He glanced toward his chest. The tube stuck out from his sternum, leaving a small opening to his chest cavity. Beneath it, a pink wound from where the vampire stabbed him had started to mend. With his true nature, it’d be gone by tomorrow.
His thoughts turned to his men. They’d eliminated a large number of the vamps before he’d found her, but a few had remained. He needed to assess the damage, and then there was the matter of Lucas’s offer. He needed to warn Maverick.
“I need to get back to my men.” He moved to sit up again, but a blade pushed against his throat. His blade. Though it’d been cleaned since he last saw it sticking out of his chest. And it was none other than the delinquent, horse-thieving she-wolf who held it. He raised a brow. “You realize there’s some irony to threatening my life so you can keep doctoring me?”
She shrugged. “I know, but I needed to get your attention in a way you’d understand. You’re a commander and a cowboy to boot, so I get that you’re not used to taking orders, but this is an order you can’t ignore. As long as you’re my patient, you will listen to my care directives. If there’s one thing you’ll learn about me, Commander, it’s that I have little patience with noncompliance.”
This woman had no idea what kind of fire she was playing with. Colt turned his gaze toward her, carefully planning his next move as he spoke. “And if there’s one thing you’ll learn about me, doctor, it’s that I don’t respond kindly to threats.”
He knocked the blade from his throat, pushing past the pain and seizing the weapon with ease. He slammed the knife down on the bedside table with an audible thud as he pegged her with a hard stare. Even in a recovering state, Colt had more than a few tricks up his sleeve.
He smirked. “Don’t pick battles you can’t win.”
From the look of alarm in her eyes, he’d made his point clear.
He lowered himself back into the bed, propping an arm behind his head. He relaxed into the sheets again.
In response, she growled, actually growled at him. He wasn’t sure any lower-ranked wolf, particularly a female, had dared to growl at him in years, other than maybe his sister, Sierra. Sierra had been born to James and his stepmother, Sonya, a handful of years after they had taken Colt in, but she was hardly typical and he’d had years of practice ignoring her troublemaking.
But this woman he couldn’t ignore. She riled his control. It was both infuriating and arousing.
“Your lung collapsed,” she said. “Until a few hours have passed and the pressure has released, you’ll listen to my orders. If not because I saved your life, then as a physician. Do I make myself clear, Commander?”
Crystal. She made herself crystal clear. And from the feel of it, he was convinced his cock was currently made of crystal as well. Thankfully, this time, he was covered by the sheets and still wearing his jeans. He cleared his throat. “How’s that work, considering I saved your life first?”
She waved a hand in dismissal. “It was your duty to save me.”
It was his duty, but it was also his privilege, though he wasn’t about to tell her that. “And as a doctor, isn’t it your duty to save me?” he shot back.
Her lips drew into a tight line. He had her on that point, and she knew it. “The Hippocratic oath only requires I do no harm. It doesn’t require me to save you,” she countered.
“Says the woman who held my own knife to my throat.”
She shrugged a single shoulder. “It was a bargaining tactic.”
He huffed. “Well, that’s reassuring.”
She smiled, clearly toying with him. “It wasn’t meant to be, Commander.”
The witty retort caught him off guard, and Colt fought a grin as he took in the sight of her. If they were so close to the Missoula packlands, why hadn’t she taken him back to the ranch? Though few pack wolves would recognize it, he knew where they were. This cabin looked like every other Rogue house he and his mother had stayed in during his early childhood. Before her death, before the Grey Wolves had taken him in.
Yet this she-wolf had been on Missoula pack territory. Rogues weren’t allowed to roam packlands, not without an escort, which must have meant she was a Grey Wolf, not a Rogue.
As he stared at her, trying to determine her affiliation, she looked away, but before she did, he recognized she was trying to hide something. He’d seen that same look on his soldiers when they were trying to get away with murder—figuratively, not literally. Whoever this woman was, she had secrets. He saw it in her eyes, and before he returned to the Missoula ranch, he intended to find out what those secrets were.
“It’s Colt.” He offered his name. “You can call me Colt.”
“Like the horse or the gun?” she asked.
“You may as well ask if I’m more cowboy or wolf.”
She looked away, but he saw a hint of amusement on her lips. “Well, Colt like the gun and horse, do we have an agreement that you’ll stay in this bed for at least five more hours? The knife wound won’t be healed, but you’ll be stable enough to ride.”
He glanced out the window. A thick layer of snow blanketed the mountainside, the sun overhead blinding in its brightness. He didn’t know this woman, but her medical expertise and intelligence were clear, since he was still breathing. And she had to be resourceful to boot, managing to keep him well in such rough conditions. From the position of the sun, in five hours, it would be just before nightfall. It’d give him enough time to get back to the Missoula ranch within several hours if Silver ran fast. Enough time to find out who this woman was, and why the hell she’d been out in the middle of the woods during a vampire raid.
His eyes flicked to the bedside where he’d put his knife. His instincts told him she was no true opponent of his. No, this woman was a different kind of threat. One he was far less equipped to handle.
“Unless you want to die a painful death.” She emphasized the word as if he hadn’t stared down death countless times before.
