get information on Eloise’s death and possible killer. Oli had waded through more than one conspiracy theory site about how Nimueh and Logan had somehow both planned the murder to cover up their sordid inter-species affair. He rolled his eyes and clicked on the link to Obscura Industries several more times.

  Finally, the victim’s company page loaded. He scratched down some details. Obscura Industries had belonged to her parents, but after they died in a flying accident, Eloise had taken over. And she had gone to work quickly dismantling much of the Carmichael’s carefully maintained cross-species relationships. Eloise was very vocal about her hatred for Werewolves and other “non-Human” types. She threatened to pull Obscura’s contracts with any Werewolf-owned company. Which meant a lot of angry millionaires about to have their bottom line cut to shreds. Obscura Industries did quite a lot of business with Wolves from Logan’s Court, but the biggest contracts seemed to be with Pierce Entertainment.