Ruff Trouble

by Sharon Maria Bidwell

  * * * *

  The first thing both men did was to jump in the shower, though they took turns. Disappointment warred with understanding in Sam. His mate was all business. Practicality won out. Bobby wanted to be ready to leave on a moment’s notice if Atkins called. Sam didn’t expect sex but…if anyone should know the need to be close it should be Bobby. They were pack. Sam needed to feel wanted. He sought security, not sex, but the other man didn’t appear to notice. He marched into the bathroom, closing the door and jumping under the hot spray, emerging five minutes later, the ends of his hair wet. He left the bathroom door open and gave Sam a nod as if to say all yours. Sam took his turn without a word, closing his eyes as the hot water pounded his back.

  Though Bobby was a room away, he’d never felt so alone. Sam offered all kinds of promises to the universe to restore order. Hell, he’d go back in time if he could, limp, and live with pain. He offered every bargain he could think of, swallowing around a lump in his throat. He’d go back and give up Bobby and Chantelle if it meant their safety.

  By the time he dragged his sorry self from the shower he’d taken twice as long as the other man and Bobby shot him an accusing glance. Their suitcases were open. He packed. In silence, Sam joined him, choosing clothes for the next day the same way Bobby had. When he finished, Bobby moved on to Chantelle’s things. He put her more fancy clothes in the bottom of her case and the more practical items on top.

  In case we find her so she can get to what she’s most likely to need fast. Same way we’ve packed for ourselves.

  At last they had their cases arranged, Chantelle’s fastened, Sam’s and Bobby’s ready to close, and clothes over the backs of chairs ready to grab.

  Bobby sat on the end of the bed as though now, tasks completed, he ran out of energy. He put his hands over his face. Sam went to his side. “She’ll be okay.” He rubbed Bobby’s back.

  “You don’t know.”

  Sam opened his mouth to argue but didn’t. “No. No, I don’t but I can hope. I can believe. When I go over all we’ve been through, all we’ve survived…” He struggled to find the right way to put his thoughts into words.

  “That’s just it. Our luck is bound to run out.”

  “We’re not cats with nine lives.”

  “Precisely.”

  “I mean with only nine lives. Maybe we have many more. You can moan at my optimism but I can complain about pessimism. Chantelle is strong. So are we, and wherever she is she knows we won’t give up and we’re coming for her. Now we should order something from room service and after we eat try to get to sleep.”

  To his surprise, Bobby said, “You’re right.”

  * * * *

  Chantelle was on her second bottle of water when a noise at last roused her. Though instinct almost brought her to her feet, caution won out. Her limbs tightened before relaxing as she took control of what the animal part of her wanted most—to snarl, to rip, to defend itself. She kept her grip on the bottle loose, her eyes closed, her head hanging, her body slumped against the wall.

  Footsteps approached. They stopped. Another sound…metal. A scrape. She almost tensed; someone might open the door of her cage, but the sound wasn’t of a key in a lock. More movement…a creak. Silence.

  Chantelle waited.

  “Ms Shepherd?”

  A male voice. She didn’t move, striving to recognise the man by his voice alone. He cleared his throat.

  “Chantelle Shepherd.” He sounded more insistent this time.

  She made a show of coming around, swallowing, eyelids unwilling to open, slow to lift, head rolling on her neck, first to the left, at last moving her head upright, blinking as the floor came into focus. Before gazing across, she rested her head on the wall at her back, not liking how much the cool support came as a blessing.

  She kept her eyes at half mast, but her supernatural vision told her more than she needed to know. The man was a stranger. She didn’t know him…though, maybe she’d noticed him somewhere. Impossible to recall. Not to speak to, though. His voice remained unfamiliar. Was he famous? No…but some recognition sparked within her. Knowledge hovered as though she might reach for it, but the more she tried to grasp the elusive information the more it evaded. She let it go…for now. The man sat in a metal folding chair facing her cage. The seat explained the scrape and creak. He’d brought the chair with him.

  Dark shoes, maybe black, maybe charcoal grey. Light grey suit. Sharp. Expensive fabric. White shirt. Red tie. Neat beard and moustache. Not elderly, but an older generation. Fair amount of grey in his hair.

