Wolf Undaunted

by Shannon Curtis

  “Now can we talk?” Zane muttered.

  She kept her eyes resolutely forward as she crossed to her bed and pulled back the bed covers. Ignore him.

  “You can’t ignore me forever, princess,” Zane said as he stood at the end of her bed, frowning. Her eyelids flickered. Could he read her thoughts now?

  She climbed into bed, her lips firmly pressed together to prevent any response to him.

  “We need to figure out what’s going on here,” he stated.

  She brushed her hair off her forehead and lay back. Just ignore him. Her eyelids began to droop, and he stalked around the bed to stand by her hip. He really was a gorgeous man, all beautiful muscles, tanned skin, and she thought the close-cropped beard was growing on her. It gave him a rough, dangerous look that was very attractive.

  Her eyes widened, but only briefly. Wow, these tranqs were good. They had to be if she thought Zane Wilder was kind of sexy.

  “Speak to me, damn it,” he demanded.

  She smiled. He was cute when he was angry. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned down to look closely at her eyes, his gaze shifting from one to the other and back again.

  “Damn it, you took a tranq, didn’t you?” His lips tightened, and although it took a great deal of effort, she raised her fingers to his lips to smooth them out again.

  “Shh,” she said soothingly.

  He swore under his breath, his hands momentarily clenching, and then that smoky, inky fog swirled around him, and he was gone.

  Her eyelids drooped shut, and her mouth dipped at the corners, and she could barely retain her last thought.

  Don’t go...

  Chapter 4

  Zane sat in the wingback chair next to Vivianne’s bed, his feet on the covers, and he watched her sleep. He didn’t have anything else to do. Her chest rose rhythmically, her breathing deep and even. She looked like a dark angel, her hair fanned out on the pillow, her features so relaxed, so damn composed.

  She’d donned a white nightgown, the satin and lace concoction contrasted against her olive complexion, making her skin look warm and silken in the dim light that filtered through a crack in her curtains. He swallowed. He always gave her privacy when she was in the bathroom, despite the impression he’d given her earlier, but he hadn’t expected her to take sleeping pills to avoid talking with him. That didn’t seem like Vivianne’s normal style. He’d seen her in action. She was direct, decisive, and hadn’t shied away from anything, whether it was chairing a meeting with a bunch of seasoned vampire guardians, or negotiating with a strategic business partner.

  If he was going to be honest—and in the middle of the night, in a darkened room, with the only other occupant knocked out by sleeping tablets, he could afford to be honest—the Marchetta Vampire Prime had surprised him. She’d faced every decision she’d had to make with a calm confidence. She had a reputation for being ruthless, especially with her enemies, but he’d also seen her be fair. She was a hard taskmistress, but she never demanded of her staff anything she wasn’t prepared to do herself. And he’d been with her since the moment she’d awoken in that nutty little clinic under her father’s home, and she’d been hurt. She’d been tired, and yet she’d never let anyone see it, not even her brother, and most especially not the senator.

  She’d swung into action immediately, taking control of everything in a seamless, effortless maneuver that had been almost genius. In a pack, if the alpha prime became ill, there was usually a leadership challenge. Only the strong could lead, and Vivianne had given that impression immediately—only he knew how much it had cost her.

  Those moments she’d hidden behind closed doors, trying to catch her breath, or those long nights where she was plagued by nightmares.

  Her hand twitched on the cover, drawing his gaze. There it was again, a flinch. He looked at her face.

  Her brows were pulled in a faint V, and her head moved slightly in denial, her lips forming soundless words. He sat up. She was dreaming again. No, not dreaming... She flinched, and this time the movement was sharp, almost violent, and her hand rose as though to ward off something.

  Her head rolled from side to side. “No,” she whimpered.

  Zane frowned as he leaned forward. “Shh,” he whispered and reached for her hand.

  His head spun, and he heard a loud, rushing sound, like a thunderous waterfall. He stumbled, falling to the ground, dizzy. His knees were on concrete, and he felt the burn in his palms, as though he’d skidded along the surface. A driveway. What? Zane shook his head, then looked up when he heard a scream.

