The Deadwolves' Prisoner

by Hollie Hutchins

  One of Mila’s hands subconsciously slid down her body and ran along her hip before settling on her inner thigh. Sir Pugsly barked at something and Mila ignored him. If he’d found another enemy night-stand, so what? She had other things on her mind. Slowly, still paying all of her attention to the way Maurice now started undoing the buttons of his shirt, she kept her hand between her legs. She found herself captivated by his eyes: so tortured and so deep. What was he worrying about? What was going on? What was he thinking of? Even as he took his shirt off and talked on the phone, his eyes were a million miles away. Mila’s motions grew stronger and tingles grew in her hips.

  Maurice looked right at her.

  Mila’s breath caught in her throat. He couldn’t see her. Nobody could see in. He was thinking about her enough to look up at her location.

  “Handsome, isn’t he?”

  Mila jumped at the sound of the new person’s voice snapping her out of it. She twirled to find a woman standing next to her, watching Maurice lovingly. Why that bothered Mila was a mystery to her, but more of a concern was what she was doing there.

  “Jesus, Mother, and Mary!” Mila snapped at her, pulling her hand away. “What the fuck?”

  The woman stepped back and Mila recognized her species: a succubus, a sexual demon quite literally. Mila felt her aura even a few feet away, finding herself oddly drawn to the stranger’s perfect breasts, her model face, slender waist. By God, she was ethereal. Mila, as straight as she was, had those feelings. Any guy must’ve been driven wild. “Back up,” Mila hissed at the stranger, now figuring out what Sir Pugsly must’ve been barking at earlier.

  The red-skinned succubus took a few steps back and Mila’s lust faded. Like most of the other people, she was dressed professionally, but her dress fit her perfectly. To the point where Mila suddenly felt inadequate and uncomfortable. The woman sensed her discomfort and backed up another step.

  “My name is Shakkara,” she breathed. Dammit. Even her voice was sexual. “He’s a handsome man.”

  Mila’s entire face burned crimson. “Okay, I don’t know what you think you saw, but—”

  “I don’t care,” she stated, cutting Mila off curtly. “I’m here to make your stay here more comfortable. I hope I didn’t startle you.”

  Mila cleared her throat. “Well, um…I’m comfortable. Thanks. You can leave now.”

  Shakkara produced a towel and a set of what appeared to be clothes and set them on a stand outside the shower. The odd thing was that the succubus wasn’t doing anything inherently attractive, but Mila couldn’t help being drawn to her. The sooner she left, the better. Mila had no qualms about her appearance. She liked how she looked and felt comfortable with it but seeing this goddess in front of her was a punch to the ego.

  Succubi were funny creatures. Mila hadn’t run across many, but the ones that she had interreacted with all one thing in common: zero understanding of personal space. A normal person would not have casually walked up and scared the hell out of Mila like that. They might have knocked or said hi or something like that. Her running theory as to why that happened was because it was so easy for them. They didn’t have to be smart, or charming, or anything. They had to have the succubus gene and boom, life was easy. The good news was that they had obvious crimson skin, so they weren’t allowed into the general human public to ruin everything. Paranormal knew what was happening when they got near a succubus. Humans had no idea, only that they were suddenly incredibly horny.

  Shakkara bowed and left the room. Mila felt a shred of regret. Maybe she should’ve been nicer, and she raised a hand to get her attention and apologize if she had seemed rude. Too late. She closed the door behind her and Mila was left alone with Sir Pugsly. Worse, Maurice had moved inside, presumably to bathe.

  Grumbling and embarrassed, Mila walked over to the shower faucet. Mila was never a person to easily understand them. For most people, it was a cute “he-he, shower facets are hard to manipulate” but for Mila, it was a genuine challenge. It was better that Shakkara the Succubus had moved on. She didn’t want anyone to see this.

