Ice Over Brook

By Lyra Evans

Calder Townshend hates his name. All it brings to mind are lavish balls and elitist nobles and the constant pressure of his mother to marry up. But when he’s at work as a border guard for Nimueh’s Court, Calder goes by a different name—Brook. And then, everything changes. As Brook he’s a border guard first, and he’s damn good at his job. So much so, he’s even made friends with Alpha Connor Pierce and his mate Oliver Worth, Leaders of the Werewolf Court. As Brook, he’s got respect and dignity and control. Except when it comes to one particular Werewolf border guard...

Jackson Racer is impossible to read. He’s tall and lean and mischievous to a fault. He’s been playing with Brook’s heart since the day they met on the border, and Brook can’t handle it anymore. He needs to get over Racer—and the two weeks he has off for the Winter Solstice are a perfect time to try.

Until Oliver Worth asks Brook to take on a case—with Jackson Racer. Now Brook has to go undercover to infiltrate an illegal potions ring to find the leaders and their stash. And if being partnered with Racer wasn’t bad enough, their aliases have them pretending to be lovers. But as the Winter Solstice draws nearer and the weather turns icy, heat rises between Brook and Racer and danger is everywhere.

Now they’re playing parts with the suspects and with each other. Will this Winter Solstice bring further frost, or will it melt the ice over Brook’s heart once and for all? And can they work together to solve the case before it, too, goes cold?

Ice Over Brook is a 60,000-word stand-alone story set in the world of the Three Courts. It follows the events of the Worth Series, but it is not necessary to have read the Worth Series to enjoy this book. It features Werewolves, WIzards, some violence, and explicit content. This book is not suitable for readers under 18 years of age.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Lyra Evans
• Release date: Dec 6, 2022
• ISBN: 9781005462758

Lyra Evans

Lyra Evans has been making up stories since she was a kid and writing them down since her best friends informed her that was actually a career. Though plot and fantasy are what drive her worlds, she's got a particular love for M/M romance that she can't quite kick (though who would want to?). She tries her best to mix those three elements in her novels. A lover of books, games, food, and travel, she's always excited to try something new.For updates on her novels and what inspires her, follow her on Twitter.If you'd like to receive an email alert every time one of her books goes live, you can subscribe to the newsletter here: eepurl.com/cm-Af2 (you'll only receive emails for new books, no spam).

Book preview

Ice Over Brook

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

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

Epilogue

Acknowledgements

Prologue

The fire crackled in the distance, the sound like the heartbeat of the woods. But he couldn’t believe it, couldn’t hold on to the staccato melody. His mind was elsewhere.

The kiss was heated, wet, messy—as you’d expect a drunken kiss to be. Heat rose in his chest as their lips met, though, and he sighed into the embrace. A fluttering rhythm pattered against his sternum, his heart light and full of hope. The flavour of whiskey and rye was on his tongue, overwhelming much of what he really wanted to taste, but he didn’t mind just then. More was coming. More kisses in bright sunlight and in the low light of a bedroom at dusk. More kissing and touching and more hands running down his sides, cupping his ass and pressing bodies together. More tongues and more groans as their hips ground together. More teeth scraping gently over skin, more hair falling across his flushed cheeks, more moaning and gasping and leaning forward as he leaned back.

There was time, still. Time ahead for all the tasting he wanted to do. And he would—taste. It was what he wanted more than anything. Or—well, more than most things. What he wanted more than anything he wouldn’t let his heart cling to. That would come. Slowly, like the unfolding of a flower to the sun, it would happen. If it was meant to. And in the meantime, kisses.

Only the morning came, and with it darkness. A hollow echo in his chest, he cursed himself for not tasting when he had the chance.

Chapter 1

Hot lips against his chest, he threw his head back and groaned. Fire lit beneath his skin, and his cock was throbbing, hard, his hips bucking upward. A sly smile and dark blue eyes, nearly black, inky like the night, flashed him a mischievous look.

