by Amy Pennza
Heat entered her cheeks. “None that would give me a chance.”
“Why not?”
Her cheeks got hotter. She dropped her gaze to her lap.
He stayed quiet, but there was expectation in his silence.
Oh, what the hell. Her “secret” wasn’t really a secret. She forced her chin up. Forced herself to hold his stare. “I don’t have a Gift.”
He seemed to take a second to absorb her confession. Then he shifted in his chair. “It could come with time.”
“I don’t think so. Not for me.” She lifted a shoulder. “I’m twenty-one and I still don’t have one.”
A choking sound erupted from his throat, and he sat forward.
Alarm skittered down her spine. She half rose from her chair. “Are you okay?”
He waved her back, then coughed into his fist. “Fine. I’m fine.” He gave another deep cough. The ruddy mark over his cheek had gone pale.
“You sure you’re—”
“Fine.” He recovered, then fixed her with a stare. “You’re twenty-one years old?”
“Well, technically I’m twenty. My birthday is in two days. Are you positive you’re okay?”
“Just tired,” he said quickly. He pulled the laptop closer and tapped the keyboard a few times, the glow from the screen harsh against his scars. Almost under his breath, he said, “If we’re lucky, we can get you home in time for your birthday.”
“What? Why?”
He met her eyes over the screen. “I’m sending you home, Miss Michaels. As soon as possible. In the morning if I can manage it.”
“But . . . how will I meet the Ruperts?”
“You won’t.”
“Why not?” Why would he just send her home? It didn’t make sense. Unless . . .
Giftless. The thought slammed into her brain. Anger made her voice tight. “You don’t want one of your wolves mating someone without a Gift?”
Surprise flared in the blue eye. “That has nothing to do with it.”
“Then—”
“No one enters my territory without my permission, Miss Michaels.” His face hardened, and his good eye lightened. “And I most certainly did not give you permission.”
The hairs on her nape lifted. All her life she’d heard how anal Alphas were about protecting their borders. He might not have Hunters or a Beta, but Bard Bennett was clearly just as zealous about guarding his territory as any other Alpha wolf. The beast peeking out from his eye told her that much.
Still, something didn’t add up. Someone had invited her to Washington. And someone convinced Max it was okay to send her. Max might be the most powerful Alpha in the country, but he respected his peers. He would have never put her on a plane without Bard’s permission.
She licked her lips. “The letter the Ruperts sent . . .”
“I don’t know anything about it. But I guarantee I’ll know by morning.”
And heads will roll. The threat hovered unspoken in the air.
She shivered. “Max thought you knew. He wouldn’t—”
“As I said, I’ll get to the bottom of this. You’ll stay here tonight. We’ll speak in the morning.”
Her stomach chose that moment to let out another loud growl.
The black eyebrow went up again—which was better than the intense glower from before. “The kitchen is right around the corner. The fridge has everything you need to make sandwiches. There’s also some chicken and pasta if you don’t mind warming it up.” He flicked a look at the laptop. “I’d show you myself but I have a lot of work to do.”
“That’s okay.” She couldn’t picture him making her a sandwich anyway.
He gestured behind her. “Your suitcase is there. The guest room is just off the landing on the second floor. Do you think you can manage? The house isn’t that big.”
“Of course.”
“All right, then.”
For some reason, the abrupt dismissal made her nerves fire up. Maybe because she was well and truly staying in his house. Eating his food. Sleeping in his bed.
She bit the inside of her cheek.
“Miss Michaels?”
“Y-Yes?”
“Goodnight.”
Oh. Right. She stood. “Okay. Well, goodnight.” She turned on her heel and went to her suitcase. The space between her shoulder blades seemed to burn. Was he watching her, or was she just being paranoid?
Maybe he was right. The sooner she left Washington the better.
The suitcase’s telescoping handle wouldn’t extend. She gripped it with both hands and yanked. Pain shot through her knuckles. Before she could stop it, a pained gasp escaped her.