  “My apologies for your rough treatment. Is there anything I can…provide?”

  “A…” She tried to reply, but had to swallow, as her throat closed on her first attempt to make a sound in what might be hours. She didn’t believe it was days. She was hungry, but the trauma might have knocked the need back for a short while. Now, as her animal healed her faster than was normal, she burned fuel, needed nourishment. Not what she intended to ask for, though. “A…d-doctor.”

  “You’ve been looked over. You’ll recover.”

  She didn’t like the sound of that. Looked over? By who? When? Who had undressed her? No point asking or knowing. Like with a perp, she could tell when someone might talk and wouldn’t. Her sense of smell helped. Although he sat several feet away, and it was difficult to collect much over the odourless yet wet essence of the cave and his lingering, cloying cologne, she breathed in a trace of his feelings. Relaxed. Confident. Amused. She didn’t waste time wondering why.

  “Clovezzzzz.” The word didn’t come out right. She tried again. “Clo-clothes.”

  He shook his head as though remorseful. “Not at this time.”

  “W-why? You some f-fucking pervert? I mean, mores than’s obvious.” Her words slurred out with little help from her. Not good.

  “I can see where you might reach such a fallacious conclusion, but no. Trust me when I tell you my interest in you is the opposite of sexual.”

  Chantelle snorted. “Can’t…get it up?” Her speech eased but the effort of talking made her want to do nothing but sleep.

  “You desire to bait me. Try to upset me, but it will not work.”

  “Then essss…explain why I can’t h-have clothes.”

  “All in good time. What I require from you is simple.”

  Though she wanted to know, Chantelle refused to ask. They both waited.

  “We’ll discuss it later. I’m here to check on you before giving you more time to rest. To recover. Food will arrive within the hour.” The man stood. “We’ll talk more in the morning.”

  The urge to let him walk away without giving him the satisfaction of calling out was great, but Chantelle fought through it. There were things she needed. She swallowed, hard, clearing her throat to call out. “B-Blankets.”

  He paused, peering back over his shoulder.

  “If I can’t have clothes…m-may I have blankets?” She gritted her teeth at the necessity of being polite. “It’s c-cold.”

  He hesitated for so long she became certain he would refuse. “As you ask so nicely, I’ll grant your wish.” He walked away whistling.

  * * * *

  After a plateful of steak and potatoes with a cursory healthy salad on the side, both men curled up in bed. Bobby checked his phone—Atkins still hadn’t called—and put it on the bedside cabinet. He lasted two minutes before the urge to throw off the bedcovers and pace threatened him with insanity. He resisted because the food enticed him to rest and Sam lay an equal ball of tension at his back. Searching for Sam’s hand, Bobby took hold and brought it around to his chest. He kissed Sam’s fingers.

  “Sorry, Sam.”

  “You’ve nothing to be sorry for.”

  “Perhaps not.” He rolled over. “I can’t help wondering if Atkins really will work through the night.”

  “He said he will.” Sam’s fingers twirled with Bobby’s hair. “Sarge never let us down before.”

  “True.” If he couldn’
t rely on Atkins, God help them, because there was no one else Bobby might call who would even make the offer to sit up into the early hours of the morning working on an unofficial case to ‘get ahead’ on the good chance it became one.

  “I hate doing nothing.”

  “You think I don’t know?” Sam’s voice stroked over Bobby in the dim light filtering through the curtains. The hotel had black-out blinds, but he’d not drawn those. Their animals, even Sam’s, liked the night, and he didn’t want to risk sleeping too heavily, no matter now unlikely it seemed. Seconds ticked by during which it appeared Sam would never speak again but he did. “I’m holding it together by trying to do what’s best. I know we need rest.”

  They did, but sleep eluded him. Bobby didn’t need to tell Sam. The man moved in closer, pressing his face into Bobby’s neck and shoulder, an arm across his body as though he feared Bobby would bolt from the bed.

  Bobby caressed Sam the way Sam’s voice had stroked over his skin. Light touches, an attempt to comfort. Sam planted a kiss on his collarbone and Bobby offered his neck. Not a thing for an Alpha to do but Sam was human.