“By my own blade or the collapsed lung?” he quipped.
“Does it matter?” She smiled.
As she did so, she tilted her head to the side, a funny little quirk he’d noticed. Each time she did, a single stray curl fell over the edge of her eye. He wanted to wrap his finger around that curl and use it to pull her gently closer.
He shook his head. No. He couldn’t begin to go there. Colt knew firsthand the danger of temptation, and to a warrior like him, it could be deadly.
You’re made for violence, not love. His birth father’s words echoed in his head. The only words the man had ever spoken to him. His birth father had been a monster, but there was truth in those words all the same. The Grey Wolves might have taken him in, but the violence of his birthright thrived in him. It was how he’d conquered so many on the battlefield, how he was known as more cunning than any warrior before him, including the Grey Wolf commander who’d raised him.
He glanced out the window again. The branches of the pine trees hung heavy with snow. He’d be no use to his men or Maverick dead on the Montana mountainside.
“I don’t see I have much of a choice,” he answered.
“In that case, we need to go ahead and remove the tube.”
“I thought you didn’t want me to remove it.”
“I didn’t want you to dislodge it and cause further injury. The tissue is open and sensitive. Once I remove and clean it, I’ll monitor your vitals while the hole closes. By evening, if your breathing remains steady, you’ll be almost as good as new. The stab wound will be tender for a few days and may bleed some, but considering the scars on your body, I bet you already know that.”
He did. On the battlefield, he’d endured worse than knife wounds. He laid his head back into the downy pillow, staring up at the wooden timbers of the ceiling. “Go ahead then.”
“You don’t want some alcohol to numb the pain?” She pointed to a corner table, where a half-empty
bottle of Jack Daniels sat.
“No, I make it a point not to drink.” If anything was his vice, it was women, not liquor.
“Suit yourself.” She leaned over him, examining the clear tube and surrounding skin. “Are you an alcoholic?”
He frowned. “I said I don’t drink.”
“Like many recovering alcoholics.” As she depressed the tender flesh of his wound, he grumbled. It wasn’t the worst pain, but it still hurt.
“I’m not an alcoholic,” he repeated. “Not that it’s any of your business.”
She gripped the tube, rotating it ever so slightly so it loosened. He grimaced. Slowly, she started to inch the tube out.
“In the past twenty-four hours, I’ve seen and felt you naked, been drenched in your blood, lifted you onto a horse, and saved your life, and now I’m removing a tube from your chest.” She shot him a pointed stare. “I think it’s my business.”
“You only saw me naked because you appear to have a thing for voyeurism.”
She laughed. “You don’t know the first thing about my fantasies.”
“After your reaction in the clearing, I beg to differ.” He cast her a wolfish grin.
She tugged on the tube, though an amused grin curled over her lips. The quick shot of pain caused sweat to break on his brow. Message received loud and clear.
He gritted his teeth. “In any case…” She’d returned to being gentle. “I don’t drink because I make it a point never to lose myself. I need to have my full judgment at all times.”
“In other words, you’re a control freak.” She wiggled the tube more. “A commander for the Grey Wolves would be.”
Grey Wolves, he noted, not our pack, catching the word choice instantly. Colt had interrogated enough enemies over the years to notice subtle cues in language, facial expression. She may as well have been an open book. And without a doubt, whoever this woman was, she was no Grey Wolf.
He supposed that made two of them.
With one last gentle pull, the tube was out. She busied herself gathering a bowl of steaming water and a washcloth sitting on the basin. When she returned, she dipped the washcloth in the bowl, then wrung it out. A few stray drops spilled onto her jeans.
She leaned over him, placing the warm washcloth to his chest. As she did so, his attention on her pack affiliation faltered.
“What are you doing?” he growled.
As if the incident they’d had in the clearing hadn’t been enough.
She glanced at him through a thick layer of lashes. “Cleaning your wound.”
With each stroke, he imagined that warm washcloth drifting lower. Fuck.
Clearly, she had no idea what she was doing to him. She was like some sexy Florence Nightingale, caring for him with gentle yet strong feminine hands. Except she wasn’t, because Nightingale had only been a nurse, and this woman was a doctor, which meant not only was she beautiful and caring, despite having the demeanor of a docile viper, but she was smart. Damn smart, and from that fire in her eyes likely passionate, too.
He growled again.
“Hold still, Commander.” She must have thought he was warning her away instead of fighting not to haul her into bed with him, because her eyes narrowed and that pink mouth pulled into a disapproving pucker again as she rubbed the washcloth in tender, sensual circles.
She was testing Colt’s self-control. He was certain.
“No one’s ever dared call me a control freak,” he commented. At this point, he was trying to distract himself. Maybe if he could focus on conversing, he could ignore the caressing of that warm washcloth and tender touch.
So far, it wasn’t working.
“I imagine they’d be too scared, High Commander,” she said guardedly. She swiped the warm cloth over him again.
“But you’re not,” he challenged. Which meant she was not only intelligent and resourceful, but she’d proven again she was brave to boot. He’d seen as much when they’d hidden from the vampire in the clearing.
“I’m not most people.” She shrugged before a small smile twisted her lips. “And at the moment, you’re at my mercy.”
