by Nikki Sex
I shake my head. “Nice try. Helplessness triggered self-serving greed. Why did I choose to keep all that power? Because I only feel safe when I hold the biggest stick of all.”
Big stick!
Stafford’s eyes light, as do my own. It’s a couple’s thing—that instant connection without actual mind reading. We both crack up laughing, captured by adolescent humor.
Typical man, his mind on his cock.
In his defense, it is impressive, and my mind goes there, too.
Stafford waggles his eyebrows suggestively. “My dearest Jan, my stick is your stick. I’m happy to help you with that.”
“Of course, you are. Men!” I tease. “Always thinking of sex.”
He smirks. “It’s true. We’re beasts at heart.”
I snicker. “And animals in the bedroom.”
Stafford laughs, sits on the bed. Pulling me down beside him, he affectionately strokes my cheek. “We all have things we’re ashamed of, things we wish we hadn’t done, or had somehow done differently.
“Before I came along, the Magic Lands were a mess. When I took over, I had to be ruthless. Being werewolves didn’t mean we were all on the same side.
“Did I hurt people? Yes. Was I forced to murder good people in my path to absolute domination? Many times. You talk about darkness within you? What about the black, moonless night within me? My inner beast loves to fight. To an Alpha wolf, ripping out an enemy’s throat isn’t murder—it’s fun. Often, my biggest battle is keeping the beast within in check.”
I nod my agreement. “Blood is a siren’s call.”
“There you go.” He takes my hand, squeezes it. “After I gained the throne and named myself Beast Lord, I needed force, deceit, and manipulation to keep it.”
“Really? I thought strong werewolves could sense a lie.”
“They can.” His brown eyes flash with wry humor. “And only really powerful paranormals can get around that ability.”
Chapter 35.
Surprised, I raise my eyebrows. “Cool! Can you teach me that trick?”
We fall together, laughing out loud. It wasn’t that funny, but the conversation was getting heavy. Laughter lightens the load.
Once we stop snickering, I say, “My entire life has been a lie. Tricks and manipulation were my stock in trade. That, and constantly moving place to place. You’re the Alpha of Alphas, you openly tell people what to do. Why resort to sneakiness?”
“When I first arrived in the Magic Lands, there was only one pack, run by a shifter named Prince.”
“No! Prince?” I snort. “Really? Like the singer? What kind of name is that?”
He chuckles. “His father’s name was King.”
“Okkkaaay. No parental pressure there, eh?”
He chuckles. “Prince was wolf-born, not wolf-made. Until I came along, no wolf-made shifter had ever become pack Alpha. It just wasn’t done. Wolf-born weres could trace their lineage back well before Marikri cast the ward, three-hundred years ago.” He shrugs. “Prejudice is everywhere, even among lycanthropes.
“Enoch, a popular wolf recognized my power. He trained me to fight, to challenge Prince for top Alpha. This was his hidden goal. I had no idea of his plans. I didn’t understand I was the only wolf that could possibly overcome Prince.
“Enoch primed me like a gun, to fire at his target. I wasn’t supposed to challenge Prince during the full moon, but that’s another story.
“I killed my rival, took over the pack. Enoch wanted me to turn the pack over to him. It’s a long, sad story. Enoch was my second, my most trusted friend. Instead of loyalty, he’d carefully, cleverly, been turning others against me.”
“How did you get out of that?”
“I couldn’t just challenge him, he’d built up so much hatred for me and my lesser, wolf-made status by then. I fought fire with fire, using the same deception he’d used on me. I pretended to value, need, and trust him, while gathering wolves of my own. I couldn’t take him down without evidence of his crimes. Even then, it was a close call and a mighty bloodbath. Many born-wolves died in that unsuccessful coup.”
Stafford wraps himself around me. “I’m glad we’re together. You’ve no idea how much I need you to keep me sane. It’s lonely at the top. I can’t afford to show doubt, I must appear sure of myself. Strong and powerful. My people need me to be that leader.”
“You are strong and powerful.” I smirk. “And virile.”
