Mating the Beast (Virgin Werewolf Beast Erotic Romance) (Project Loup Garou, #2) (Project Loup Garou, #2)

by Ava Lore

  "'If any man thirsts, let him come unto me and drink,'" he replied. "John seven thirty-seven." He gave a faint smile. "And blood loss will do that to you."

  Yeah. She stared down at the blanket swaddling her. She suddenly felt very tired.

  For a moment, the priest was silent, then he sighed. "If you did not want me to call someone to help you, what would you like instead?"

  Michelle bit her lip. She felt terrible, as though she were imposing on his hospitality. "I, um... I need clothes. Do you have any spare clothes around? Something donated, maybe?" She wasn't poor, she didn't deserve anything donated for the poor, but she was desperate. Needy, definitely.

  He was silent for a moment longer, then sighed again, and she had the awful impression that he had come across an injured woman too scared to speak far too many times for his tender soul. "Come with me."

  He led her out of the office and down the hallway, and she followed, forcing herself to stay upright, clutching the blankets around her with her good hand. Her feet hurt terribly and it was a battle to hide her limping.

  He took her to a storage room filled with various paraphernalia—bits and pieces of a nativity scene, dusty choir costumes, old candelabra—and opened a huge cardboard box sitting in one corner. It was filled with clothes, old and faded and perfectly comfortable and serviceable. Father Tom told her to help herself and left the room so she could get dressed.

  The moment the door closed Michelle dove into the box like a starving woman on a banquet. Her stomach growled, but her chilled skin was the more pressing problem. It was strange how running for your life reduced you down to the most basic levels. She'd never been so desperate to know that warmth came before hunger, though it made sense. Too cold and the body shut down, and it could happen within hours. Three minutes without air. Three days without water. Three weeks without food. It was law, and she couldn't escape it. Meet those needs, and everything else was window-dressing.

  With that in mind, Michelle dressed herself in two pairs of sweatpants—comically baggy on her—wrapped a scarf around her shoulder and tied it with her hand and teeth, two shirts and a hoodie, a pair of boots three or four sizes too large and three pairs of thick socks still in their packaging to keep the boots on her feet. One home-knit hat, a pair of ski gloves, and another scarf about six feet long. Her last selection was a ski jacket, almost new and perfect for outdoor wear. When she was done she finally felt herself warming up. Carrying the jacket in her arms, she limped out of the storage room and took in her surroundings.

  The priest's office was down the hall, but as she walked towards it she realized that the hallway was situated behind the main sanctuary of the church and she peeked in through a door. She was surprised to find Father Tom sitting in one of the pews, staring up at the crucifix over the altar. She would have thought he'd return to his office. Holding the jacket close to her as though she were a little girl with a teddybear, Michelle entered the sanctuary and stopped just inside, unsure that she deserved to be there.

  The sanctuary smelled of incense and smoke and... paint? She looked around and found, off to her right, a drop cloth and a wall in the midst of painting. That was why Father Tom was wearing such raggedy clothes. Now that she looked at him, though, he was every inch a priest, and she was suddenly shy.

  Her father had been non-religious, a counterweight to her mother's staunch Catholicism. She'd always taken after her father while her sisters had taken after her mother. If she had been a better Catholic, she wondered, would she ever have found herself in this position? Was she being punished for her transgressions against the subjects of the project? She hadn't known what she would be asked to witness when she had signed on, but was that any excuse?

  She turned to the crucifix and studied it, feeling strangely, inexplicably sad. In his previous life, had Subject Number One believed in a god? Had he had a job? Did he stay in touch with his family, did he enjoy reading books, did he want to travel, did he like to cook? Who was he?

  And who was she? Was she a young woman who had made a bad decision—a thousand bad decisions—or was she just trapped by circumstances?

  "Come sit with me, child," Father Tom said.

  Taking a deep breath, Michelle crossed the sanctuary and slid into the pew next to him. Together they sat in silence, staring at the crucifix over the altar.