Colt couldn’t help his amused grin. He cleared his throat, trying to hide his appreciation. “In any case, I may be a control freak, but that’s because I know the truth. People think they’re in control of their lives, but fate and circumstance have a way of messing with plans. I’m only so bent on control because I know I have so little of it.”
His choices were the only thing he had true control over. He’d learned that the hard way, and the consequences had been deadly.
She paused, the heat of the warm washcloth poised over his heart. His pulse thumped against her hand. In an instant, the walls that kept her sharp-tongued and saucy fell. He saw it, and as those large hazel eyes found him, he suddenly felt as if she saw through all his shields, straight to everything he’d ever tried to hide.
“And that terrifies you,” she whispered. “Doesn’t it, Commander?”
Colt stilled. Her words cut through him. For a moment, he could have sworn she saw him—truly saw him, raw, open, and vulnerable—for what he truly was. But his mind had to be playing tricks on him. No one ever saw the real him. No one ever dared to challenge him that way. He was one of the most fearless wolves ever to live. Ask any one of his packmates, and they’d say he didn’t have fears, vulnerabilities, weaknesses, and secrets that could be exploited.
And yet…
A pang of longing shot through his chest.
No. He shook his head. She couldn’t see the real him. No one could. Not without risking his secrets. That was dangerous. Far too dangerous.
Colt cleared his throat again. The sudden warning in his eyes instantly cut the tension between them. “Fear is a weakness I can’t afford.”
The fire returned to her hazel irises. “Everyone has fears, Commander. Even alpha wolves like you.” She gave him a knowing look. “Some of us are just more willing to admit it than others.”
“And what gives you the know-how to make that call?” he asked. His tone was more defensive than he’d intended, but he couldn’t allow her to get too close.
“Chalk it up to good judgment,” she said.
Good judgment indeed. Colt refused to look away from her. Perhaps she was right; perhaps she was good at reading people. But as he stared into her eyes, he had a sneaking suspicion it was something more than that. Something so out of his control, he couldn’t begin to acknowledge it.
To his satisfaction, she was the first to look away.
“Don’t worry. Your secret is safe with me.” She was baiting him again.
Tracking her every movement with his eyes, he inhaled, and the tantalizing scent of her hair flooded his nose. Those gorgeous still-damp locks were so close, he could have reached out and buried his hand in them.
“There.” She’d finally finished. She stood and deposited the washcloth in the ceramic basin.
After wiping her wet palms on an apron hanging nearby, she placed her hands on her hips. Her eyes darted to his Stetson hanging from the door hook. “I know commanders—and cowboys, for that matter—aren’t very good at taking orders, but you should rest now.”
A sudden wave of exhaustion overcame him. The idea wasn’t half-bad. A few hours would make little difference in getting news to Maverick, and he wasn’t ready to be done being cared for by this minx of a doctor.
He relaxed into the bed. After several quiet minutes, as his eyes grew heavy, he muttered the request dancing on the edge of his tongue since he’d first seen her. “Tell me your name.”
She hesitated, but finally she answered, “My friends call me Belle.”
Belle. Why did that sound so familiar? As he attempted to repeat it aloud, his lips formed the shape, but the name came out as little more than a whisper as he fell into a deep sleep.
* * *
<
br /> As Belle monitored Colt’s pulse, she spent the next several hours alternating between watching the snow-capped mountains and memorizing the relaxed lines of his handsome face. There wasn’t much else to do inside the cabin, and she tried to reassure herself that was the sole source of her intrigue with him—but she was failing miserably.
Every time she looked at him, especially in this relaxed state of sleep, the vulnerability and emotion she’d seen from him in the woods haunted her, softening her opinion of him. He’d been so stoic throughout her wound care, the perfect image of the hardened soldier, yet when she’d turned away, she’d heard him wince in pain.
He was strong, fierce, brave, hardened by war. All the things he showed the world, yet…
There was softness underneath it all. She’d seen it. And now that she had, she couldn’t bring herself to forget it.
She shook her head. She should know better than to get too involved with another alpha wolf. Wyatt had never been charming like Colt, and look where that had gotten her.
She glanced out the window. The snow-covered pines glittered white in the distance. While the Rogue houses scattered throughout the state were a godsend for packless Rogue wolves like her who needed a safe refuge or a place to hide, they were anything but high-tech. Most Rogues lived off the grid and liked it that way, favoring intense privacy over modern amenities.
The houses were funded by a collective run by an anonymous benefactor, a wolf as infamous among Rogues as Maverick Grey was among the Grey Wolves. They called him the Rogue. Not a Rogue, but the Rogue. If there was a leader among the packless, the unwanted, the underdogs and scoundrels of shifter society, it was him. Though few had met him and lived to tell the tale, rumors painted him as a dark Robin Hood, fighting for the better treatment of her kind. He was as much myth and legend as he was a hero.
In any case, whoever he was, Belle appreciated the Rogue houses. For a wolf like her who’d been born without a pack—a Rogue by birth, not choice—they provided a safe space. Even when she needed to escape the law, like now. No reservations, no booking, simply show up at the property and hope no one else was there. Packless wolves only.
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