Hateful Desire

by Marianne Willis

  “Who are you?”

  Did she not recognise him at all? Fire replaced the blood in his veins. For the first time in his life, she stared with open wonderment instead of scorn. No, she had no idea who he was, but perhaps from the way her mouth formed a perfect O, she suspected he was beyond the norm…someone supernatural.

  “What did you put in the mailbox?” she insisted. “Answer me.”

  He’d rather swallow a razorblade. Marching past the vile witch, he caught a strong whiff of alpine and antiseptic, and nearly snorted a laugh. Not a single domestic bone resided in Amber Johnson. She was a damn princess who expected to be served.

  He peeked back. She had one hand raised. The keys she’d clutched now lay across the pavement. What did she plan to do, halt him with the stupid signal? A chuckle rumbled up his chest, and he fought the temptation to laugh aloud.

  “He, who stands at my right, benumbs his body on this site.”

  Great, she spoke gibberish, too…wait a sec, that was a spell. Humour shrivelled, he ran.

  “Dammit, how does it go?” she muttered. “Hey, come here!”

  Arms pumping at his sides, he sprinted toward his truck, and dug for the keys in his pocket. His vehicle so close, so close…

  “Four walls surround the man within my sight. Four walls must reach past his tall height, four walls durable to withstand his fight!”

  He crashed into…nothing. His path blocked by some invisible…wall!

  You’ve got to be shitting me!

  He palmed the unseen shield, and the solid air bounced. Smacking the sides didn’t budge the barricade. Behind him, he struck again, but nada. What an idiot he must seem, playing a stupid clapping game with himself. Dammit, he shouldn’t have stalled with the letter. “Hey! Let me out!”

  Whether she listened or not, she spun away and collected a few cans of tinned soup that must have fallen out of her grocery bag. She threw them inside the paper sack. After settling the groceries on the sidewalk, she snagged the keys, and stomped to the mailbox.

  The letter! Dammit. “Hey!” he shouted, but she withdrew the envelope and unfolded the paper. Clear blues darted side to side while she read beneath the dim streetlight.

  “I said let me out!”

  Her lips moved with sensual slowness, as though careful with every line. Puffing loudly, she waved the letter in the air. The action caused her chest to rise in the white fitted top. “What do you mean she’s safe?”

  Wisps of reddish-blonde hair blew behind her shoulder. Legs, long and lean, drew his attention when she stalked toward him. The blood in his veins sizzled, but the stir of sexual desire was easily ignored as he reminded himself she was just a woman, an unworthy one at that.

  “Where is she?”

  Yep, should have sent the damn thing in the mail. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” If he denied her enough times, would she set him free?

  “Bullshit! You dropped this in the mailbox. I saw you. Now, tell me where my cousin is.”

  “Let me out of here!”

  She tilted her chin. “Not until you answer me.”

  He narrowed his eyes. She might hold the upper hand, but he wouldn’t give in without hindrance. Rolling his sleeves, he punched the invisible wall. Left fist, right, left, he struck with the same strength used on the bags at his gym. Her breath hitched, and he stopped.

  “You’re a werewolf.” She pointed at his wrist. “I knew there was something about you.”

  All werewolves shared the same symbolic half-moon tattoo, no matter their race or origin. His natural mark imprinted five years ago at the age of eighteen, after his first transformation. In less than ten minutes, he managed to be placed under a spell and expose a part of his identity. What next? Would she remember him?

  “You have her, don’t you? You have Brianna!”

  “No,” he ground out. “She’s where she belongs, with her moitié.”

  “Her mate? Tristan?”

  Why the slight tremble in her chin? Just great, was he about to witness waterworks?

  “I should’ve known. The vampires took her. They must have found out about the death spell and sought revenge.” Her voice wavered. “Are you telling me she’s dead because she killed Tristan? Did those sick bloodsuckers stuff both their bodies into the one coffin or something?”

  Death spell? Revenge? He hadn’t the slightest idea what she was on about. “Tristan isn’t dead.”

  Her plump bottom lip quivered. “That’s impossible. Brianna killed him. I know this because I created the poisoning spell Brianna used just after the Armistice celebration.”