  After a few minutes the priest cleared his throat. "Would you like to unburden your spirit?" he asked.

  Michelle pressed her lips together. "I don't know," she said. "I'm... my mother was Catholic, but I was never observant... I'm not sure I can..." She didn't dare look at him. She didn't feel worthy of his consideration.

  "That is immaterial. You came to the church seeking sanctuary, did you not?"

  Clothes, Michelle thought, but she nodded anyway. Hadn't she needed sanctuary? Hadn't she needed to find a place to pause and breathe?

  "You are running from someone," the priest said suddenly, startling her. Her gaze darted to him and she felt her whole body stiffen at his words, but he remained in his seat, staring at the altar. She tried to laugh it off.

  "Is it that obvious?"

  A faint smile passed over his lips. "I'd say so."

  Michelle sighed. "I am. I am running away."

  "From what?"

  She couldn't tell him. And he was so kind, she couldn't bring herself to lie to him either. She had formulated a story about an abusive partner—because that was what her job was, in a way, an abusive partner who cared nothing for her and constantly threatened her with annihilation—but Father Tom was a nice man. A good man, who cared about an injured, naked woman who showed up at his back door and didn't try to touch her or hurt her.

  Michelle rubbed a hand over her face. "Something that scares me to death," she said, and as she did, she realized that of her forking paths—back to the Project, or into the wild and on the run with a man trapped in the body of a beast—she wasn't sure which one scared her more.

  She hated the Project. She could go back and pretend she was okay, but sooner or later she'd probably break down and they would figure her out... and besides, she knew One would never stay away from her. He would throw his body against the Project until he was bloody and broken trying to get to her. She feared losing her memories, and the thought of turning Subject Number One back over to them made her want to throw up.

  But what kind of life would it be, hiding in the woods, eating whatever One could catch, in the cold and the damp? Would she ever see her family again? Ever speak to her friends? His body would warm her, but would his heart, already given, be enough to sustain her?

  And did he want her heart in return? Could she give it to a man in the body of a beast?

  She admired him at least, and she certainly didn't want him captured again. The thought of his magnificent form curled up and trapped in a cell once more made her want to cry.

  She had no idea what to do. Michelle leaned forward and buried her face in her good hand.

  After a moment Father Tom touched her lightly on the back, and she pulled herself together, sitting back up. "I'm sorry," she said. "I'm just dealing with a lot. I have a big decision to make."

  She stared straight ahead at the back of the pew in front of her, but she saw the priest nod knowingly from the corner of her eye. "A crossroads," he said. "In one direction...?" He trailed off, asking her to fill him in.

  Michelle sighed. "Confinement. Punishment, probably."

  "And the other?"

  What lay in the other direction? Nights of passion that she had never dreamed possible, days of barely surviving? A life always lived at the edge, always shying from the company of others. An unordinary life. No matter which way she turned, it was an unordinary life staring her in the face.

  But what if one day her beast became a man? What if one day, she fell in love with him? She already felt something dark and attractive when she thought of him... it could bloom. And he could be healed, couldn't he? Whatever had been done to him... it was reversible, su
rely...

  "A dream," she said at last, and was then startled to hear the words come from her mouth. A dream? Yes, she supposed that was true. A dream of a companion. She could never share her years at the lab with anyone else... but she wouldn't have to, if she decided to stay and help Subject Number One. He had been there.

  Next to her, the priest nodded sagely. "Would you like the advice of a man who has seen many people come to him in trouble?"

  Wordlessly, Michelle nodded. It couldn't hurt at this point. And she needed clarity.

  "Sometimes the promise of what might be that we cling to is what kills us," Father Tom said. "Sometimes we have to turn back and face the music. If we never own up to what we do, we must run and run until we are utterly spent. It is in learning to let go and let God take over that we find peace, even if that is a scary prospect."

