Untamed and Irresistable

by Rosie Miller

  But this wasn’t like that. Not like that at all.

  She stopped laughing and took another sip of wine. Her thoughts were making sense again. And she felt angry. “Why did you get involved with me, when you knew this could happen?” This was all Jackson’s fault.

  “I tried not to. I really did.”

  “Not hard enough.”

  “I know, I know. But I’m not so different to other men. I can fall in love too. Or at least, I know I can now—now I’ve met you.”

  “You really love me?” It seemed hard to believe. He’d been so distant, so determined to shut her out.

  “I have done since I met you. I knew you were the one. But you weren’t part of our kind. I knew it could never work out. I should have walked away, there and then. But I didn’t.”

  “No, you didn’t.” She remembered the times Jackson had pushed her away, had tried to end it, and it all made sense now. If only he’d tried harder. But… she looked at him again. Would she give him up? Even with what she knew now?

  “Is it too much to hope—that you feel the same about me?”

  She thought carefully. A week ago if he’d come to her and said he loved her and wanted to spend the rest of his life with her—she’d have been overjoyed. She might have asked him a few questions—a lot of questions—and she would have spent a lot more time getting to know him properly before she’d actually have walked down the aisle with him. But yes—she’d have been delighted—and willing to give it a go. Part of her still wanted that.

  But it wasn’t the same anymore. It wasn’t like he was in the middle of a divorce, or belonged to some weird religious sect. This was group of people who turned into wolves and killed people to keep their secret.

  This was way beyond any ordinary crazy she had imagined. “I don’t know. I did—I really did. But everything’s different now. I didn’t know who you were—what you were—then.”

  He nodded, miserably. “You can’t love me, now that you know. I knew you wouldn’t. It’s impossible.”

  She shrugged. She didn’t know. She’d never before thought about what she would do if a man she loved turned out to be someone—something—quite different. It was like discovering the guy you were in love with was a bigamist or had a string of convictions for sexual offences—but much much worse. At least they were human.

  How should she feel? She had no idea. Was she one of those women now—the ones she’d always pitied—who declared they’d stand by their man, whatever heinous crime he was accused of? Or was she being unfair on Jackson? Like he said, he couldn’t help it. And it wasn’t like he’d done anything wrong—except fall for her. But that didn’t mean she wanted to be a part of it.

  She looked at him again. How could he still look so handsome when she knew he wasn’t even properly human? She couldn’t bear to see the look of misery on his face—but she couldn’t just say none of this mattered and everything would be alright. It didn’t feel like anything would be alright ever again.

  But was it really marriage or death? Surely there was another way. “What happens now? What if I don’t want this—any of this? What if I just walk away?”

  “You can’t. This isn’t something you can just walk away from. You know things that could mean the end to me and my people. I can’t risk it.”

  “What if I run away and you can’t find me?”

  “We’re hunters. We’d find you.”

  “You could tell them I was dead. Or we could run away together, somewhere they would never look. We could go to a desert island—one of those uninhabited ones—without any TV or phone or anything—we could be castaways—just me and you.”

  She was babbling, but she meant it. Surely she didn’t have to stay here. She—they – must have options. “What if you killed Christophe? Then no one else would know about me. You could keep me a secret.” She couldn’t believe she’d just advocated murder as a solution. Sure, Christophe seemed like someone the world wouldn’t miss, but she shouldn’t be thinking like this. She wasn’t rational. She took another drink. Her hands were still shaking.

  Jackson hugged her close to him.

  Despite herself, she leaned into his warmth, his reassuring solidity. She felt safe with him—however misguided that was.

  “You’re okay now,” he murmured, as if he could read her mind. He kissed her hair softly. “Nothing bad is going to happen. Why don’t you give yourself a chance to relax and calm down? Shall I run you a bath? And I’ll call out for some food. Pizza okay with you?”

  She wanted to scrub the feel of Christophe off her body, and wash every inch of skin that he’d touched. And at the mention of food, her stomach rumbled insistently. She hadn’t eaten for hours. “Sure. Why not?”

  “What kind? Pepperoni? Seafood? Do you like olives? Anchovies?”

  How could they go from marriage and mutations and murder to pepperoni pizzas? She smiled, for what felt like the first time in weeks. “Seafood, with extra black olives and pineapple. On a thin, crispy base.”

  “I’ll start running your bath, then I’ll order it.” He smiled back at her.

  She felt that lift in her heart that his smile had always given her. But she had to ignore that now. Everything was different.

  She lay in the bath. One minute her mind was recreating the way Christophe had held her pinned to the bed—ripping her clothes off—terrifying her. Then she segued into a moment’s delight that Jackson really was in love with her—that he always had been. Then bewilderment overwhelmed her at the thought that people could turn into wolves and back again.

  Through all the turmoil and confusion, a thought kept niggling at her. What was it? It was something she’d suddenly understood when Christophe was holding her down. But she couldn’t remember it now. It had been important, and she could feel that slip of horror in her stomach that had come when she’d realized it. But she couldn’t remember it now. Too much had happened—too much was still happening.