“I am.” He grins happily. “Stronger than ever, thanks to you. Yet, I have my own dark side. After all these years, I still feel the weight of uncertainty, the burden of self-doubt.”
“I hear ya,” I interject. “I’ve lived in circumstances where I’ve been so afraid of making the smallest mistake, I ended up doing nothing.”
Stafford frowns. “Ouch.”
“Tell me about it.”
“Stopping for self-reflection is important, but not to the point of inaction. It’s good we have each other. I’ll watch you, and you keep an eye on me. Stop me from stepping into traps I’m too arrogant to see, or from leaping off the stupid cliff from time to time.”
“Stafford—”
“I mean it. We can be each other’s moral compass. I no longer seek perfection—I’ve given up on that idea. Just being right more than half the time is a good result.”
Sudden sparks of his concern nip at me, make me frown. “What has you worried now?”
“A small thing tugs at me for resolution. A new werewolf I have caged and isolated underground. Samara can do nothing with her.”
“What wolf?”
“Silver—that’s the name she goes by. You must’ve seen her—or at least smelled her dyed black hair. The girl with black clothes, silver nose ring, and a huge chip on her shoulders?”
“Goth Girl? Her name is Silver?”
His lips twitch at the name I’ve given her. “That’s the one.”
“Toby likes her.”
Stafford raises an eyebrow in surprise. “Oh, yeah?”
We eventually exhaust the subject of Silver, then discuss other areas of interest. I enjoy listening to his diverse problems. Such a nice change from my own. Everyone has a cross to bear, that’s for sure.
“I can help with Goth Girl—I mean Silver,” I murmur, winding back to the beginning of the conversation.
“I’m sure you can. We’ll discuss it later today or tomorrow, after we sleep. We both need rest.”
Grinning, I recall our magical sexual marathon. “Tell me about it.” I check the clock on the bedside table, staggered to find we’ve been talking for over three hours. It felt like no time at all.
He hugs me affectionately, kisses my temple. Utterly disarmed, I finally let my shield down, consciously opening my mind to him. His tension evaporates. I feel a weight lift from his shoulders.
Like drinking cool spring water on a hot summer day, we refresh each other. Our bond is seamless. We are joined. Complete.
“That’s better, sweetheart,” he breathes through my mind. “Don’t keep me out.”
“It can’t always be like this.”
“It can for now.”
Awww, who could resist him? Love swells within me like an incoming tide. Lord, I’m such a sap!
Stafford lightly kisses my eyes, my nose, my mouth. He makes soft, sweet love to me then—not as a wolf, fiercely claiming his mate, but as a man, cherishing the woman he loves. Murmuring endearments to each other, we reach our release together.
My mate’s essence is like a blanket, enveloping me in a cozy, comforting glow. Emotionally exhausted, yet relieved, I’m more content than ever before.
I fall asleep, wrapped in the soul-warming radiance of Stafford’s acceptance, connection, and sweet, sweet, luvvv.
Chapter 36.
Stafford and I wake refreshed around six P.M. After languidly sharing a shower, we raid the fridge for a quick bite. My body feels deliciously sore after last night, but I’m not complaining. Every ache is a mind-blowing memory.
> Ready to get down to business, Stafford turns on the TV to show me the problem with Goth Girl, AKA Silver.
The last time I saw her was just before Queen Victoria tried to kill me. Silver had greeted me with a deferential bow, then patted and crooned over Toby. The woman may have a self-destructive streak, but when it came to the werebitches ganging up on me, Goth Girl had been on my side.
Wonder Dog had wagged his tail, accepting her attention. He liked her. That sealed the deal for me. Toby is a good judge of character.
I recall saying to Silver at the time, “I appreciate your support. From now on, you and me? We’re going to be good friends.”
The day after I killed Victoria, I was kidnapped and taken to Faery.
“Here,” Stafford says, switching on the TV. “This is a recording of her last session. Her first therapist couldn’t help, so I called in the big guns.”
We drop onto a couch, sitting beside each other. He presses start, I see the inside of a prison cell. Silver is sitting in a chair, both arms chained to the floor. A table separates her from Samara, sitting across from the furious werewolf.
