by Amy Pennza
Her heart pounded. Dammit. He was right. She’d forgotten her training—or just hadn’t used it in a long time. There had been no need when the only time she saw another wolf was in a zoo or on television.
She glanced around her apartment, noting how they’d positioned themselves in strategic locations. The male behind her ensured she couldn’t leave through the front door, and the two by the sliders would stop her before she even touched the glass, let alone jumped off the balcony. Remy hovered in the doorway leading to her bedroom, which was inconvenient, considering it had a nice, big window perfect for escaping a bunch of werewolves.
Remy winked at her, clearly enjoying the role of good cop to Dom’s bad cop.
The only other room was the kitchen, and it was windowless. She was out of options, unless she was willing to fight tooth and nail—literally—against being dragged home.
Home. She glanced around her tiny apartment. It was small, but she’d picked out every piece of furniture and knickknack herself. She painted the artwork above the fireplace at one of those art and canvas parties with a group of girls from the college. The stack of books on the table next to the slipcovered sofa was part of a growing to-be-read pile she’d intended to dig into that very night, right after some much-needed Netflix binge-watching. She’d carved out a life for herself these past five years, and the apartment was a physical, tangible representation of an independence she couldn’t, wouldn’t give up.
She met Dom’s gaze. “What does he want with me?”
“I expect Max will tell you when you see him.”
Max. Shivers rippled over her skin. Maxime Simard, pack Alpha and petty dictator.
She gritted her teeth. Her heart still pounded, and she knew they could hear it. They could smell her fear, too. “Has our lord and master ever heard of email?”
Dom refused to be drawn in. “We have our orders.”
“And if I refuse, what? Club me over the head and drag me back caveman style?”
“I don’t think it will come to that.”
He took no pleasure in this. That’s what she told herself. And it was true to a certain extent. From birth, wolves were trained to master their emotions and physiological reactions. It was crucial to blending into the human world. In medieval times, sprouting fur or fangs in public got a person burned at the stake. In modern society, it ended up on YouTube. These men had been trained to do a job, and they were doing it. It wasn’t personal. They weren’t here to punish her or disrupt her life.
Although just then, Aiden inhaled deeply and deliberately. His nostrils flared, and his slight smile let her know he’d scented her fear…and relished it. For the merest second, he let his wolf roll over his eyes, the color shifting from ordinary brown to an unnatural blue.
She jerked her gaze away before her own wolf could respond. He’d challenged her, knowing she had no choice but to submit. Even at her best, which she wasn’t at the moment, there was no way she could take on a fully grown male in his prime.
Remy, who was closest to him, sucked in a breath. “Aiden.” The command in his voice transformed him from a friendly blond lumberjack to a menacing werewolf. He took a threatening step toward the other male, who dropped his head and raised his arms, palms out in a show of submission. “Forgive me. It’s…close in here.”
Dom, who’d moved toward the pair, rested his hand on Remy’s back for a brief moment before stepping past him. He stood toe-to-toe with the chastened male, whose head bowed even lower under Dom’s glare. “You know who she is, Aiden. Don’t be foolish.”
“Yes, sir.”
Dom leaned closer. “You won’t make this mistake again.” He made it a statement.
Aiden lowered his brown head until his chin touched his chest. “I will not, Beta.”
Well, that’s new. Lizette paid little attention to pack politics, but even she knew the top wolves among the Alpha’s inner circle. The Beta was the second-in-command and served as the Alpha’s eyes and ears within the pack. Part enforcer, part trusted adviser, the Beta position inspired both respect and fear. Remy jokingly called it the “werewolf consigliere.”
Lizette looked at Remy and caught her breath. There was nothing good-natured about his expression now. She followed his gaze to Dom, who still towered over Aiden. Had Remy fought Dom for the Beta position and lost? They’d been Hunters—wolves handpicked by the Alpha to watch his back and further pack interests—since they were teens, and best friends since childhood. Like most best friends, they were competitive, but it had always been a friendly competition.