  Perhaps she’d actually just gone insane. Perhaps Bethany would come by in a few days and find her—all alone and locked in her own apartment, ranting about wolves and men. The doctors would come and take her away and put her in a padded cell for evermore.

  She soaped herself slowly, feeling the tender patches where bruises were forming under the skin, then lay back in the warm water again. But it all felt real. Christophe had been real. The wolf had been real. Jackson was real. And he loved her. And perhaps—despite everything—she loved him.

  Chapter Sixteen

  After her bath she and Jackson sat on the sofa, eating pizza and finishing the rest of the sickly-sweet wine. Every time she started to relax, she’d remember what had just happened and who she was with. Life would never be the same again—if she even got through the night.

  “So you’ve always been… one of those?” she asked carefully, not sure what to call him.

  “A were-wolf? Yes. I was born like that.”

  Gradually he told her all the details, about growing up, about his family, and about Christophe.

  “My mother is from my hometown, one of the old families. But she left when she was in her twenties and moved to the city. She promised she’d come back every month, for our gatherings—but she didn’t. Back in those days people could just disappear and try to pass for normal if they wanted to. It’s my job to keep track of anyone who leaves these days.”

  “So what happened to your Mum? Did she disappear?”

  “No. But she met someone there—a normal guy—and they fell in love.”

  “He knew she was a were-wolf?”

  Jackson nodded.

  So it was possible, she thought slowly.

  “But it was difficult, for both of them. He knew and accepted it—but that didn’t mean he liked it. He hated her going back to her hometown. He always thought she’d run back to her own kind, her people—and leave him.”

  “And when you came along?”

  “Things were better for a while. I guess took their mind off things. Babies—
kids—they don’t seem different. You don’t start changing until you’re older. You just seem normal really—maybe a bit more energetic than other kids—a bit more boisterous—but nothing obvious.”

  “No tail sticking through the diaper? No barking?” She laughed, wondering if she should tease him about things like that. At the same time, she started to half-remember something, being scolded for something when she was child—but the memory faded before she could grasp it.

  “No. Just a bit over-fond of raw meat.” He grinned at her. Then his face fell. “But it didn’t last. She started going back to the gatherings, and she got pregnant again. They both knew it wasn’t his. And my Dad left us soon after Christophe was born. Then she moved back to our hometown, to live with Christophe’s father, but she couldn’t settle. So she left too.”

  He tried to keep his face expressionless, but Justine could see the hurt in his eyes.

  “How old were you?”

  “I was ten, Christophe was eight. She never came back.”

  “What about your own father?”

  He shook his head. “I stayed with Christophe and his father. He was a good man. But I always knew I didn’t really belong.”

  Her heart ached for him. He’d been abandoned by both his parents, his brother was a psycho and now he’d fallen in love with her. Could she abandon him too? “What’s it like now? Are you in the city most of the time?”

  “Yes. They needed an enforcer and I volunteered for the role. I like it here better. I mean—I love my home—but I prefer being here.”

  She felt relieved. If they stayed together—and she was just playing with ideas—but if they did, they could live in the city and not in that small town backwater.

  “And you keep an eye on anyone who leaves?”

  He nodded. “It’s like security, I suppose, and liaison. I find the people who have left the group and keep an eye on them. I make sure they’re not acting out somewhere where they could get into trouble. And I try to make sure they’re not doing anything they shouldn’t.”

  “Christophe,” she murmured.

  “He’s out of control sometimes. I don’t think he has ever done any of the things he said. He’s a fantasist. He likes to shock people. You can’t believe half his stories. But I need to keep an eye on him, just in case.”

  “So he’s never killed anyone? Or changed into a wolf when he was, you know…”

  “I don’t think so.” Jackson spoke slowly. Justine could tell that he wasn’t really sure how much truth there was in his half-brother’s boasts.

  “What else do you do—apart from keeping tabs on… him?” Justine didn’t want to keep saying his name. It brought frightening memories flooding back—of being held down—of being trapped—of being helpless while Christophe did whatever he wanted to her.

  And there was still some disturbing thought nagging at the back of her mind—something she knew she ought to think about—but couldn’t. Was it the tiniest hint of arousal at the thought of Christophe? No—she had been terrified. But whatever it was, it made her feel guilty and sick.

  She pushed the thought away. She wanted to forget all about him and what he’d done.

  Jackson carried on talking. “I interact with regular people. Because my father wasn’t a werewolf, it’s easier for me to fit in and seem like everybody else. I was the obvious choice to lead on this campaign against the flood. That valley is our historic hunting ground. It’s where most of us were born. It means a lot to all of us.”

  She wondered about him being half and half. Had she known there was something different about him when she first met him? Had she sensed he wasn’t quite like other men? Certainly he had been very different from Alistair, but that had been a good thing. He’d struck her as special—in a good way—not as strange.

  She’d felt immediately comfortable with him, like she’d known him all her life. But she’d been so caught up with trying not to fall for him, then with their on-off relationship that she hadn’t looked beyond that.