  No. Not anymore. Sam was something…other. A hybrid. Bobby had made him into one. Sam could change and rip open Bobby’s neck in a heartbeat and Bobby’s animal knew. Inside him, his beast unfurled and though he refused to tense, Sam sensed it. A growl trickled out of Sam’s throat in response.

  Bobby didn’t move. The sound of Sam swallowing was loud in his ear. He coughed. “Sorry.”

  “My fault. I…forget.”

  Sam chuckled. “So do I. Sorry. I felt a need.”

  “To be close.”

  “You too?”

  “It’s a pack thing. One of us is missing. We need this.”

  “This?”

  Bobby kissed Sam on the lips. A soft sound escaped him. Against Bobby’s thigh, where Sam had one leg over his, the man grew hard. As Bobby pulled back, he wasn’t surprised to hear Sam apologise again.

  “S-Sorry. We…shouldn’t.”

  “You think not?”

  “We need sleep.”

  “Yes, but we need this more.” Bobby kissed him again forcing his mouth open, devouring the tongue inside. When he withdrew, he didn’t give Sam another chance to protest. “You believe you will get any sleep?”

  “We might.”

  “We might after sex. Might have a greater chance, in fact.” He watched Sam’s face, on which desire and doubt waged war. “What’s wrong?”

  “It feels…wrong, somehow. Like…a betrayal.”

  “Of Chantelle?”

  Sam nodded.

  “That’s not what she’d tell you. Sam…” Bobby ran his fingers over Sam’s shoulder and along his arm, settling a grip on his hip. “This is how we heal. Not just as shifters. Humans, too.”

  Sam swallowed again, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “Everyone fucks at a funeral.”

  Though a human might not have seen, with his enhanced vision Bobby noticed Sam’s eyes shimmered.

  “She’s not dead, Sam.”

  “H-How do you know?”

  “I just would.” He flicked a thumb over one of Sam’s nipples, making the skin pebble, making Sam hiss and arch. “We can have this. It’s allowed. We need rest and this will help. We need to be strong and this will strengthen us, reinforce our bond.” He cupped the heated weight of Sam’s cock in his palm. “This agrees with me.”

  “I’m still unsure I shouldn’t argue but…” Sam’s gazed at the pillow.

  “But…”

  “My head’s swimming too much.”

  “Sam?”

  “Yeah?”

  “Stop talking.” Without hesitation, Bobby slid down the bed. He wasted no time taking Sam in his mouth, tip to root. Sam shouted something unintelligible, the rush of blood in Bobby’s ears drowning out any actual words. Though Sam pressed a hand to Bobby’s head there was no pressure. In the base of his throat Bobby growled, the vibration hitting Sam where Bobby knew it would—in his cock, in his core, in his heart, driving into his mind. Bobby was Alpha and Sam was his. No time like this moment in which to remind him.

  A vision of Chantelle as he’d last seen her arose, but he pushed it aside. He would lie with her again and rip apart anyone who tried to stop him.

  For now, this was for him and Sam. He wasn’t lying when he claimed sex would strengthen them. Their awareness of each other would heighten and might give them an edge, though that wasn’t why he couldn’t wait to be inside Sam. God…he loved the man. Plain and simple. Admired his compassion, his fortitude. All he’d been through, his injury, being open to a relationship most people would consider at least less than ordinary; Sam able to accept Bobby would share not only his woman, but his heart, and he could love Sam almost as much. Taking the truth of the supernatural world in his stride, becoming part of it when Bobby changed him. Sam might have hated him for that but he hadn’t.

  When Bobby tasted Sam dripping on his tongue, he pulled off, not ready for Sam to come. Not until he was inside him. He scrambled up the bed, aligning their bodies, their hearts, minds, mouths, and kissed Sam as if he’d never kissed him before or might never get to kiss him again. He poured hope and passion, pain, suffering, and love into the kiss, until he had Sam groaning and crying, clinging to him. They humped, bodies rocking, twisting, touching, brushing everywhere possible. They grasped each other with hard bruising grips, loving every moment, grinding into each other with need.

  When Bobby lifted one of Sam’s legs and slid in between, the noises falling from Sam’s mouth became a litany of need.