  Vivianne was struggling against a black wolf beside a dark car and tripped over the body of her dead guardian. The large black wolf stood over her, teeth bared. Her skirt was ripped, and he could see the mangled wound on her thigh, the bloom of dark red on her side.

  Vivianne’s eyes blazed, her fangs lengthening, and she bared them at the beast, hissing as the wolf growled.

  The lycan lowered his head, his jaws snapping, and Vivianne dodged those razor-sharp teeth, pushing against the powerful chest. The lycan fell back, and Vivianne managed to regain her feet before the black wolf launched himself at her, and Zane winced as he heard the dull thud of her body hitting the car door behind her, and Vivianne’s cry of pain as those teeth sank into her shoulder.

  “No,” Zane yelled, his voice emerging as a deep roar.

  The black wolf turned, and Zane glared at him, his head dipped low as he let a low, dangerous rumble emerge from his throat. The black wolf turned tail and ran. Vivianne stared at him, her hand pressed to her shoulder, but even now, Zane could see the crimson blood turning black as the lycan toxin started to act on her vampire blood.

  Her face was pale, and he saw the stark realization in her eyes, the awareness of the death sentence she’d just been handed as she slowly slid down the side of the car. He raced toward her, catching her before she hit the ground.

  She shook her head, her brown eyes tearing up. “I let him down,” she choked.

  “Shh,” he whispered, smoothing her hair off her face.

  “I’ve let them all down,” she said, and he could feel her trembling in his arms. He laid her gently down on the driveway and drew his singlet off over his head. He ripped the garment into shreds and pressed the rags to her wounds. She frowned, then gazed down, fingers tugging at the cloth.

  “No, leave it—”

  “Let me see,” she whispered frantically, surprisingly strong as she struggled against him. She peeled his fingers back, and they both looked down. Zane frowned. Her clothes were torn, but her wounds were closed. Healed.

  He sat back on his heels, confused, and he saw the same confusion in Vivianne’s eyes as she sat up. She ripped her blouse open, twisting to look at the wound that had been on her side. Nothing. No marks, no scars, not even a smear of blood. Zane reached out, stunned, and slid his hand over the skin, trying to find the wound he’d seen.

  Her skin was flawless, smooth and golden. Warm. She wore a lacy sage-green bra, her breasts swelling above the decorative cups. Her breath hitched, and he raised his gaze to hers. He stroked her again, watching her eyes darken with awareness. She didn’t brush his hand away. She didn’t move away from his touch. She did tremble, though, and this time, it wasn’t from shock, judging by the heat in her eyes, and the rapid rise and fall of her chest.

  He leaned forward, tilting his head to the side, his eyes on hers, until he could gently press his lips to the silky smooth skin of her shoulder. She swallowed, a soft gulp drawing his lips up in a smile as he kissed her again, this time closer to her collarbone. She moved her head to the side, her hair sliding back over her shoulder.

  Her scent hit him, low in his groin, tugging at him, hardening him. Cinnamon, musk and a zing of ginger. His lycan nose peeled back the layers of her natural fragrance, delighting in the full body and spicy tones, and his body throbbed. He slid one arm arou
nd her slender waist, the other sliding up the creamy column of her throat to delve into the dark curls that had tempted him for so long.

  He lifted his gaze to her eyes. She was watching him, and she raised a dark eyebrow.

  “What are you waiting for?” her voice was low, husky, and his beast inside perked up, a sensation he hadn’t felt since he’d regained awareness in that hospital room.

  His lips curved. “Patience, princess.” He lowered his mouth to hers.

  * * *

  Vivianne closed her eyes as his lips touched hers, giving herself up to the sensation. His tongue slid inside her mouth, and her breath caught in her chest. She could feel her breasts swelling, rising for his attention. His arm tightened around her waist, drawing her closer, and she sighed when her breasts met the muscular wall of his chest.