  She gazed into his face, realizing with a jolt that after tonight she might never see him again. He was passionate, loyal, and there was an honesty about him—despite how closed off he could be—despite the fact that he’d kept the biggest secret possible from her.

  Somehow she knew that if she accepted him, he would love her fiercely—deeply, and forever. He would honor her and protect her. And she would love him in just the same way.

  She knew that they belonged together. It was the way she felt when she was with him—the way their bodies seemed a perfect fit—and the awful sense of losing something irreplaceable if she wasn’t with him. But… how could she accept what he was? How could she commit herself to man who wasn’t even human?

  “And then I met you.” He reached out and stroked her hair, brushing it gently away from her face.

  “And?” Justine knew how she had felt—the immediate spark, and how much she had liked everything about him. But she wanted to hear it from his point of view.

  “And I knew you were the one for me. You are gorgeous, and funny and feisty. But it’s more than that. I just felt… well—I knew you were my other half.”

  He leaned in to kiss her.

  For a second she thought about resisting.

  He was a werewolf, for God’s sake. His brother had attacked her. But the scent of him, the feel of his breath on her face…she moved closer too and his lips were on hers, soft and warm. He kissed her gently, his lips against hers, but she wanted more.

  She opened her mouth and her tongue found his. His arms were round her and he held her closer as they kissed. Despite everything she knew now, she wanted this—she wanted him. It felt right.

  But finally she drew back. They smiled at each other, like something had been agreed.

  “How would it work—if we were together?”

  He shrugged. “Just normal, most of the time. We could stay in the city and live at my apartment, or here, or get a new place. Whatever you wanted.”

  The thought of living with Jackson, seeing his face every day, coming home to him every night, was appealing. But it had to be more complicated than that.

  “Most of the time,” she repeated. “And the rest of the time?”

  “I need to hunt. So once a month I’d go back to my home town and join the pack. I’d let out my animal side and do the things that wolves do.”

  “And I’d just stay in the city.” It seemed too simple—surely it couldn’t be that easy? He made it sound like no more of big deal than getting together with someone who went off on a fishing trip once a month.

  He nodded. But he had that closed expression on his face again. There was something he wasn’t telling her.

  “Tell me, Jackson. I need to know it all.”

  “I know, I know. But I just don’t want to lose you. And each time I tell you something, I know that might be the last straw and it will end it.”

  She kissed him again. She wanted to hide the look of misery on his face, to reassure him, but she was scared too. Each kiss—each touch—felt like it might be the last one. How much more could she take? What else would she put up with for this man?

  She put her arms round his neck and pulled him to her.

  With a moan he half fell on her, and his mouth found hers. This time he wasn’t so reticent and his tongue was in her mouth, twining with hers. He was feeling her body—stroking her—exploring her.

  Her flimsy bathrobe made her feel almost naked. She felt the flicker of arousal between her legs. She wanted him—despite everything that had happened—and everything she knew about him. She kissed him back, wanting the feel of their tongues together to last forever.

  He was half on top of her. His hands roamed her body, one squeezing her buttock gently. The other caressed her side, her hip, her ribs, before moving up to cup her breast. She had no bra on—nothing under her thin cotton robe.

  He held her breast—his thumb stroking across the tip.

  Her nipple tightened. She moaned soft
ly, the sound lost in their kiss, as he touched her.

  She ran her hand up his forearm, half expecting to feel something. But it wasn’t there. The skin was smooth—unscarred. She felt his other arm—nothing. A cold sick feeling swam through her belly. She knew what it was. She remembered now—and wished she hadn’t.

  She pulled back and lay under him. What had she done? How could this have happened?

  He didn’t move from her and she could feel his stiff length against her thigh. His hand was still on her breast, his thumb moving gently across her taut peak, sending shivers down to between her legs.

  Who had she made love to that night in the lodge? Who had grabbed her and forced her down, then kissed her? She hadn’t seen his face—or asked his name.

  It had seemed obvious. Jackson had been there when she went to sleep. It had felt like Jackson. It had sounded like Jackson. She’d been so sure it was him.

  Could she ask him now? Would it seem crazy that she didn’t know who she had made love to? And what if it hadn’t been him? If it wasn’t Jackson, it had to be… She couldn’t bear to think about it.

  But she knew now. She had seen that same thick scarring on Christophe’s arm when he was holding her down.

  She had let Christophe have her that night in the lodge. She had come quickly, easily and powerfully under his touch. She had wanted him. She had moaned with pleasure as he had pounded into her.

  And Jackson had never made love to her. He hadn’t used her and dumped her. He’d resisted temptation and been honorable—as honorable as he could be. And she had let his brother fuck her. How could she have been so stupid?

  She forced her mind back to what Jackson had been saying. She couldn’t think about Christophe now—or what it meant—or when she should tell Jackson.

  First she had to concentrate on Jackson and what he was telling her. She had to calm things down. He had been going to say something else. “What was the other thing, Jackson? Tell me—just tell me everything.”