Bard’s voice was sharp. “What is it?”
Damn. She kept her head down as she tugged at the handle. “Nothing. Just . . . damn . . . this . . . thing.”
“Here,” he said just behind her.
She whirled so fast she wrenched her injured hand. “Ow! Shit!”
He frowned.
“Sorry,” she mumbled, fire entering her cheeks once more. It was considered impolite to curse in front of the Alpha. In her opinion, it was a stupid and outdated rule.
But what else was new? Outdated was status quo in werewolf society.
Bard didn’t seem to care about her language. He stared down at her, his blue eye discerning. “What’s wrong with your hand?”
She stuck it behind her back. “Nothing.”
“Let me see.”
“What? No. I mean, I’m fine.”
He gave her a look and put his palm out expectantly. “Give me your hand, Miss Michaels.”
She lifted her chin.
He raised his eyebrow. “We can stand here all night.”
Whatever, this was dumb. She flung her hand out. “It’s nothing. Just a little bruise.”
He took her hand in both of his, his touch gentle.
And warm. His touch was like pressing up against bricks that had baked in the sun. The dark, woodsy scent of Sandalwood swirled in her lungs.
And something else . . .
Juniper. He smelled of juniper. She recognized it from the gin Max drank sometimes.
Without realizing what she was doing, she inhaled more deeply.
He bent his head as he studied the bruises, the movement making the silver in his hair look like tinsel.
She swallowed against a suddenly dry throat.
“You have a little cut here,” he murmured, touching a fingertip to her knuckle. He lifted his head. “This is from that punch you gave me.”
“I . . .” She had to clear her throat. “I’m sorry about that. You threatened to kill me.”
One side of his mouth twitched. “Semantics, Miss Michaels. I asked you to give me a reason why I shouldn’t kill you.”
“Well, I’m not a witch.” Was that her voice sounding breathless and weak?
Even more than his grip on her hand, his blue eye seemed to root her to the ground.
“No,” he said, holding her gaze, his voice soft. “You’re not a witch.”
She drew in a shaky breath, which seemed harder than before—as if the air had thickened. He wasn’t ugly. Not really. It was just that the scars were so deep and so many it was the first thing anyone could see.
How had he gotten them? Werewolves could heal just about any injury. Cuts sealed themselves. Broken bones knit back together on their own. For injuries to leave such gruesome scars, he must have been on the brink of death.
A muscle in his jaw twitched, and she realized she was staring. Heat rushed up her neck.
“Um. I should . . .” She dropped her gaze and tried tugging her hand from his. “Go.”
He tightened his grip. “Not yet.”
She jerked her head back up. “What?”
“Not until I heal this.” He rubbed a thumb over her bruised knuckles.
“Oh, I’m fine.” She kept tugging. “It’ll heal okay. I don’t need a Band-Aid or anything.”
A hint of exasperation entered his tone. “I’m not talking
about Band-Aids, Miss Michaels. I’m a Healer.”
She stilled.
“It’s my Gift.”
Oh. For a second, she didn’t know what to say. She hadn’t given any thought to what his Gift might be. But if she had, Healer would have been last on the list of possibilities. It was a bit like a linebacker announcing he was also a kindergarten teacher.
Finally, she mustered a response. “You’re a Healer.”
Brilliant. Way to wow him by repeating him like a parrot.
He nodded. “And, I don’t mind saying, a competent one. Now, hold still. This won’t hurt, but it might feel warm.”
“Oh, I know.” Lizette had healed her bruises more than once after an intense training session with the guys.
Bard sandwiched her hand between his, one large palm covering hers like a baseball mitt. They were nice hands despite the scars that ran over his knuckles like miniature roads. His fingers were long, the nails square and neatly trimmed. Unbidden, an image popped into her brain—him standing in a steamy bathroom, nothing but a towel wrapped around his waist as he filed his nails.
Her cheeks heated.