The menace rolling off Remy was anything but friendly. His green eyes glittered wolf-blue for a second—so fast she would have missed it if she hadn’t been looking at him. They flickered back to normal, but he kept his gaze trained on Dom’s turned back. An inhuman growl rose from his chest, so low no human could have heard it. The little hairs on her nape lifted.
She looked at Dom just in time to see the muscles in his back tense. He spoke without turning around. “Something to add, Remy?” He didn’t raise his voice, but his tone made her stomach flip over. The room seemed too small to contain the people and furniture inside. A grinding pressure descended, making her chest ache with the effort of breathing.
Then Remy closed his eyes. He shook himself the way a dog might when it gets out of a pool. It was like someone flipped a switch or opened a window. The awful pressure lifted. Around the room everyone exhaled.
Remy shrugged. “I’ve got nothing to add, Dom.”
Lizette sagged against the foyer table where she’d tossed her keys. This was why she lived alone. Life with werewolves was too damn intense.
Dom swung around and pinned her with a no-nonsense stare. A human would instantly peg him as military, although wolves rarely bothered to insert themselves into human conflicts. And anyway, Dom didn’t need weapons to assert his will. Rumor had it he was directly descended from the Capitoline Wolf in Rome. Humans spent so much time arguing about the statue’s age and origins, they never got around to wondering if there was any reality behind the ancient myth.
Lizette knew better. Dom might not be related to the fierce she-wolf who’d suckled the founder of Rome, but he was a formidable opponent. Although it rankled, she wasn’t about to test him. If she’d learned anything over her years of dealing with testosterone-poisoned males, it was to pick her battles. And this was just a skirmish. The real battle lay two hundred miles north, in a tiny town steps from the Canadian border.
If she had to concede defeat, she was going to do it on her own terms—and before someone got blood on her area rug. She marched to her bedroom, Dom on her heels. “All right,” she said over her shoulder. “Let me grab a bag.”
She shut the door in Dom’s face with a satisfying click.
* * *
Lizette’s hands shook as she threw clothes in the large pink duffel bag she used for the gym. She didn’t even bother removing the dirty yoga pants and sports bra at the bottom. “This is temporary,” she said under her breath. “He promised me. It’s a temporary thing.”
“Like a vacation, hmm?” Remy said from the doorway. He closed the door and leaned against it, his long, muscled body concealing most of the white woodwork. The bright color was one of the reasons she picked the apartment. After years in the brooding Lodge, with its gloomy, ever-present stained walnut, she’d been instantly drawn to this cheery, feminine space.
“I don’t remember inviting you in.” She tossed a few bras in the bag.
“You should, ah, put one of those on,” he said meaningfully.
She glanced down at her chest. Not being blessed with curves, she sometimes went without a bra. It was cold in Albany that morning, and she wore a puffer vest to work, figuring no one would notice her braless state, but removed it on the drive home. The heater in her old Honda had two settings: nuclear and surface-of-the-sun.
She grabbed one of the bras she’d thrown in the bag and faced away from him so she could do the whole arms-out-bra-clasp-ar
ms-in shimmy thing. “It’s gross for you to point that out, you know.”
“You pointed it out first, if you get my meaning.”
She snorted against her will. She tugged her sweater into place and turned back to him. “What was that about?” she mouthed, gesturing toward the living room.
His smile disappeared like the sun behind a cloud. “Nothing.”
“Is it the Beta position?”
Surprise flitted across his face. “I don’t give a shit about that.”
“Well, what is it, then?”
He shook his head. His mouth flattened into a stern line that said she’d get no answers from him, no matter how much she teased and cajoled.
She crossed her arms and raised an eyebrow.
“Just…don’t ask right now.” He glanced away. “Please.”