Eager, are we?

For all the gemstones in all the world, yes, he was eager. A hand wrapped swiftly around his cock, squeezing at the base, and he groaned again. He bucked upward, and suddenly lips were sliding over the head of his erection, a thick tongue laving wide laps against his cock. Head bobbing up and down over his shaft, his lover was talented. The heat of his mouth exquisite, perfect, beyond belief. He thrust up, into his lover’s mouth, unable to control himself. Nothing else around them mattered, nothing registered. He couldn’t tell if it was night or day, hot or cold. All he knew was the mouth on his cock, the throat taking him deep, sucking and licking and driving him completely mad.

A pop and a soft slurp. Come for me, his lover said. I want to taste you, to drink you. Come for me. Let me make you scream my name.

And he wanted to. He wanted desperately to give in. Mouth on his cock again. Tonguing the slit of his head. A shower of sparks coming to life deep in his belly. He reached down and gathered a fistful of roan red hair, fucking his lover’s mouth more steadily with not a hum of complaint. Hands smoothed over his hips, his thighs, then down, fingertips playing with his balls. How he wanted to come. How he wanted to be sucked dry. And he was close—so close—

A shrill beeping pierced the fog of his mind, and he opened his eyes, the world coming into focus around him. The bedroom was dark but growing slowly lighter. Sunlight filtered in through the gauzy curtains he’d only half-covered with the thicker ones. An oversight he’d made in the haze of exhaustion the night before. He blinked blearily at them, trying gruffly to swallow. His throat was dry and rough.

Fuck, he whispered, realizing he was still painfully hard beneath the comforter, the remnants of his dream tenting his sheets. With a groan and a sigh, he reached up to the shelf at his headboard and pulled down a small glass vial. Pouring out a bead of the blue liquid onto his palm, he reached down beneath the covers and coated his cock with it. He stroked once, twice, three times, then grabbed his cock with his dry hand and slipped his slicked fingers down, between his legs.

Fingertips probing at the puckered ring of muscle, he wasted little time preparing himself. He pushed steadily into himself with one finger, the lube effectively smoothing the transition, and then he added another finger. And another. He stroked steadily at his cock with one hand, fucking himself on his own fingers with the other. It wasn’t as satisfying as a thick cock buried deep inside him, but it would do for now. Enough to take the edge off his yearning and let him get on with the rest of his day.

He crooked his fingers slightly, pressing deep as he could reach from his position, and tightened his grip on his cock. Throwing his head back, the face of the lover from his dream filtering into his mind, he bit down roughly and groaned, coming hard against the sheets and coating himself in sticky fluid.

Slipping his fingers in and out of himself once or twice more, he took a few moments to breathe in, to soak in the feeling of climax, and to gather his energy for his morning routine. His nose twitched, the bedroom now smelling of sex—or rather, of masturbation, which was worse. Shoving the comforter and sheets off himself, he reached up for a battered and worn ring that sat next to the lube. The silver band was host to a large, rather clear emerald. He slipped it onto his finger and cast a cleaning spell on his bedding. With the evidence of his self-pleasuring went the smell in the room, vanished into the ether, his bedding looking clean as new. The cleaning spells would wear away the fabrics eventually, but his sheets were changed regularly enough that didn’t concern him much.

Wiping his hands and stomach on a tissue, he glanced at the clock. Five o’clock in the morning. He’d taken fifteen minutes to indulge himself, and all to the same damn image of roan red hair and a sly smile. He needed to get some better fodder for his fantasies. This was getting ridiculous.

With a sigh, he pushed himself out of bed, removing the emerald ring and placing it back on the shelf. Stretching from side to side, pulling his arm back behind his head, then again, then the other arm, he curved his spine in a half-Moon. He grabbed his sweats from the chair near his bookshelf and pulled them on.