“Steady,” he murmured. “Your heart rate is climbing again.”
She forced herself to take deep breaths. What was wrong with her that she would think inappropriate thoughts about this man? She didn’t even like him.
He closed his good eye, his forehead crinkled in obvious concentration. A second later, the top of her hand heated, the sensation like dipping her hand into a warm bath. The heat started at her knuckles and spread down, suffusing her skin. Her knuckles tingled, then itched. For a brief moment, it was like a million tiny ants trampled across her knuckles.
Suddenly, searing heat blazed against her skin. She yelped and jerked at his hold.
He tightened his grip, his good eye flying open.
The burning stopped.
A frown wrinkled his forehead. “My apologies. I must have given that one a little too much power.”
“It’s all right. You didn’t hurt me.”
He held her gaze a moment, then dropped it to their joined hands and closed his good eye again. “Just a moment longer,” he muttered. “Let me finish up.”
She held still. Unless she yanked her hand from his grip, she was helpless to go anywhere.
Bard let out a soft sigh.
He’ll be tired now. Lizette always was. Healing required a great deal of energy. It was part of the reason Healers were so revered. They gave selflessly to ensure other pack members survived. There were even ritual words for expressing gratitude toward a wolf with the Gift.
She cleared her throat. “My thanks for the Gift, Healer.”
He opened his eye, and his gaze was steady when he said, “It was freely given.”
His eye had a ring of darker blue around the iris, and his lashes were long and thick. Women would kill for lashes like that. Somehow, his eye was even more striking, contrasted as it was with the black patch on the other one. Like how a sunrise is even more beautiful after a storm.
Her stomach growled.
He dropped her hand and stepped back, then turned and limped toward his desk. “Go eat,” he said without looking back. “We’ll speak about your departure in the morning.” The sharp, impatient edge in his voice was back.
Departure. Why was it that everyone in her life was always trying to find a way to get rid of her?
Her throat burned.
And suddenly she couldn’t wait to get the hell out of the study and into a space where she could be alone.
She whirled and grabbed her suitcase handle. Who cared if the stupid thing was stuck? The bag still rolled. She tugged it to the doorway. The darkened hall beckoned. Maybe she’d skip eating and just go to bed. The sooner she fell asleep the sooner this nightmare would be over.
“Miss Michaels.”
The deep voice made her stop and spin around. “What.”
Bard sat behind his desk once more. The dark eyebrow went up at her blunt tone. He studied her, his gaze shrewd. “Make sure you eat something. And drink some water. Altitude sickness can knock anyone on their ass, even a werewolf.”
She licked her lips. “All right.”
He nodded. “Very well.”
Okay, then. She gripped her bag tighter and turned for the door. Never leave an Alpha in silence. The admonition—drilled into every wolf from a young age—rang through her mind. It was considered an insult to leave an Alpha’s presence without speaking first.
But she couldn’t face him again. “‘Night,” she mumbled, stepping into the shadows and moving down the hall.
If he answered, she didn’t hear it.
Her stomach rumbled again, and her hand gripping the handle tingled.
The same spot where he’d touched her.
She squeezed harder.
It was just the lingering effect of the healing. Nothing more. Nothing worth dwelling on, anyway.
Because she was leaving in the morning.
And she wasn’t ever looking back—not at the Washington Territory and certainly not at Bard Bennett.
She didn’t look back.
Bard stopped pretending to look at his laptop screen. There was no reason to act busy—not now that Miss Michaels had gone.
Haley. It was an unconventional name, but it suited her. Maybe her parents had named her after the comet, that rare streak of fire that lit up the night sky once or twice in a lifetime.
He shoved the laptop away. She wasn’t going to light up his lifetime. She wasn’t going to be around long enough for that.
Maybe he shouldn’t have been so blunt with her. Her eyes had brimmed with hurt when he told her she was leaving in the morning. Goodness knew, he’d bungled their meeting from the start, first by accusing her of being a witch and then by refusing to let her stay in his territory. He hadn’t always been so bad with people. In the past . . .