  Michelle frowned. Go back to the lab? It was certainly safer than moving forward with Subject Number One. And yet...

  "You think I should turn back?" she said.

  The priest nodded. "I think it's best that you turn yourself in."

  For a moment, she had no idea what he was talking about. Then an inkling began to grow in her brain. As though in slow motion, Michelle turned and stared at him, the blood draining from her cheeks. "What did you say?" she whispered.

  A pained expression passed over his eyes. "I saw your face on the morning news. You are wanted for several murders. You should turn yourself in. Only in paying for our crimes can you find salvation."

  No, she thought. No, no. The long dark reach of the Project had already sent images of her ahead, filled with lies, leaving her nowhere to turn.

  Murder. Really? How could they pin murders on her...?

  Oh.

  Someone must have died, she realized. One must have killed someone in their escape. Or maybe they were just lying. They had the full backing of the government. They could say anything about her. Anything at all.

  Nausea swept over her and before her eyes the sanctuary turned askew as the breath left her lungs. "You really think I'm capable of murder?" she asked. She was so small, so meek. She'd always said yes at the project, had always gone along with whatever they wanted of her, even if it gave her nightmares, even if it kept her up at night so she didn't even sleep. Lay low, don't bring attention to herself, don't rock the boat—that was the way to keep safe. Be sweet. Be kind. Be demure.

  But it hadn't kept her safe, had it? They'd had no compunctions putting her in a cell with a wild beast who, they believed, wanted nothing more than to fuck her.

  It must have been Dr. Wells who came up with that lie. He was a vile man, and suddenly everything was clear. She'd rather run until her feet had worn down to nubs than return to the lab and that terrible man and the terrible things he did there, things she didn't even want to think about, that she couldn't speak out loud.

  Abruptly she stood. "I have to go."

  The priest looked up at her, startled. "Are you going to take my advice?"

  "I didn't murder anyone," she said. "I'm innocent." Well, not entirely innocent. But if she could help Subject Number One escape, perhaps she could expunge her sins from her soul.

  "You don't have to lie to me," Father Tom began, but all of a sudden she didn't care what he thought of her. She didn't care if she was a bitch, or angry, or off-putting. That wasn't going to keep her safe, and it wasn't going to keep Number One safe. She should have listened to him and tried to have been more stealthy. She had to keep him safe. She couldn't go back to her old life, not now. Not with everyone thinking she was a murderer.

  Fuck them, she thought. I am out of here.

  "I have to go," she repeated, then turned and began to walk out of the sanctuary.

  Then she heard Father Tom standing up behind her and she knew he was going to come after her, try to keep her from leaving.

  She broke into a run.

  "Wait!" The shout burst out behind her, but she didn't even look back. She was already sprinting through the door to the back hallway. She was light, young, and he was old and heavy. She could outrun him, even in her weakened state.

  Her shoulder screamed pain at her as she fairly flew down the back hallway toward the door that led outside into the back field of the church. The heavy boots on her feet tried to trip her up, and the hunger gnawing at her stomach sent signals out through her body, telling her to slow down, to conserve her energy, but she ignored them. She had to get back to One. They had to escape. She wouldn't let either of them fall into the clutches of Dr. Wells or the Project ever again.

  The door, locked from the outside, gave way from the inside, and she thanked whatever deities were looking after her as she heard the pounding of footsteps behind her on the linoleum, growing closer. Father Tom said something, but she didn't hear it over the pounding of her heart. Bursting through the door, she tried to slam it behind her, but it only floated pneumatically. No time to mess with it, she was surging through the field behind the church toward the trees where she knew One waited for her.

  But behind her Father Tom came through the door. She heard him just behind her, and then his hand caught the flying tail of the ski jacket she still clutched close to her body.

  No, she thought. I need that. But she was not strong enough to yank it back, certainly not one-handed. Her other arm hung useless at her side, and she wanted to scream in frustration. She turned, still trying to move forward.