  Bile scorched his throat. He knew Amber was evil, but this was a new low. Why would her cousin want to kill her chosen mate? Ha, then again, Brianna was a Johnson. He shrugged and folded his arms across his chest. “What can I say? You must be a worthless witch because your spell failed.”

  Her eyes shadowed with a dark, sad void. Acute pain burned within, a strange protectiveness making him want to take back the insult. Now, why would he ever apologise? Good thing he hadn’t, because in the next second her face hardened, eyes tapered to tiny slits.

  “If I’m so worthless, why are you trapped?”

  He flexed his jaw. “Enough! Release me or you’ll regret this.”

  “I’ll regret it more if I let you go. Sorry, but you’re stuck with me.” She withdrew a mobile phone from her pocket. Little keys beeped when she punched in several digits.

  He growled low. Sweat trickled his neck. Gums ached, teeth elongated. His legs and arms throbbed with the demand to shift. The concept of changing into wolf form and ripping this woman into shreds made him grin.

  “Lucas? You haven’t left town yet, have you?”

  Did she speak with her boyfriend, or perhaps one of her lovers? Heck, no doubt a married man with kids.

  The fullness of her lips curved into a smile while she examined the letter. “Good, because I found our clue to Brianna.”

  Damn you, Tristan, for making me do this.

  “Okay, I’ll see you soon.” She tucked the phone away, and lifted both palms. The letter fell from her grasp and swayed to the ground. Did she plan to release him after all? Her eyes closed, and she exhaled, rolling her shoulders and straightening.

  Wind gusted through strands of golden hair, and swirled the letter off the asphalt. Seeing her in her natural element, he couldn’t deny her attractiveness. But a stuck-up witch who was once labelled easy on the eyes, and easier between the thighs wasn’t his type.

  “Keep him to control, keep him to obey. I will be keeper of this man in every single way. The questions I ask, his answers set free. The distance he walks, will not surpass me. Fail to follow and thrive to fall. The words I speak bind the keep of a one week hold.”

  Unable to steady the quick gasps of air, he panted. A ball of steel slumped in the pit of his stomach. The orb melted, eased into every part of his system, into his bloodstream, consuming him, overpowering him. He fell to his knees, incapable of standing on shaky legs a moment longer.

  “What have you done?” He clutched at his stomach, not from pain, but some strange inner imprisonment, as if the melted steel inside solidified into chain cuffs and arrested every cell in his body.

  “I’ve placed you under a Keeper Spell. For the next week you’re stuck with me. You will hurt if you try to lie or harm me, and you will suffer worse if you and I are distant. So, I would not escape if I were you. In fact, now that you can’t attack me,” she said, wielding her hand in a strange loop. “Release! There, that should drop my hidden wall.” She tucked a strand behind her ear. “Well, you’re somewhat free.”

  Anger swamped him. “We’ll see about that.” On his feet and in front of her within a blink, he snaked her neck and squeezed. Her pupils dilated. Each breath he drew strained his lungs. Choking and gagging surfaced from him rather than her. He released her and staggered back. “You bitch!” he croaked through the rawness.

  She rubbed her neck, pity shaded in her
eyes. Did she contemplate apologising? Her silence made him wonder. No, he must be mistaken. She tilted her chin. “Don’t you mean, witch?”

  The mocking tone managed to stir his irritation to boiling point. “I’ve never harmed a woman, but once this spell breaks, I will take great pleasure in killing you.”

  Chapter 2

  His threat danced inside her, chilling her bones. From the look of those tapered eyes, she understood it wasn’t a simple warning, but a promise. No, she must remain calm.

  Amber examined the invisible line of pressure amidst her palm. This meant it worked, right? She visualised inscriptions in the family book; a Keeper Spell provides the sensation of grasping a leash. Yes, she had placed a Keeper Spell…and on a werewolf. She grinned.

  The man fell to his knees, cussing, and raking his hands through his long hair. His groans echoed down the dark street, drowning out the chirping crickets. Familiar sedans and station wagons were parked in their usual spots along the curb, except for the GMC a few feet behind. One of those All Terrains her father considered a nice ride.

