What A Wolf Dares (Lux Catena Series Book 2)

by Amy Pennza

  Not that Lizette couldn’t take care of herself. A growl rose in his chest, and his wolf urged him to leap the balcony and rip the man’s throat out, but he forced himself to stay seated. Lizette might look fragile, but she was a werewolf. She could pick the guy up and toss him into the glass shelves behind the bar—all without breaking a nail.

  Now that he thought about it, this little exchange might be satisfying to watch. He put his elbow on the table and rested his chin on his palm.

  Lizette set her drink on the bar. Haley stepped closer to her shoulder and stared the man down.

  Maybe it was Remy’s imagination—or the club’s piss-poor lighting—but the guy actually paled before shuffling backwards.

  Haley took a menacing step toward him.

  A bolt of delight shot through Remy, and his lips twitched. Maybe his Alpha would spare his life, after all. Max loved seeing former latents come into their own as a wolf.

  The man ducked his head, spun on his heel, and shouldered his way through the crowd like his ass was on fire. Lizette grinned and fist-bumped Haley, her face beaming like a proud mama lion who just witnessed her cub’s first kill.

  Remy chuckled. Lizette had every right to be proud, considering she was responsible for Haley making the Turn from latent to full-blooded werewolf. No one really understood why, but some wolves were born without the ability to change forms. They had a wolf counterpart, and they felt all its instincts, but something prevented them from transforming into their animal half. In werewolf society, such wolves were called latents.

  For a while, Remy had dated a girl who studied philosophy at the City University of New York. She kept a print in her apartment with that famous Thomas Hobbes’ quote about the natural state of man being “nasty, brutish, and short.” The phrase had always struck him as the perfect description of a latent’s life. Because they couldn’t Turn, their inner beast had no way to manifest—no means of release. Their body was a cage. For most latents, the wolf inside went slowly insane, with the human half getting dragged along for the ride.

  In a species obsessed with birthrates, latents were undesirable and unwanted. Because they couldn’t complete the wolves’ sacred mating ritual, they couldn’t produce werewolf offspring. Although some latents managed to find happiness in the human world, those stories were rare.

  For most latents, “nasty, brutish, and short” described life perfectly.

  At least until Lizette came along.

  The music faded for a second, then a club mix of Sia’s “Cheap Thrills” pumped through the speakers. A woman sitting at a high top table with two others on the lower level caught his eye. As if she felt his scrutiny, she turned and locked gazes with him. Long, red hair spilled down her back in a tumble of curls. The rich color matched her dress, which was so tight her thong made thin shadows around her hips. She held his gaze a moment too long, then bit her lower lip and turned to her friends. The other two women glanced up. After a second, they burst into a fit of giggles.

  He reached for his drink, then remembered he didn’t have one. On duty. Right. What he really needed was a burger. At the thought, his stomach rumbled. He leaned back in his chair and sighed. Albany was a nice enough city, but he’d yet to find a restaurant that could cook a decent burger.

  Down below, the redhead took another peek at him. A becoming blush stained her cheeks. Redheads were always good for that. Hell, the ones he’d dated blushed across their whole damn body. He dropped his gaze to her chest.

  Bingo.

  She caught him looking and whipped back around.

  Her long curls shone under the club’s lights. The chair had an open back, which gave him a direct view of her rounded ass.

  It was a nice ass. Even with the distance between them, he could tell it would be firm and tight in his hands. Unbidden, an image of more luscious curves rose in his mind.

  Instead of a sleek red dress, the curves he pictured were encased in worn denim.

  He pulled his gaze away from the woman and studied the dance floor once more.

  A strange pressure built in his chest—like a cross between a sigh and a growl. He’d had plenty of time to analyze the feeling because he’d experienced it repeatedly over the past two months. It was like every time a woman piqued his interest, his brain found half a dozen reasons to hit the brakes and make a big-ass U-turn.

  Normally, he’d already be at that woman’s table. Now? Well, he was pretty goddamn comfortable in this chair, wasn’t he.