Out of nowhere, fresh pain bolted down his thigh. He hissed as fire seemed to lick at his quad muscle, the flames searing him from the inside out. Instinct made him grab at his leg with both hands, the heat of his Gift at the ready.
A bitter laugh welled in his chest. Most Healers could treat themselves, especially if they were otherwise hale and healthy.
But he wasn’t an ordinary Healer.
He wasn’t ordinary at all. And that was just one of several reasons why Haley Michaels needed to be on the first flight back to New York. She shouldn’t have come in the first place.
But no one had asked him.
Anger flared in his gut, even as his quad twitched, the overworked muscle firing helplessly. He gripped his leg in both hands and bent his head, letting his good eye drift shut against the pain.
As soon as he put Haley on a plane, he could turn his attention to Glenna Rupert and her schemes. Because there was no way she’d acted alone in bringing Haley to the territory.
His territory.
A growl rose in his throat. Just how many of his wolves had been involved in bypassing his authority and inviting her here?
No, not just bypassed—trampled.
His fault. That was one thing his father had taught him. The old wolf’s deep voice rose in his memory. “Every pack member’s failure is the Alpha’s failure. Lose control of your wolves and you lose control of your territory.”
Well, that had come to pass, hadn’t it? Bard opened his eye, his gaze on his twisted, useless leg. He turned his hands and dug his thumbs into the flesh, kneading the muscle. He’d grown too complacent with his wolves, depriving them of leadership. Now they felt bold enough to go around him, to plot behind his back and go against his orders.
He’d have to call a pack meeting. Summon all his wolves. Show them he was still in charge. Hell, several wolves were so young they’d never attended a pack meeting.
Of course, it had been twenty years since the last one. Twenty years . . . Longer than Haley Michaels had been alive.
His gut clenched. Yeah, the sooner she went home, the better. Th
ere was nothing for her in the Washington Territory. It didn’t matter if she went on a dozen dates with Benjamin Rupert.
Bard stopped kneading his leg. Glenna Rupert had always been ambitious when it came to her son. The vast majority of werewolf parents were. In a species where most couples only produced one offspring, the race was plagued by helicopter mothers and fathers. Matchmaking was practically an inter-territory sport.
The Ruperts had been devastated when Ben failed to Turn when he hit puberty. As the years passed and it became obvious he was a latent, they jumped at the chance to send him to the New York Territory. At the time, no one understood why Maxime Simard had such a high number of Turned latents. It wasn’t until later that rumors of his mate’s near-mythical ability started to swirl.
Maybe that’s why Glenna was interested in Haley for her son. As a once-upon-a-time latent, Ben Rupert’s options on the marriage market were limited. Few werewolf parents would accept a former latent as a mate for their child. Prejudices against wolves who couldn’t Turn were too deeply ingrained in their culture. Besides, there was always the worry that a former latent wouldn’t manage to produce a grandchild.
But matching a former latent to another former latent? Plenty of parents would seize an opportunity to see their newly Turned child happily mated.
And Haley Michaels had a lot to offer. Looking at her, no one would ever think she was a former latent. Like most wolves, she was tall and slender, with legs that seemed to stretch forever. Her bulky coat hadn’t been able to hide the fact that she had rounded curves in all the right places.
Bard’s palm tingled—the same hand he used to heal her bruises. He squeezed it into a fist on top of his thigh.
He’d had trouble concentrating as he stood before her, her injured hand in his. As her heart rate had sped up, her chest had lifted, pushing her curves into his line of vision with every breath. Thinking to eliminate the distraction, he’d tried holding her gaze.
Mistake.
He’d simply traded one distraction for another. Because Haley Michaels had the clearest, bluest eyes he’d ever seen. They were entirely without guile. There was a cliche he’d heard a million times, about eyes being the windows to the soul.