  Damn. They didn’t have lube. Well, they did, but they’d packed everything. No way was Bobby going to drag his sorry arse off Sam and cross the room.

  “Change.”

  “Wha-What?” Confusion creased Sam’s brow, narrowed his gaze.

  “Not all the way. A little. Just enough. That way it won’t hurt when I slip into you.”

  Sam blinked in what had to be surprise judging by the scent he gave off. He made a small negative gesture with his head.

  “You know how to. You’ll still be human, Sam.”

  “But what if I’m not able? What if I go too far?”

  “You won’t. You have the control.” Sam did, but the practice in readiness for the morning wouldn’t go amiss. Bobby wasn’t about to explain. “But if you do, I’ll wait until you change back. I won’t take you like that. Trust me.” That kind of coupling wasn’t what either of them wanted.

  A few seconds more and…something gathered. Would be easy to say the air grew thick, but that would be inaccurate. Amber light slid into Sam’s eyes. His fingers curled. Though his jaw didn’t change, his expression hardened and, if he’d wanted, his snout would elongate. Bobby wasted no time in positioning himself between Sam’s legs, grateful beyond belief when Sam wrapped said legs around Bobby’s hips. Never breaking eye contact, Bobby pressed against Sam’s entrance, breached, and, with a slow constant restraint that made him grit his teeth, sank in deep.

  Sam rocked his head back into the pillow, lips peeling over now sharper teeth. A strange strangled cry broke from his throat. He gasped air. “God, that’s…”

  Bobby didn’t particularly like to screw in animal form though some shifters did, and he wasn’t a hybrid like Sam, so could not tell what the man felt other than from the way Sam reacted.

  “Never so…complete.” Sam appeared to search for the word and tossed his choice aside as soon he said it. “No, more. Can’t describe it. Like being more than alive. Like everything being right. Like…” Sam stared into Bobby’s eyes. “Like joy.”

  A troubled look followed, one Bobby understood. “We’ll get her back, Sam.” He thrust, jolting Sam’s body to align with his, the penetration deep. Sam rolled his hips, meeting him stroke for stroke.

  The man’s expression hardened. “Yes. Yes, we will.”

  Too bloody right. If one day Chantelle was the first to go, he and Sam would still be entwined—she had tried to tell him that once—but
neither he nor Sam was ready for the day to arrive. They would fight until there was nothing left to fight for and no one alive to tell.

  When they came they both howled.

  * * * *

  When someone arrived with the blankets, Chantelle pretended to be asleep, having taken the foetal position once more. Through slitted eyes she studied the young woman who pushed two blankets and, praise be, a pillow through the bars. If she were at her peak might she make it to her feet and grab hold before the woman stepped out of reach? Hard to be certain and she was far from her best. Besides, even if she grabbed hold, if the woman didn’t have a key, it wouldn’t free her from the cage. If she threatened the woman’s life…Hard to judge the consequences. She had no way of knowing what kind of relationship the woman shared with the kidnapper. She might be a victim, like Chantelle. Or mean nothing to the man. He might stand by while Chantelle broke her neck…not an action she would take. Not to someone who might be innocent. The woman’s expression conveyed much along with her smell: remorse, doubt, worry. Might be better to make friends with her if the chance arose. Also…someone stood further along the corridor—if one called a channel cut into the rock such. A man, out of sight. The smell of gun oil spiked in Chantelle’s nose. Though most of British police didn’t carry guns she’d been around enough weapons to know the man was armed.

  Was it the man she knew? The one she’d so foolishly walked along a London street with? Pain lanced through her head as she tried to remember. She knew him. She did. Had spoken his name in surprise. Earlier? A day ago? Time had little meaning here. She determined nothing more from his scent as they both walked away.

  She lay motionless for several minutes before rising, groggy, to her feet. A few staggering steps took her across the cell and, as she bent, she had to cling to the bars as blood rushed into her head and set her temples throbbing. She grabbed one blanket and wrapped it around her, snagged the other and the pillow, taking both to the back wall. Better to stay away from the door until she was stronger. She might need the precious seconds it would take for someone to unlock the door and to reach her. One thing the stranger was right about—she required rest, but she might need to awaken and get to her feet in a hurry. A few seconds might make all the difference.