  Below, Lizette grabbed Haley’s hand and pulled her away from the bar. Laughing, they wove around swaying bodies and stopped in the middle of the dance floor.

  Like a freaking bullseye on a target.

  He scanned the edges of the crowd. Aside from a few human males letting their eyeballs roam places they shouldn’t, no one seemed overly interested in his charges. He relaxed in his chair. As the Alpha’s wife, Lizette didn’t go anywhere without a security detail. There hadn’t been a war in over a generation, but their species was volatile by nature, and kidnapping was always a risk. No Alpha let his family out of his sight unguarded.

  Of course, Lizette was a particularly valuable prize. Not only was Max completely crazy about her, she possessed a Gift so unique, it was damn near mythical. Two months ago, Max had summoned him and Dom to Max’s study and announced that Lizette was a Bloodsinger—a wolf who could Turn latents just by being around them. Max had suspected it for a while, but he kept it a secret so Lizette could attend college and live her life. On top of that, he and Lizette had also had their differences over the years—something they’d thoroughly resolved if the amount of time they spent in their bedroom was any indication.

  Max couldn’t keep her Gift under wraps forever, though. Thanks to Lizette, the New York Territory already had an unusually high number of Turned latents. Then Haley had Turned after spending the weekend at Lizette’s old apartment.

  Remy sighed. It wouldn’t be long until the rumors spread to every territory.

  The solution to the werewolves’ population problem? It was currently shaking its ass on a crowded dance floor.

  “This was an extremely stupid idea,” Dominic Prado’s voice said in his head.

  Remy jumped, then scowled as Dom pulled out a chair and sat down. “You know it’s creepy as shit when you do that, right?”

  Dom settled in his chair and folded his arms over his chest. “Do what?”

  “Sneak up on people.” Normally, no one got past him like that, but Dom was the quietest wolf he knew. It was a skill that served him well as Max’s fixer. Whenever the Alpha had an unpleasant problem—an out of control wolf or a rabid latent—he sent Dom to take care of it. In their world, “take care of it” usually meant an execution. Dom never said much, but it had to take a toll on him. Over the years, Remy had tried to get him to open up about it, but Dom was as tight-lipped as a nun in church.

  “I wasn’t sneaking. You weren’t paying attention.”

  Remy looked at the dance floor. He couldn’t argue with that. His attention span had been shit lately. Lizette and Haley held their drinks in the air as they swayed to the music. He turned to Dom. “For the record, this was Lizette’s idea.”

  “You could have said no.”

  “Out loud, please. Didn’t your mother ever tell you it’s rude to transmit when someone is trying to concentrate?” Actually, he knew for a fact she had—he heard her say it more than once when he lived with Dom as a teenager.

  Dom raised an eyebrow, but he switched to verbal speech. “As I said, you could have told Lizette no.”

  It was Remy’s turn to raise an eyebrow. “Have you ever tried telling Lizette no?”

  “Haley is seventeen.”

  “She has a fake ID.” Most wolves did—it was a necessity once they got past midlife with no visible signs of aging. “Besides, now that she’s Turned, the alcohol won’t affect her.”

  A muscle in Dom’s jaw jumped. “A high metabolism won’t stop her from getting arrested.”

>   “You worry too much. They’re just having a little fun.”

  “You’re a Hunter,” Dom said. “Not a cruise director.”

  Remy made a show of acting offended. “Cruise director? I see myself as more of a Captain Kirk, letting the girls seize adventure and explore Albany’s nightlife. Then you swoop in like Spock and point out everything that could go wrong.”

  “A lot could go wrong.”

  “That’s exactly what Spock would say.”

  Dom didn’t take the bait—and he wouldn’t. Werewolf tradition told that he was descended from the Capitoline Wolf, which meant his great-great-something-grandmother had suckled the founders of Rome. True or not, that kind of heritage put a sort of weight on a person.

  But that wasn’t the most intimidating thing about Dom. As Beta, he was second only to Max in the New York Territory. If Max was the ruler, Dom was his general. Like any good general, he didn’t need to yell to get his point across. He made his displeasure known by a subtle look or deafening silence. The Hunters and trainees at the Lodge quailed under that silence. Remy and Lizette were the only ones who could get away with teasing him.