The room was a mess, but by anyone else’s standards it was perfectly tidy. His sweats stayed on his chair, a silver-grey armchair with winged back he had not chosen himself, and an assortment of tactical gear sat in an open duffel bag at the foot of his closet. The closet door stood open, revealing the shallow walk-in filled with his clothes. Most of them remained perfectly pressed and untouched. Only his well-worn jeans, slightly rumpled, showed signs of use. He had shorts and polos, slacks and button-downs, sweaters and vests and suits and even a few tuxedos hanging in perfect positioning along the racks of his closet. A cabinet against the wall, not visible from where he dressed himself in his gym attire, held his shoes, watches, sunglasses, rings, and cufflinks in carefully curated cases. His ties and socks hung from a designated rack to the other side, but these, too, he rarely touched.

The dresser standing opposite the bookshelf was filled with his every-day clothing, excepting the jeans. His uniform was pressed and folded atop the dresser, the drawers filled with underwear and department-issue socks. His boots lay at the foot of the dresser, slightly scuffed on the toe because he hadn’t gotten around to cleaning them the night before. The uniform shirt was folded in such a way as to partially obscure the nametag that read ‘Brook.’ It was a sign of the housekeeping staff’s devotion to his mother that they bothered to fold them that way. She’d never been happy about his choice, but here he was anyway. Imagine that. He had defied her wishes and had managed to not spontaneously combust.

The dog tags around his neck were more than enough to satisfy him, though. He wore them every day, regardless of his work schedule. Though the tags were meant to be worn beneath his clothing, on occasion, he’d forget and the silver oval etched with the word ‘Brook’ glinted in plain sight at the dinner table.

The shelves above his bed were the most interesting. They bore the medals and trophies he’d won throughout his schooling, for wrestling, for cross-country running, and for archery. He had cheap jewellery scattered along some shelves, emeralds and rubies and jade stones mixed in with topaz and diamonds. A few alexandrite stones were gathered along one end, fastened to the chain links of a silver bracelet. But none of these items had much value compared to the rings and cufflinks stored in the closet. He had sapphires and obsidian pieces in there, never worn but to Court events, and then more for status than use.

Brook sighed, slipping his feet into the old trainers at the foot of his bed and pulled his arm out in front of him, stretching again as he walked out the door toward the gym.

The house sprawled out before him as he closed his bedroom door behind him. His rooms were in the East Wing, the hall to his bedroom also branching off to a private sitting room, small kitchen, office, media room, and full bathroom. Though no one else used these rooms, he hadn’t chosen much of any of the décor, nor even the arrangement of the furniture outside of his bedroom.

The narrow carpet running the length of the hallway was plush and cream coloured. The walls were adorned with white wainscoting and rich paneling, dotted with paintings and tapestries at precise intervals. Strung up in loops from the ceiling were garlands of fir adorned with tiny pixie lights and diamonds to reflect them. Magical icicles dropped down from the peaks of the loops, glittering in the light and lending a wintry, supernatural air to the hall in honour of the coming Solstice. A side table sat along the hall between the door to the kitchen and the sitting room, and there were gemstones embedded into the doorframes of every room that served to signal the house staff in the event he needed anything. Anything at all.

Through most of his childhood, Brook wasn’t sure why it was he had his own kitchen when the house staff were always on hand, but once he went to train for the border guards, he realized the arrogance of that idea. He began cooking his own meals right after, though he suspected the staff had snuck in during those first few meals to adjust his recipes the moment he turned his back. He’d been far too good a cook right away for them not to have intervened. That year, his Winter Solstice gifts to the East Wing staff were larger than they had been his whole life. He could never really express how grateful he was for all they did for him. And he’d been something of a little shit in his youth.

The crystal-strung chandeliers that punctuated the hall were secretly strung with diamonds as well, hidden in the centre of each strand, in case of emergency. There were several little details like this in unnoticeable places along the estate. Most families relied on heavy security warding to protect them, but Brook’s training at the border and his relationship with Oliver Worth and Connor Pierce had taught him the value of having a contingency plan. He’d had the gemstones installed, much to his mother’s dismay, only a few months prior. It was only after she saw the delightful play of light the diamonds in the chandeliers cast along the walls that she fell silent on the subject.