Quentin’s mate, Samara, is a powerful shifter, and a badass psychologist. The “Queen of Compassion and Understanding,” I’ve personally benefited from her superpowers.
Maybe seventy in human years, she’s lean and fit, with gray hair and bright gray eyes. As usual, her long locks are braided, curled elaborately on top of her head. Wisps of hair have flatteringly escaped from her coiffure.
An elegant hippy, I bet she even does yoga.
This sensible, wise, kind woman also has an embarrassment of riches unheard of—three newborn children. Wyatt is in wolf form, while the other two, Jonas and Myriam, are still in intensive care.
Of course, she’d much rather be with them than in a cell with an angry, uncooperative werewolf. Samara is the perfect pack member.
Silver…not so much.
Wearing dark clothes, Silver’s spiky dyed-black hair is shaved down to her scalp on one half of her head, long on the other. From the thick stubble on the shaved side, it appears it hasn’t been cut for some time.
Silver’s black aura matches her thundercloud attitude—angry, unhappy, filled with hate. Two restless spirits float above her, both with terribly scarred skin and blackened clothing.
“I'm listening,” Samara’s face is sympathetic, her tone gentle. “Please, speak to me.”
Silver’s fiery eyes glare. “This is bullshit, total bullshit!” she snarls, the sound reverberating off the thick walls of the cell.
“You, or your beast, stabbed a fellow pack member,” Samara says quietly. “When others came to assist, you attempted to stab them, too.”
“They were interfering—that idiot deserved it. He was a dickhead.”
“Stephen told me he was simply trying to talk to you, to get to know you.”
Silver sneers. “Yeah, right. Is that what the fucker called it? All men say that.”
“You’re a new wolf. No one knows you or your life, but it’s obvious you’re under stress. I’m sorry about that, I truly am, but as a wolf you’re dangerous, so you must be smart. As a trained psychologist, I can help you.”
Rage flares behind Silver’s eyes. My demon hums, imagining the delightful taste of it.
“You’re a shrink? More bullshit! I don’t need a shrink.”
Samara’s kind eyes harden. “Believe me, if you keep this shit up, you’ll leave the Beast Lord no choice. For the good of the pack, he will kill you.”
An invisible slap of power hits the prisoner, making her body shake.
Obviously, Samara used magic to take her down a peg. The threat of certain death, combined with the fact that Samara is a more dominant wolf, should make the young woman back down.
But it doesn’t.
Clearly itching for a fight, Silver ignores the quick bite of pain. “The good of the pack?” Her snide, non-humorous laugh is layered with ugly sarcasm and righteous contempt.
Hmm. Death doesn’t scare her. In her current state, she’d welcome it. Maybe she’s done something she can’t seem to come back from. Does she think she deserves to die?
The counselor—observing what I see, quickly changes her approach. Always good to be positive, to give the unruly werewolf something to live for.
“You’re a powerful wolf and an excellent fighter,” Samara says, “you’d be even better with training. The Beast Lord values everyone, we each have a position in the pack. You have computer expertise, you may have other interests. We want you to be an asset to our pack.”
“I'm a person, not an asset! Next you’ll be talking about self-esteem, and healthy choices.” Her ugly, accusing stare stabs like a knife. “Psychobabble BS, created to drive a person mad. Just get the fuck away from me. You don’t know me, you don’t know shit!”
“You’re right, I don’t know you,” Samara’s agrees mildly. “So, tell me what I don’t know. You and your beast can’t possibly want to be stuck down here. How can I help you? Tell me what you need.”
“None of your God-damned business! I don't have to talk to you or anyone. You know what I want?” The question comes out as a wolfish growl. “I want to be left alone!”
The rest of the video gets worse until Silver abruptly lifts her feet, puts them on the edge of the table, violently shoving it onto her counselor.
Samara easily, gracefully, jumps out of the way.
Two burly pack members rush in.
Growling and snarling, Silver leaps up from her chair. With feral cunning, she viciously attempts to attack them, fearlessly ready to take everyone on.
The chains prevent her.