  “Damn you, witch!”

  Tension strained her throat, and she struggled to swallow the golf ball of guilt. The fact she cast this stranger to such a level of helplessness unnerved her. But she wouldn’t regret her actions, nor show weakness. No one could help him now. He must wait out the next seven days for the spell to end.

  “Amber!”

  Oh no.

  Mrs. Reynolds surveyed the scenario from the porch across the street, her pink robe clasped her middle, and a net covered her silver-white rolled hair.

  Crap, why did the nosy one awaken? “Hi, Mrs. Reynolds. Are you searching for Mittens again?”

  “My cat is fine. What’s with the ruckus out here?”

  Oh, this didn’t look good, standing outside this late with a man on his knees, muttering profanities. “Everything is fine. My…um, boyfriend is drunk.” Boyfriend? She had to make this situation extra awkward, didn’t she!

  His disgusted moan echoed beside her.

  The elderly lady clasped the robe tighter against her chest. “Do I have to call the police?”

  She waved a nonchalant hand. “No, not at all.”

  The werewolf threw back his head. “Yes!”

  Ah, the jerk. “Shut up, right now,” she gritted out. “Or I’ll turn you into a toad.” In truth, she had no idea how, but the caution made his pupils dilate.

  “I’ve had enough. I’m grabbing my phone.”

  “No.” Amber rushed forward and clutched the picket fence. “Like I said, he’s drunk.”

  Mrs. Reynolds shook her head with so much vigour, a roller fell out of the hairnet. “You take him inside now before he wakes the entire neighbourhood, or I will be contacting the police.”

  Just smile and wave. “No problem. Consider it done.”

  With one last threatening glance, the old nag shut the door.

  Amber puffed out a breath, and whirled around. “I’m heading in. I suggest you follow.”

  The man rested on his palms, and sneered like an animal. “I’m not going anywhere with you!”

  Now would be the perfect time to prove him wrong. With a shrug, she sauntered off, snatching the letter from the ground along with the grocery bag, and headed for the condo. Unsure how much space was required until the effects kicked in…a loud bellow echoed behind when she unlocked the front door.

  She swivelled. The stranger crouched in the same spot, this time clutching his stomach. From this distance he seemed less menacing, and she eyed him. Her mouth dried. Coffee-coloured skin covered his muscular body. His black shirt stretched and outlined the shapes of his herculean biceps and chest.

  Sharp features resembled Native American, but she guessed he had a mixed nationality. He seemed so familiar. Had he been one of the cover models she photographed for that men’s magazine?

  Another groan erupted, his legs wobbled when he struggled to stand. Dammit, if he kept this up, Mrs. Reynolds would call the cops for sure. The closer he shuffled, the less strain scrunched his face.

  “Better, now that you’re next to me?”

  Dark eyes glowered, and he stepped forward, the tip of his aristocratic nose almost touched hers. Hairs on the back of her neck stood. If it weren’t for the spell, he could snap her like a twig. Jet-black hair layered his strong, square jaw, highlighting his face, and thick, neat eyebrows.

  The width of his shoulders was noticeable from afar, but up close and accentuated by his height, they dwarfed her. He was powerful, intimidating, and dangerously beautiful.

  Leaned in close as he was, she had to ease away, flattening her spine over the doorframe. Sweetgrass and woody herbs pervaded her, so different than most men, yet the fragrance warmed within. She refused to lower her gaze—that would show trepidation—and stared him square in the eye.

  He lifted his hand to…hit her, caress her? The grocery bag crumpled against her chest when she squeezed it close. Each of his nails lengthened and darkened into claws. The racing beat of her heart might expose her apprehension, but with any hope he couldn’t hear it. Who was she kidding? Werewolves have the best senses.

  “I hate you,” he grated through perfect white teeth.

  He didn’t have to say that. The desolation in his eyes—eyes resembling black, glazed glass, but matching the ferociousness of stormy clouds, ready to strike her with lightning—said a great deal.

  He stormed into the house, leaving her alone on the porch. The first signs of weakness took charge, and a shiver travelled to her toes.