  “Anyway,” Remy said, raising his voice over the music, “she thought it might do Haley good to spend some time away from the Lodge. Lizette said she’s been feeling down about her Gift not manifesting.” Remy couldn’t fault Lizette for getting Haley away from the pack. The Lodge, Max’s home and the seat of the New York Territory, was a revolving door for young wolves training to become Hunters. Although Max accepted both males and females into his ranks, few women participated in the dominance contests common among fighting wolves. As a result, the Lodge was usually home to forty or fifty young, unmated males.

  Normally, that kind of scenario might be a young girl’s dream. But Haley was a former latent, and she’d yet to manifest a Gift.

  “They see her as damaged goods,” Dom said.

  “Yep.” Assholes. His species had a lot going for it. Long lifespans. Little to no aging process. A total lack of disease. But, damn, they had some serious issues when it came to social equality.

  “Heads up,” Dom said, his gaze on something past Remy’s left shoulder.

  Remy turned. The woman in the red dress was upstairs, and she was heading straight toward them, a pint glass in one manicured hand.

  He’d been wrong about the dress. It wasn’t tight—it fit her like a surgical glove. Her small breasts overflowed the strapless top, and the rest of it clung to her like she’d rolled in red paint. He let his gaze trail down her body. She was on the short side, but her small frame gave her the illusion of height. Her black heels were little more than straps and a buckle. Heads turned as she walked. Gaze locked on his, she ignored the stares that followed her.

  She was human, but she had the look of a predator that’s scented prey and decided to go for it.

  As she neared the table, the rapid fluttering of her heart warred with the music’s bass in his ears. Despite the aura of confidence surrounding her, she was nervous.

  “Hey,” she said, setting the drink down in front of him. The side of the glass dripped condensation, and four streaks marked where her fingers had been. The smell of deodorant and expensive makeup—overlaid with the more astringent scents of alcohol and clean sweat—drifted around his head.

  Remy smiled and sat back in his chair. Even with her standing, he didn’t have to look up. His height brought him almost to her eye level. “Thanks, but I didn’t order a drink.” He glanced at Dom. “You?”

  “Nope.”

  The woman tilted her head and studied him under lowered lashes. “I know. I just thought you looked lonely up here.”

  Ah. He knew how this game went. The only question was, did he want to play along? Tonight was out of the question, since he had to see Lizette and Haley safely back to the Lodge. But he could always get her number.

  The second the thought entered his head, his wolf sprang to attention. No.

  Remy frowned. His inner beast rarely bothered interfering in his love life. Normally, it held its peace unless he was in danger or about to do something stupid.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Dom give him a puzzled look. And that was…strange. He couldn’t have heard Remy’s wolf. It hadn’t spoken telepathically—no wolf could manage that. Like other wolves, his made its wishes known through emotion. A human might describe it as a conscience or maybe a gut feeling.

  The woman’s smile faltered. She glanced at Dom and licked her red lips. The confidence she’d displayed on her way over deflated like air let out of a balloon. “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have bothered you.” She reached for the drink.

  Remy seized her wrist. “No,” he said, and he wasn’t sure if he meant it for her or his wolf.

  She winced—not much, and a human wouldn’t have caught it—but the slight tightening of her mouth let him know he’d grabbed her too hard. He immediately released her.

  “Sorry,” he said. “Stay.”

  Her heart sped up, and interest fired anew in her eyes. She put a hand on her hip. “You want to join me downstairs?” She flicked a glance toward Dom. “I could introduce your friend to one of mine.”

  Oh, that would so never happen. Dom didn’t play nice with humans. Come to think of it, he didn’t play nice with werewolves, either. Remy grinned. “Thanks, but he’s not all that friendly.”

  “Remy…” Dom’s telepathic warning held the hint of a growl.