  First, though, came the important part: getting ready for it. Mila liked routines in every part of her life, and this was no exception. She pulled her shirt off first, then shoes, then shorts, then bra, then panties. That’s how the world worked, and she had no intention to change it. Her top came off with a crackling heap of dry mud and she was still barefoot from her heels breaking, so the rest was a breeze—though it did take her time to not shy away from the window.

  She twisted the handle and water came out. Duh. What Mila didn’t expect was that the water came out from all over the place through tiny jets hidden from sight, so while she cautiously hid from where she assumed water would emerge, blasting water exploded all around and drenched Mila because of her poorly-located hiding spot. She danced out of the barrage into the relative safety of the other half of the shower.

  “God dammit!”

  Mila swept her soaking hair out of her face, grumbling and muttering in time to hear a voice from next door.

  “You okay?” Maurice. “I heard shouting.”

  “Yeah,” Mila managed. Dammit. He’d heard her battle with the water and now she looked like an idiot. “Yeah, I’m, um, fine.”

  Once she got the jet situation under control, it was a remarkably comfortable shower. Not only did she finally achieve the perfect temperature, but she emerged from the half-asleep, exhausted husk she had been in and blossomed into a new, invigorated Mila. She washed off the fear, the anxiety, and the sleepless headache and walked to the window, fully naked.

  She had to admit it gave her quite the thrill. Sure, they weren’t supposed to see her, but what if they could? What if they were staring at her naked body even then? When she was back in high school, her friends were all daydreaming about the cute boy of the week and she was after that loner who stuck to himself. She still remembered him: Ryan, the motorcycle guy with the tortured soul. Since she could remember, she always went for things a lot of people didn’t go for, and being nude and watching all those people did wonders for her.

  She checked the clock hanging on the wall. She’d only been there for a few minutes. She still had a while until the Khan arrived, and truth be told the idea of that made her quite nervous. She didn’t want to go talk with the succubus again, not right now at least for the sake of her mental sanity, but Maurice? That was a different story. Part of her worry wasn’t that the Khan would want to hurt her. If he wanted to, he would’ve left her to Fang. No, no, he was after something else. He probably wanted her to testify against Fang, and that wasn’t looking terribly likely at the moment because Mila preferred to not be killed horribly.

  On the flip side, she was a captor, wasn’t she? Would she be allowed to leave? She slipped on her provided robe mindlessly. It was entirely too big for her, so she felt like she’d slipped on a tent. To Mila, there were two categories of loose clothes: good ones and bad ones. She felt nice in a summer dress, but when it obviously didn’t fit her, it felt like she was a dumbass more than sexy or even competent. This one fell into the second category. Worse, it flittered the line of decent. Maybe on a bigger individual it would work, but for her, she was one gust away from baring it all or, worse, taking flight.

  She situated herself in the mirror and flapped her cloth tapestry loosely with a grimace. This wouldn’t do. This was past funny. This had achieved absurdity. No doubt about it—she’d either need to put on her old clothes or find some new things to wear. This had to be meant for a man, and a big one at that. Petite Mila sank into it like a black hole. She summoned it up into a heap so she wouldn’t trip on it and made her way to the door. Sir Pugsly took action and grabbed it, pulling playfully. Mila didn’t even see him, so she almost wiped out from the sudden force. If the pug had an ounce of strength in him, it could have gone worse.

  “Hey!” She pulled it away from him. “C’mon, buddy!”

  Sir Pugsly tugged ferociously, but Mila lifted up the garment unti
l he gave up and let go. She dashed out the door before he could get another hold. In her haste, part of the robe caught on something inside the room. It snapped tight and spun her around like a record player, sprawling her out on the floor un-majestically. She yelped and grabbed at the robe. Theoretically speaking, being naked in public was a turn on. In reality, it was a lot more horrifying and a lot less sexy. Luckily, a glance around showed that she was alone, so nobody had seen her fail. All she had to do was put her clothes back on and she’d be fine. She snorted in amusement and picked herself up.

  It was gone.

  The robe.

  Was.

  Gone.

  She caught a glimpse of it getting dragged under the door. She made a desperate grab for it. Her fingers glided along it, but alas, Sir Pugsly won and it sucked under.