  Cheeks hot, she observed her feet. The capital letters across the doormat which read WOW…nice underwear summoned a small laugh. Her cousin Rachel bought the welcome mat at the markets last summer.

  Shutting the door, she paused in front of the oval mirror above the foyer table. The frantic pulse beating in her neck validated her fear, excitement, and wonder at having a werewolf in her cousin’s home.

  She’d met a few over the years, in particular at the Armistice celebration in France, but to control one, now that shocked her to the core. Ever since a wolf entered her dreams, she’d found them so intriguing. But this man was no ordinary wolf in a harmless dream. Danger, echoed in her mind, but she ignored the intimidation and tucked a strand of hair behind her ear, ready to play the demanding prosecutor. “You can do this.” After one, long exhale, she set foot in the living area.

  The werewolf slumped on the sofa, dug the frilly blue cushions at his side and threw them on the floor. He crossed solid arms over his chest like an ill-tempered baboon.

  At least he made himself comfortable. She set the grocery bag along the wall near the wooden coat stand, ready to put her spell to the test. “What’s your name?”

  He winced, head shaking as if he fought to hold himself back. Bottom lip between his teeth, a slow agonised growl made her consider telling him to forget it.

  “Chayton René Locklear,” he shouted.

  Ha, success! She contemplated what to ask next, pacing in front him like a circus trainer eager to tame her new wild animal. “Tell me, Chayton, did you see my cousin?”

  “No.”

  Powerless, yet still able to be a jerk and provide her with these one-word answers. Well, she had all the time in the world. “What about Tristan?”

  “Yes.”

  She subdued a grunt. Further information was crucial. “Where are they?”

  “In Désuet, home of the French Vampires.”

  Her pacing ceased. Désuet? The underground cave she heard about. Poor Brianna. She was down there, all alone with no one. “What were you doing in Désuet?”

  He pursed his lips, face scorched red. “Argh…made peace with the vampires after a misunderstanding at the Annual Armistice Celebration.”

  A vampire killed a witch on the same night another had a dispute with a werewolf? Why bother celebrating peace each year when problems still existed between the species? “Why’d you drop off the letter?”

  “Tristan asked
me to send the message to you, to inform you of Brianna’s safety…stop!” he snarled, and punched the armrest. “Why can’t I shut up?”

  “Um.” She raised her hand, wiggling her fingers. “The spell.”

  Those thundercloud eyes narrowed. Okay, her mockery worsened the situation. One question still interested her. “Were you one of the fitness models for a men’s magazine a few years ago?”

  His brow cocked, and he shook his head. “No.”

  He hadn’t struggled with the answer. So, she didn’t know him from the photo-shoot. Then why did he look familiar? Someone knocked on the door. She gave the werewolf one final stare, then turned to answer.

  Deep lines ingrained in Lucas’ forehead made him appear older than twenty-five. If he continued to frown like that, the expression might become permanent. He shoved his car keys in his pocket, and stormed past her.

  “This better be good. I was on my way home.” When he entered the living room, he jerked to a stop and gaped at the stranger scowling on the sofa. “Who’s this?” he asked, confusion darkening his eyes.

  “This is Chayton, a werewolf from…” Now, that, she did not know. “What pack do you belong to?”

  A low rumble filled the room, followed by a strained response, “The Wahyu tribe.”

  “Chayton from the…I won’t even attempt pronouncing that. He dropped off an anonymous letter, but I caught him before he fled. The letter mentions Brianna, promising her safety.”

  She plucked the paper from her pocket, and handed it over. “But you can see this fails to disclose her whereabouts. He was less than cooperative, so I placed him under a Keeper Spell.” She couldn’t help puff her chest with pride.

  Lucas ceased reading and shot her a look, blue eyes narrowing. “You did what?”

  Doubt clouded her mind, sudden and intense. “I’ve placed him under a spell?” Her unsure response sounded more like a question. She shrugged, confounded by what the problem was. “We can find Brianna, unless you know the exact location to Désuet?”

  Her brother folded the letter. “No, other than being in France.”