The “please” got to her—along with the miserable look on his face. Something was definitely going on between him and Dominic. It was the first time she’d seen anything come between them. Werewolves lived longer than humans—about a hundred and thirty years—and they reproduced sparingly. Most mated pairs had just one offspring. A fortunate few like her mother’s parents managed to give their child a sibling. Small families were the norm, which meant friendships were usually close-knit and lifelong.
Dom and Remy might not be related by blood, but they were as close as brothers. Whatever was bothering Remy, it was big.
She wanted to press him, but she knew he’d come to her when he was ready. “Okay,” she said. “Let me know if you feel like talking.”
“You need help packing?”
She gave him a look to let him know she recognized the deliberate change of subject. “No, thanks. I’m almost done. I don’t need much, since I won’t be staying long.”
“Mmmm.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“What?”
She zipped the duffel with a little more force than necessary. “What does he want?” There was no need to define he. Only the Alpha had the authority and resources to send five Hunters to upend her life.
Remy shrugged.
“You’ve got to have some idea.” She pitched her voice as low as possible. The others could probably still hear, but they’d have to be actively listening…which they probably were.
Remy kept his voice just as low. “He wants to talk to you himself.”
“He could have picked up the phone.” She swallowed against the urge to raise her voice. Whisper-shouting was the most unsatisfying form of communication ever. She jabbed a finger toward the living room. “He didn’t have to send a small army as escort.”
“Maybe he was worried about you running away. You do have a history of doing that.”
Lizette felt like she’d been slapped. She lowered her gaze so he wouldn’t see how much his statement hurt.
But Remy was too observant to miss it. He pushed away from the door and pulled her into a hug. His scent washed over her—peppermint and a hint of something clear and sharp that made her think of fresh snow. Wolves were nose-blind to their own scent, but she knew she carried notes of it, too—a legacy from her mother, who’d been born on the Hudson Bay in Quebec.
“Liz,” he whispered in her ear, so soft only she could hear. “I’m a dick.”
She shook her head, but he hugged her tighter.
“Yes, I am. I’m sorry, and I didn’t mean it that way. I know you don’t like to talk about your foster family.”
“It’s all right.” She struggled against his grip. “Remy. Can’t…breathe.”
He released her and stepped back. “Sorry.” He rubbed the back of his neck, his expression sheepish. “I’m still a hugger.”
She smiled. “It’s okay.”
“I mean it, though. I’m sorry about—”
“I promise it’s okay. And it’s not that I don’t like talking about them…” She groped for an explanation he’d understand. Unlike her, Remy was raised by werewolves—had spent his entire life surrounded by people just like him. “That part of my life feels like it happened to someone else, you know? I can’t really go back and visit, and I don’t think they’d even want me to.”
“Did they abuse you?” His expression darkened. In a heartbeat, he looked ready to tear someone apart limb by limb.
“No! Nothing like that.” She sighed inwardly. For the first time, she realized she’d been wrong to be so tight-lipped about her childhood. Apparently, he and the rest of the pack interpreted her silence to mean she’d been mistreated. The humans who raised her after her parents died had been decent, if somewhat strict. Aside from some uncomfortable ogling from their oldest son, she’d never been abused or neglected.
She leaned around Remy and glanced at the door, choosing not to whisper—the more wolves who heard her story, the better. “I didn’t run away because they were cruel. I mean, being a foster kid isn’t the greatest. They had five kids of their own, and they didn’t have a lot of money. I didn’t realize it until I was older, but they took me in because they needed the money from the state. But they weren’t bad people.” She took a deep breath, grateful to Remy for his willingness to listen without interrupting. “Things were fine until I turned thirteen. I started…changing. Not like the change, although I guess that was part of it. I started to hit puberty, and I got these…urges.” She couldn’t describe it.
“You felt like crawling out of your skin,” he murmured.
Yes. He knew. Of course he knew. “I thought I was going crazy.” She’d wanted to climb the walls. Some nights, she’d woken to the sound of a low, menacing growl only to realize it was coming from her.