  Mila turned the handle and tried to push in only to remember the lock kept her from doing that, and she didn’t know the code. She paled and frantically wriggled the doorknob in the hope that it might show mercy on her. It stayed shut.

  Mila found herself standing in a long hallway with nothing on but a smile, or more specifically, nothing but the face of someone who had just majorly screwed themselves. She pranced to the elevator, then came back. People were down there. Theoretically, people were everywhere so going for a walk was not an option without getting spotted. Then again, standing still wasn’t looking fantastic either. She swore under her breath and wrapped her hand across her breasts.

  “Fuck!” She knocked on Maurice’s door and stood to the side so he couldn’t see her through the peep hole.

  She heard rustling, then footsteps. “Coming. Who is it?”

  “It’s me!”

  The door started to open and Mila grabbed it to keep it from opening. “Don’t come out!”

  A pause. “Are you okay? I can’t see you.”

  “It’s better that way.” She reached levels of humiliation she thought didn’t exist. “Do you…do you have spare clothes?”

  The handle twisted again. Mila held it with the strength of an Olympian. He gave up. “Why?”

  “Just answer the question!” she snapped, curling into as small of a target as possible. She hadn’t thought about the cameras, but now she was fully aware that one might be recording her predicament.

  “Well, no, but I can get you some.”

  The elevator doors opened around the corner. Mila winced and nervously pranced in place. “What’s the door code for my room?”

  “7932471.”

  “What?”

  He repeated the number, but she got about as much as she had the first time. Mila wasn’t great at memorizing things like that, and, based on the sounds of men’s voices growing louder from the near the elevator, her time was coming to an end. She guessed she had fifteen seconds before she gave them an unexpected peep show. The question had evolved: would she rather have Maurice see her this way or some strangers?

  The decision was surprisingly easy. She knew Maurice better and she trusted him a whole lot more than just some guy she’d never seen before. “Let me in, please!”

  The door swung open. “Are you okay? I’m not exactly decent.”

  “Just don’t look at me!”

  As the men came around the corner and into sight, Maurice opened the door and Mila jumped inside in the nick of time. Her problems had just begun, or maybe they were solved. She came face-to-face with a recently showered Maurice with a towel around his waist. He must’ve just gotten out of the water, because his exposed chest shined with moisture and his soaked hair hung shapelessly. A beautiful tattoo of intricate shapes and designs snaked up his right arm and across his rippling pecs.

  For an eternity, they stared at each other. Mila, completely naked, and him, close enough to where she could see his member rising.

  “I said look away!” she yelled, grabbing the nearest thing she saw: his torn suit coat hanging on the hat rack. She positioned it in front of herself and wondered if she’d died and gone to hell or heaven. She could’ve roasted marshmallows from the heat coming off her burning cheeks.

  Maurice doubled over and busted out laughing, which was not the reaction she’d expected. “What are you doing?”

  “Sir Pugsly stole my clothes and I got locked out.” Jeez, that sounded stupid.

  He averted his eyes, but that didn’t keep him from laughing. “The pug?”

  “He’s got a surprisingly strong grip!”

  He snorted in amusement and moved into the rest of the apartment, giving her some room to wonder why life hated her. “I’m sure,” he patronized playfully. “You sure this wasn’t an effort to see me like this?”

  Even Mila’s humiliation wasn’t enough for her to not notice how the towel hung so delicately around his hips and that it would take so little for it to fall. So much for looking proper and holding an air of mystery. He’d seen everything. “S-screw you,” she sputtered.

  “Good comeback.”

  He disappeared around a corner and came back holding some of the same robes, almost out of breath from laughing. Mila scowled. It wasn’t that funny. If she wasn’t holding his coat as her only protection, she would have folded her arms. The werewolf handed them to her cautiously like he was delivering a bomb.

  She snatched them. “Thank you.” She held them up to her body and found they were, give or take, her size. “How come you got my size and I got ones made for Paul Bunyan?”