Pushing open the double doors that marked the end of the East Wing and the entry into the main Manor, Brook stepped out onto a brightly lit landing. A massive staircase sprawled out toward a marbled entry with a chandelier large enough to house a colony of pixies hanging from the ceiling. The same cream coloured carpet flowed out here, along with the same wall décor, the same framing for the paintings. Side tables here matched the one in Brook’s hall. It was like living in a hotel, really. He knew that once he returned from working out, his bed would have already been made, his room tidied as much as he allowed the staff to do. They didn’t dare touch his tactical gear, which was why it was sitting in a pile in the duffel on the floor. He was trained to be organized, but that was his small act of rebellion against his mother’s perfectly arranged house. His entire life had been organized and precise. He could certainly afford a modicum of disorder now he was an adult.

The gym, much to his dismay, was shared use and so was housed in the main Manor. He was forced to walk out by the main sitting room to get to it, which meant a likely chance to interact with his parents or his elder brother. Since Brook had little interest in that recently, he had taken to waking up before the rest of the family to work out.

He managed to slip into the gym, equipped with all the equipment any fitness instructor could ever dream of, without crossing paths with anyone. The moment the door closed behind him, the lights of the gym flickering on with his entry, he sighed in relief. He had an hour of blissful alone time to exercise and wear his muscles to their limit, to push himself past his breaking point so he could take the edge off the fantasies in his mind, the wanting that grew in his stomach, the growing hole in his chest.

With a deliberate breath, he got to it.

An hour or so later, the time slipping away like water through his fingers, Brook finished his cool down stretches and pulled a towel from the rack by the door. Wiping his face with the soft terrycloth, he breathed in the scent of lavender in a summer meadow and smiled. It beat the smell of sweat, anyway. At least, the smell of his own sweat. He’d found that at least one person out there had a way of smelling good while sweaty. More than good, really.

Shaking his head, Brook tossed the sweaty towel into the bin in the corner and left the gym, breathing hard. His world had come back to a centre, the core of his life steady. Though the yearning was still there, it was dulled. He had other things to do than pine. He had a life to live, a family to deal with, a Winter Solstice ball to attend. Maybe this year he’d find someone else there, some partner he could court who would make him forget.

He walked out along the hallway toward the main staircase, hand on his nape, head angling side to side to stretch his neck, without really thinking of where he was going. Which was the problem.

Calder! his mother’s voice called, and Brook stopped short, hovering just before the massive Solstice fir tree adorned with crystal and diamonds in the main hall. His jaw tightened immediately, but he forced himself to relax. She used his given name, and worse than that, she used it in full. The rest of his family called him Cal, but not his mother. No. She insisted on calling him Calder. Because it was proper.

Mother, Brook said, turning to her. He had long ago shed the embarrassment any other courtier might feel at being caught in sweatpants and no shirt, his body slick with sweat, his chest heaving. It was glaringly inappropriate to greet guests that way, but Brook had hardly been aware they would have guests at 6 o’clock in the morning.

Yet there they sat, along with his mother, in the main sitting room of the Manor. A massive space with ornate sofas in wood and soft velvet flanking the flagstone fireplace that was centerpiece to the room. The tables were all heavy wood, polished to a mirror shine, with glass and crystal and marble pieces throughout where they were ‘appropriate.’ The painting at the centre of the fireplace was of the whole family, Brook’s mother sitting in central prominence. It was she who was descendent of the Townshend name, after all. His father, standing to her left just behind her, had taken her name because he was a Second Son of a lesser family. Like Brook, he had taken to saying. He’d married up, as Second Sons can do. Whitley, his older brother and the First Son, obviously, was standing directly behind their mother, his prominence second in the portrait. Brook stood to the right