At first, she thought it was something every girl experienced—some strange passage from childhood to womanhood. But when she tried talking to her foster mother about it, the woman took her to the family’s minister for a “spiritual cleansing.” A few weeks later Lizette started getting unusual cravings, and her foster father caught her sneaking bites of raw hamburger from the fridge.
And then the other cravings started…
She avoided Remy’s open, earnest gaze. He didn’t need to hear about her foster parents’ frantic phone calls to the church, or the surprise exorcism in the family’s shag-carpeted living room. She settled on an abbreviated version of the truth. “I ran away because I knew I’d never fit in. I thought something was wrong with me, and I didn’t want to be a burden.”
He ducked his head until he caught her gaze. “Nothing is wrong with you. Everyone goes through a weird stage before they make their first Turn. I just can’t believe your parents—your real parents—didn’t tell you the truth about what you are.”
“They might have…eventually. Remember, I was only seven when they died.”
“Seven is old enough to keep our secrets.” He hesitated.
“What is it?”
“They didn’t die at the same time, Lizette. Your dad must have had a month or two—”
“Three weeks.” At least that’s what she’d been told. Her memories were vague. Werewolves mated for life—literally. When one mate died, the other followed. A werewolf who lost a mate might linger for a year, maybe two, but most passed within a few months. The weeks after her mother’s death were fuzzy, but she remembered her father’s hair turning gray overnight. One morning he rinsed Lizette’s cereal bowl in the sink, placed it in the top rack of the dishwasher, and walked out the back door. She never saw him again.
“He should have told you,” Remy insisted.
“They weren’t connected to a pack. Maybe he tried and ran out of time.”
“Maybe.” Remy bumped her shoulder with his. “I’m just sorry it took us so long to find you, Liz. But we’re here now. You’re with your family. Your real family.”
She looked away so he wouldn’t see her stupid tears. He might be the pack’s class clown, but his meathead exterior hid a sensitive core. Somehow he sensed how brittle her confession made her feel. If he’d tsked and gathered her into his arms, she might have shattered. An
d because he knew her better than she liked to admit, he also knew she hated feeling vulnerable.
She scrubbed her hands over her face and shoved her hair behind her shoulders. With the threat of an emotional breakdown off the table, she could move on to the more immediate crisis in her life. She lowered her voice again. “Are you going to tell me what he wants?”
“Can’t.” Remy plopped on her bed, the springs squealing under his weight. He leaned on his hands behind him and bounced a few times. “This mattress sucks.”
“Remy.”
He sighed. “Max wants to talk to you himself. Even if I knew what he wanted...which, by the way, I do not admit to...I couldn’t tell you.”
He was rapidly losing his status as her favorite cousin—never mind that he was the only one she had.
Annoyed, she whirled to her dresser, where she caught a glimpse of her face in the framed mirror propped against the wall. She was pale, which was a bad look for someone with ivory-colored skin. Fine lines bracketed her mouth and lined her forehead. At twenty-four, she was a little young for wrinkles. She puffed out her cheeks and raised her eyebrows. Then she pinched her cheeks and bit her lips a few times to give them some color. After a couple of seconds, she smiled. Her dark blue eyes looked a little less haunted, and her cheeks were fuller—or at least less corpselike.
“Is this what women do when they’re alone? Make weird faces at themselves?”
She looked down at the assortment of bottles and makeup scattered across the top of her dresser. After a moment’s debate, she grabbed the cherry red train case sitting to one side and popped it open, then swept the whole mess into the case with an outstretched arm. “Not entirely,” she said, setting the train case on the bed next to her duffel. “We also think of ways to torment the annoying people in our lives.”
“Easy, killer.” He closed his eyes, and a frown puckered the smooth skin between his brows. He cocked his head like he was listening to a far-off sound. “Dom says hurry it up.”
She paused in the act of choosing which pajamas to pack. “He could have just talked through the door.”