  “Did you check the closet?”

  “That’s, uh, that’s a no-go.” She coughed. “Yeah, no.”

  He chuckled and turned his back to her. She thought he was just being decent, but he moved down to the living room as Mila changed hastily. It wasn’t until she was back to being covered that she noticed the unusual atmosphere: dozens of candles burned bright blue fire from various locations, a scent Mila didn’t recognize wafted through the air, and the dim lights provided a warm, welcoming environment.

  “What…” Mila couldn’t shake the feeling she was interrupting something sacred. “What’s going on here?”

  He blew out two of the candles. “I hope your stay here has been uneventful other than that fiasco.”

  He’d blown her off. She considered asking more about it, but she got the impression he had heard her just fine. Now that she was taken care of, he moved stiffly. She’d walked in on something special, a sacred ritual of sorts. She stayed by the door. A secret, obviously. He blew out the rest of the candles quickly. A vein throbbed in his throat, and he released his fist forcibly.

  Mila’s embarrassment faded, and her curiosity replaced it. She’d seen something he didn’t want her to. But what? What was he doing? At the same time, she didn’t want to push him about it and make him angry. She swallowed her questions. Another time.

  Chapter 9

  Once, Mila had accidentally walked in on a funeral.

  She hadn’t meant to. At no point that day did she think to herself, gee, it’d be fun to crash a funeral! She had been trying to find Bianca and stumbled in through a series of miscommunications.

  “Meet me at the church,” Bianca had said, so Mila had wandered around lost for a while until she finally found what she assumed was the right location. It was a weird spot to meet, but whatever. She walked in just in time for Bianca to impatiently call her and ask where she was, meaning that her ringtone had not just damaged the silence but obliterated it. Dozens of people had turned to stare at her judgementally even as someone sobbed over the casket.

  She hadn’t stuck around and explained what had happened. She bolted as fast as she could. It turned out that she’d been off by a few blocks, but the memory had stuck around. More specifically, the feeling stayed, the sensation of being where she didn’t belong, of treading on forbidden ground.

  It had been years since that, and she figured she’d never have the sensation rear its ugly head again so long as she didn’t go to another wrong church. Incorrect. Standing in the room while he put out the candles reminded her of that. She wanted to turn and leav
e, immediately if not sooner.

  She took a step towards the door as Maurice blew the last candles out. He wistfully watched the smoke drift to the ceiling. “You don’t have to leave if you don’t want to,” he said. He sounded weary, like he’d come off a hard workout.

  Mila faltered before staying where she was. “I’m interrupting.”

  “Not anymore.” He looked away. “I can tell you’re anxious. If you have any questions, I’ll be happy to answer them.”

  It was true. She was anxious, and the questions kept clouding her thoughts. Did she know Maurice? No. She didn’t know what school he had gone to, or what his parents were like, or what his hobbies were. She didn’t need to. She knew who he was, and that was more important: a tortured, kind soul. She had a knack for reading people. You didn’t make it long at the Cheeky Sprite if you couldn’t tell the difference between a smooth-talker and a good person.

  “Did you have as much trouble with the shower as I did?” she called after him as he went to his room to change. The mood needed to change. She’d caught him doing…something. What, she didn’t know, but he obviously felt guilty about it. She studied the peculiar, thick fog that came off the candles as he responded.

  “I haven’t showered yet.”

  “But you’re so wet.”

  “Sweat,” he said curtly in the sort of way that the meant that topic was closed off to further discussion.

  Sweat? It looked like he’d taken a shower! The plot thickened. It had something to do with whatever he’d been doing before she came in. There must be a connection somewhere, but Mila was still running on minimal sleep and her brain simply wasn’t capable of pulling everything together at the moment. The shower had helped, but now the exhaustion was starting to kick in again.

  He emerged, fully clothed in sleek silk robes that set on him wonderfully. He made his way to the kitchen and started fixing up what she assumed was a smoothie. She guessed he had used a towel in the background somewhere, because now he was dry.

  “Questions. Go.”