  "Let go!" she shrieked, yanking and pulling on the jacket. The slick material began to slip from her hand, and she gritted her teeth and dug in.

  But he was so much bigger than she was, so much heavier. He wrapped the jacket around her arm and gave her a pleading look, his feet planted firmly in the grass. It was then she saw the cell phone in his hand, the screen bright. He had called someone. The police? What had he done?

  "Please!" the priest begged. "Please, try to see reason. Please..."

  Reason? Reason? She'd been seeing reason for months now, being reasonable, not making any waves, protecting herself—or so she thought. She was done trying to be reasonable in a reasonless world. In that moment she wanted nothing more than to punch Father Tom in his gullible, well-meaning face. She yanked on the jacket again.

  "Give it to me!" Michelle screamed, and all her frustration and anger poured out into her voice.

  In front of her Father Tom went pale and he dropped the jacket so suddenly that she stumbled backwards, her feet slipping on the grass. Off-balance, she fell, and a sudden deep despair welled up in her. If she lost her feet, she lost everything, and the ground came up to meet her...

  She hit it with a bone-jarring thud and pain speared up her shoulder. For a split second she thought all was lost and a great wail of grief welled up inside her.

  And then she heard it. Felt it, actually. A deep growl, so dark and ominous that it was almost like thunder rumbling in her gut. An approaching storm.

  She glanced back, toward the trees, and there, stalking toward them in the long grass, was Subject Number One.

  The sun didn't shine today, and in the gray, diffuse light of the clouds his soft brown fur blended into the tall, waving grass, leaving his edges blurry.

  He was huge. Monstrous. And beautiful, she thought. His green eyes sparked with incandescent rage, pinned squarely on the priest, and she was startled by the unexpected urge to lunge forward and throw her arms around him.

  Take me away, she thought, and as he drew closer, the growl in his throat growing with proximity to the man who dared to try to prevent her escape, she knew it would be all right. Even if Father Tom had called the cops, even if they were pursued, it would be all right. She would help him, and he would help her.

  Quickly Michelle scrambled to her feet and gathered the jacket to her before running, her heart filled with relief, toward Subject Number One's hulking form.

  One paused as she ran to him, though he didn't move his eyes from Father Tom. When she reached him he lowered himself to the ground and she threw her leg and good arm
over his spine, scrambling and pulling herself up onto his back before clamping her thighs down and weaving her good fingers through his fur. Beneath her, he was hot, on fire, every muscle tense and trembling. Only when she was secure did she look up at the priest.

  He stood where she had left him, his limbs limp, his face ashen, almost green. His chest rose and fell in a rhythm so rapid she knew he was seconds away from fainting himself. For a brief moment she felt a terrible regret. He had only wanted to help her.

  "Thank you for the clothes," she told him. It sounded inane, but she was grateful.

  Her voice seemed to bring the priest back to his senses. "I..." he said, then paused and licked his lips, cleared his throat, took a step backwards before sinking to his knees. The cellphone slipped from nerveless fingers and landed in the grass.

  "Thank you," she said again. "I mean it." Then she leaned down and wrapped her good arm around One, feeling the rumble of his growl in the sweet, newly awakened space between her legs. She buried her face in his fur. "Let's go," she whispered.

  One snarled a warning, then turned and ran into the woods.

  In the distance, she heard the wail of sirens.

  Chapter Eight

  They ran.

  Subject Number One watched the ground pass beneath his feet, eaten up by his monstrous stride. The thrum of helicopters had started about half an hour into their escape, and now they remained always in the distance, constantly searching for them in the woods. The late autumn gave them the cover of the trees still clothed in leaves, and on his back his mate gripped him fiercely between her thighs, his fur tangled in her fingers. He was almost completely wolf now, human only through the torso and in his elongated toes. His thumbs had retreated, leaving him with four digits on each hand, but the length of their spread gave him an advantage as they moved into hillier country.