  Remy ignored him. He leaned toward the redhead and lowered his voice to a stage whisper. “Actually, he’s something of a big, bad wolf type.” He let his gaze drift down her dress. “And with the color you’re wearing…”

  She let out a startled laugh, and the scent of her desire bloomed in his nose. “Well, what about you?” she asked. “Are you a big, bad wolf, too?”

  If only you knew, sweetheart. What would she do if he flashed his fangs? Unlike most of his kind, he enjoyed sex with humans. He could never mate one, which meant it was never serious. No strings attached suited him just fine.

  He put a finger over his lips. “I’m not telling.”

  She placed her palms flat on the table and leaned over, giving him an impressive view of her breasts right down to her tight pink nipples. Little golden freckles sprinkled over the modest swells.

  As he stared, the music faded, and another image flashed in his mind—ripe, generous curves hidden under a plain blue-and-white striped shirt. Instead of red curls, medium blonde waves filled his vision.

  He shook his head. The club’s music roared back. Above him, the redhead frowned. “Are you okay?”

  “What?” His voice came out in a croak. He cleared his throat. “Yeah.”

  Dom shifted in his chair—the normal person equivalent of expressing alarm.

  The redhead straightened and withdrew a piece of paper from the top of her dress. Irritation gave her features a pinched look. “Um, here’s my number.”

  He stared. What just happened? She’d pretty much presented herself on a platter, and he’d drifted off to la-la land.

  “Do you want it or not?” The redhead’s tone said she was done with his shit.

  He took the paper. “Thanks.”

  She rolled her eyes. “Don’t mention it.” With a final glance at Dom, she spun on her heel and stalked away, drawing male attention as she went.

  Remy coughed and sat higher in his chair. He needed to get a grip. Maybe he should see a Healer. Werewolves didn’t get diseases, but something was definitely wrong with him. The redhead was a slam dunk, and he’d just airballed that encounter.

  “You’re thinking about her again, aren’t you?”

  Remy looked at Dom, who watched him with a knowing expression. The smug fucker hadn’t even uncrossed his arms.

  “No,” Remy said.

  “Lie.”

  “I thought we agreed to speak out loud.”

  For a second, the ice in Dom’s blue eyes melted. His voice softened. “You know it can never happen, Remy.”
/>
  It was useless pretending he didn’t know what Dom was talking about. They’d had this conversation before. Hell, they’d nearly come to blows over it. The pressure rose in his chest again. He rubbed a spot over his heart.

  Dom’s gaze followed the movement.

  Remy snatched his hand away from his chest with a muttered curse.

  The music switched to a heavy techno mix with a pulsing beat. Overhead, bright neon lights flashed like laser beams on the dance floor. Green light washed over his face. He rubbed a hand over his eyes. Laughter drifted up from the dance floor.

  God, he felt every single one of his twenty-nine years right now.

  “You’ve got to get her out of your head, Remy.”

  He lowered his hand and looked at Dom. “I know.”

  “I don’t think you do.”

  The pressure in his chest expanded until it felt like a scream trying to claw its way out. Calm. He had to stay calm. Losing his temper in a roomful of humans wasn’t going to make things better.

  “Remy—”

  The pressure burst. He slammed his fist on the table. “I said I know!” The pint glass shivered. He steadied it and lowered his voice. “I know it can’t happen, okay? She’s married. We never had that much of a connection anyway.”

  If Dom was fazed by his outburst, he didn’t show it. Expression steady, he said, “You seemed to have a strong connection in the car on the way to Vermont.”

  Remy gritted his teeth.

  “Talking mind-to-mind with her was a mistake,” Dom said.

  “It wasn’t a mistake.” Talking to Sophie Gregory could never be a mistake. From the moment he’d seen her, standing alone next to a line of black SUVs, something about her had pulled at him.

  The first thing he’d noticed was her body. That probably made him an asshole, but he dared any red-blooded male not to appreciate the bounty that was Sophie Gregory. Like all werewolves, she was tall, but her height exceeded even the tallest females of his race. As he’d approached her, he’d realized with a jolt that he wouldn’t have to crane his head down to talk to her.