Puck Bear Brides: Complete Series (BBW Werebear Paranormal Sport Romance Boxed Set)
Read Puck Bear Brides: Complete Series (BBW Werebear Paranormal Sport Romance Boxed Set) Online
Authors: Anya Nowlan
PUCK
BEAR
BRIDES
COMPLETE SERIES
PARANORMAL
ROMANCE
SERIES
BY
ANYA
NOWLAN
Puck Bear Brides
is the complete boxed set of four novellas taking place in Shifter Grove, Idaho. It follows a team of shifter hockey players as a professional hockey team gets moved from their previous hometown to the small, secluded Shifter Grove. Prepare yourself for plenty of steamy werebears on the chase for their mates and victory all at the same time!
A LITTLE TASTE…
“Because you’re a fucking asshole,” she replied, her voice this breathy little whisper, and her gaze flicking between his lips and his eyes.
Cannon grinned. He knew he had hell to pay for this in a second, but he couldn’t help it. He slid one hand on her hip and brought the other to her cheek, cupping her chin, before he leaned in and kissed her long and hard on the mouth. Her tongue was in his mouth before he could move to do the same to her and her hands fisted in his jersey, tugging him closer as they kissed like two teenagers who hadn’t seen each other in so long.
Truth be told, that’s sort of how Cannon felt. And it wasn’t too far from the truth, either.
Another howling round of cheers snapped them out of it, though Kimberley obviously lost the magic before he did, because Cannon was truly only brought to his senses when her hand smacked him in the face. She didn’t put too much weight into it, though. He’d seen her play hockey when she was a teen. There was a hell of a lot more kick in that girl than he’d been graced with.
Cannon chuckled and Kimberley snarled, wiggling out from between him and the tree, though Cannon didn’t move an inch to make it any easier. He was far too busy watching her and willing his cock to stop straining against the damn cup.
“You’re a grade-A fucking jerk, Cannon Wright,” she said, stomping through the snow toward the bus, flipping him the bird over her shoulder.
“I missed you too, baby,” he called after her, smiling like a damn fool.
Copyright © 2016 Anya Nowlan
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously and any resemblance to any persons, living or dead, business establishments, events or locales is entirely coincidental.
Puck Bear Brides
Books 1–4
All rights reserved.
No part of this work may be used, reproduced, transmitted in any form or by any means by anyone but the purchaser for their own personal use. This book may not be reproduced in any form without the express written permission of
Anya Nowlan
. Any reproduction or other unauthorized use of the material is prohibited without the express written permission of the author.
Cover ©
Jack of Covers
You can find all of my books here:
TABLE OF CONTENTS
A BEAR VICTORY
PUCK BEAR BRIDES
BOOK 1
BY
ANYA
NOWLAN
CHAPTER ONE
Cannon
“So this is it?” Heath called, one brow cocked and his jaw squared as Cannon jumped down the last few steps of the bus.
“Guess so,” he commented, stretching his arms over his head as he surveyed their surroundings.
One by one, the men piled out of the bus, some still yawning and blinking the sleep from their eyes, but their expressions soon turning somber at the sight before them. They were staring at a lake. Just... a lake.
“Coach?” Cannon called, his voice slightly tentative as he motioned for Heath to keep his trap shut, sensing from a mile away that his friend—and one of the most aggressive forwards he’d ever had the pleasure of being on the same team with—was going to run his mouth again.
No one needed that shit right now. Least of all Cannon Wright, the captain of the Chicago B… scratch that, captain of the yet-to-be-named Idaho ice hockey team, stranded seemingly in the middle of fuck-all nowhere. He slicked his hand through his short-cropped dark hair, watching the grizzled old man, who went by the name of Coach to anyone who dared refer to him at all, amble out of the bus at a leisurely pace.
For a fleeting moment, Cannon hoped that there had been some sort of a mistake. A little mishap, a wrong turn somewhere along the way that was supposed to take them to a city and a decent ice rink, but ended up with a team of brash, powerful shifter hockey players staring at a goddamn lake. No Zamboni in sight, just snow and good ol’ fashioned ice.
“What a beautiful day,” Coach chuckled, stretching much the same as Cannon had, the crack of his back sounding more like bones snapping in half.
“Uh-huh. Beautiful. Coach, you wanna explain yourself here or what?” Memphis asked in his trademark drawl, leaning on the side of the big white and blue bus that had brought Cannon and eight other unfortunate young men to wherever they were now.
Somewhere in Idaho. Where the mountains are high and the cell reception is shit,
Cannon thought wryly, shoving his smartphone back in his pocket after confirming that he got exactly zero bars in the middle of the high pine trees and the lush smell of nature.
And while the man was both pissed off and aggravated at having to be cooped up in a bus for fourteen hours for no apparent reason, the grizzly bear in him was practically standing up on its hind legs, trying to smell everything and anything at the same time. A quick glance around confirmed that he wasn’t the only one. Aside from glaring at Coach, most of the men seemed to be preoccupied with
not
shifting and tearing it for the hills.
No wonder. Considering their training and the fact that most of them were city-slickers through and through, the team didn’t see a lot of open spaces anymore. Unless the rink counted. Cannon got the sinking feeling that this little tidbit of insight had a whole lot to do with why exactly they were standing around Coach at the moment, anxiously anticipating an answer.
“Explain myself?” Coach asked, his voice always more of a roar than anything approaching conversational. “What do I have to explain myself for? Open up the cargo compartment. You’ll find enough shovels and brooms for all of you. There’s a whole goddamn lake to clean up.”
Oh yeah. There it was.
Trouble.
“Heath,” Cannon growled as he stepped forward, recognizing by the way the man’s nostrils flared that the bear shifter was not satisfied by Coach’s comment. “Coach, man-to-man here. What’s going on? Why are we in Idaho? I know you said we’re relocating, but…
Idaho?
And as far as I can tell, we’re not exactly anywhere yet. This seems to be…” Cannon trailed off, motioning around with one outstretched arm before returning his steely blue gaze to Coach. “A forest.”
“And right you are, Cannon. Perceptive as always. It’s a forest. And that,” Coach said, pointing at the wide, roughly circular lake covered with snow, “is a lake. A lake that you will clean up. A lake that you will train on. And a lake that you will goddamn learn to treat as your ally and foe until you’re good enough to go against anything other than non-sentient beings.”
Coach’s jovial expression fell, his gray brows knitting and his lined face, hard and weathered, growing stern. Cannon knew that look far too well. It meant someone was going to get reamed with drills or made to sit out one too many games. He didn’t even need to pause to know that this time, it was going to be him, because he had more questions to ask.
“Okay. Fine. Doesn’t answer the question though.
Why
are we here?”
Cannon was six foot four, a mass of finely-tuned muscle and reflexes, a beast by any standard. Years of hard training, skating, and throwing down whenever he needed to had built him into the kind of player any reasonable adversary would think twice about before pounding into on the ice. But Coach didn’t bat an eye, and Cannon Wright was damn sure that if the man would have wanted to, he could have whupped Cannon’s ass up and down the ice.
Never underestimate the raw, brute power of a pissed-off hockey coach. Hell hath no fury like Coach on a rampage.
Having said that, Cannon was more than a little surprised to see a jaunty grin appear on the lips of the old man, wearing his trademark red windbreaker, his hair pepper and salt but still thick and full. There was a glint in his eye that could only be defined as mischief, and any berating Cannon had ever received at the hands of the man who had trained him for the last five years seemed far less dangerous than the sight of Coach being amused.