From where the cuffs encircle her wrists, blood drips down the chain, colorfully painting the floor. Her two spirits look on, obviously traumatized.
They love her, I see that now.
Death by fire. Family members, possibly even her parents? Yet that doesn’t make sense. With love in Silver’s life, how did she end up filled with so much hate?
An uncomfortable pang twists in my chest.
I feel sorry for all of them.
Silver’s rage serves a purpose. It keeps her from drowning in an ocean of grief and despair. I curb a wry smile. Wouldn’t the stubborn woman be furious to know I pity her?
Stafford stops the recording, looks at me with a neutral expression. It doesn’t hide the emotional turmoil he feels inside. As Beast Lord, Silver’s future weighs heavily on him. Her fate is in his hands and it doesn’t look good.
I shrug. “One of the first things a child learns in a healthy family is trust. One of the first things a child learns in a dysfunctional family is not to trust.”
“Makes sense.”
“With no one to count on, when hope has gone—that’s when hate, fear, and despair—disguised as rage, begins a long, slow burn in one’s soul.”
“Poetic.”
I snort. “Yeah. Well, nice words but it isn’t pretty. I know exactly what kind of upbringing Silver had. If she’d never become a shifter, if she hadn’t been given an inner wolf, she would’ve survived in the outside world—in her miserable, wounded manner.”
“True.” Stafford picks up a wood carving of a wolf from the coffee table, restlessly handles it. “Being psychic isn’t enough. I need to put more thought into who can become a werewolf.”
“Samara will have some ideas about that,” I agree. “Her beast believes it’s protecting her. Finally, Silver has someone totally on her side. Unfortunately, her wolf doesn’t understand. Feeling her pain, it longs to fight, to destroy her perceived enemies—which include her packmates.”
“Also true.” Stafford puts the carving down, takes my hand. “Her beast and I get on fine, the woman is the problem.”
“Have you spoken to her since she’s been imprisoned?”
“Not this time, but she’s been in trouble before.”
“I see.” He probably hasn’t had a chance.
“As Beast Lord, I’ve compelled her beast
, but power combined with instability is too risky. Everything triggers her aggression. Only three months changed and she’s already able to shift just her claws? Honestly, she’s too damned dangerous to be allowed freedom.”
Our eyes meet in a moment of perfect understanding. I voice the words he hasn’t said, “Will you be forced to kill her?” My demon perks up at the idea. I really hate that about him, but I do understand it’s in his nature.
“I may have to.”
“It won’t come to that.” I stand up, begin pulling on underwear and jeans. “You handle her beast, and I’ll deal with her. The woman will do what I tell her to do.”
“You think so?” Hopefulness is a bright, warm flame in his mind.
“I know so.” Eyebrow teasingly raised, I shoot him a wry glance. “You don’t get it, do you?”
He shakes his head.
I tilt my head, study him curiously. “Silver has issues for sure, but she’ll learn to trust. Right now, for the safety of the pack, I’ll do what I must. I doubt I’ll rot in some ungodly hell for using compulsion.”
“What are you talking about?” Stafford’s confused expression is adorable.
I smirk. “Silver’s our little bitch—she must comply. Didn’t you notice her beautiful, blue-black raven wings?”
Chapter 37.
The instant I step into the lower level prison, a slap of lycanthrope energy charges the air. Silver’s a powerhouse, but the spirits haunting her are the real surprise. They clap, nod, and grin exuberantly at my arrival.
“We know you see us,” the male ghost says ominously.
What the hell? Ghosts never notice me unless I speak to them first.
The instant Silver’s dark gaze falls on my face, her full-lipped mouth drops open. Clearly stunned and emotional, her pupils grow huge, her eyes begin to swim.
“Is it you?” she breathes.
Intentionally ignoring her unexpected reaction, I shoot her a broad grin. “Of course, it’s me. I’m baaccck. Why?” I raise a teasing eyebrow. “Did you miss me?”
Fierce, angry Goth Girl, the prickly young woman who generally looks as though she’d like to claw your eyes out, then force you to eat them—bursts into tears.