  He growled, his torso vibrating against hers, and she moaned at the exquisite sensation, her arms sliding up over his broad shoulders to twine around his neck. He leaned closer, and her mouth opened further as his tongue and lips played with hers.

  Her heart thudded in her chest, her nipples tightening, and she scraped her nails lightly down his neck. He made a deep, low rumble of pleasure, his hand tugging her head back, and she arched her back. Her nipples were hard little nubs beneath the lace of her bra, a delicious friction sensitizing them further as his chest moved against hers. He slanted his mouth at a different angle, and the kiss got even better.

  His hands roamed over her back, smoothing, scraping, smoothing, and she writhed to his rhythm, her own hands skimming the defined rope of muscles across his shoulders, delving into his hair. It was long enough for her to curl her fingers in and pull, and she decided she liked scruffy, after all, especially when his head tilted back, and she could trail her lips down his neck, feel his pulse on her tongue, smell that enticing male fragrance that was cedarwood and spice. He dipped his head again, and it became a playful tussle of nip and lick between them.

  His hands slid around her ribs to cup her breasts, and Vivianne’s eyelids flew open.

  She was flat on her back, the bedcovers twisted, and Zane hovered above her, panting. His eyes mirrored her shock, and she swallowed.

  “You shouldn’t be here,” she whispered.

  Something dark and battered flared in his eyes, and suddenly he was gone, the midnight tendrils of inky fog swirling around her.

  She sat up in the bed and stared out into her empty bedroom, blinking rapidly in the gloom. Had she—had she just dreamed that? Or had it actually happened?

  * * *

  Zane strolled along the line of shelves, scanning the spines of the several hundred books as though he gave a crap.

  Whatever, as long as he didn’t have to look directly at Vivianne.

  You shouldn’t be here.

  Even the memory of the words still stung. No, he shouldn’t be here, watching her sleep, kissing her in her dreams—how the hell had that happened?—or just floating along like a shadow in her life.

  She hadn’t acknowledged his presence, and he was secretly relieved. If they didn’t talk about it, they could pretend it didn’t happen, right?

  “Tell me, what is this about a campaign?” Vivianne asked quietly. He wasn’t going to look. He wasn’t going to look. Zane glanced over his shoulder. Okay, so he looked. Her expression was remote, cool. He shook his head. She was talking to her father, and they both sat there as though facing off against adversaries. Vampire families were about as warm and cuddly as a porcupine on crack. His gaze drifted over her.

  Today she wore her hair in a single braid that twisted from one temple, around the back of her head and over the opposite shoulder. Pretty. She wore a gray silk blouse that billowed and rippled with her movements, and a slim-line skirt that followed the shape of those sexy hips of hers. He frowned. He should be strung up. He should rip his fangs from his jaw and hand them in, skin that pelt of his and burn it, because after what he’d done last night he should resign from the lycan breed before he shamed them any further.

  Kissing a damn vampire, even in a dream, was not the done thing.

  “Well, it’s more of a bill, and you must keep this confidential,” Vincent Marchetta stated, his expression just as stern as Vivianne’s. Zane wrinkled his nose. The older man wore the stink of death, his dark eyes cold and soulless. A true vampire who made Zane’s skin crawl.

  Vivianne sighed. “Dad, of course—”

  “Don’t ‘of course’ me,” Vincent snapped. “I don’t take anything for granted anymore, not since your brother’s defection.”

  Vivianne frowned. “Lucien didn’t ‘defect.’ You kidnapped his wife—”

  “She wasn’t his wife at the time,” her father corrected, his tone harsh. “And don’t you dare defend him—or that woman. We kept you alive, Vivianne. The only reason you’re here is because of the trouble and risk your family went to in order to save your life.”

  Zane’s eyebrows rose. Wow, that was harsh, coming from your old man. He could see what the patriarch was doing. He was trying to guilt his daughter into doing what he wanted. He glanced at Vivianne. It was like looking at a mask. No emotion. Strange. He guessed you could only guilt someone into doing something if they had the capacity to feel...guilt. He’d only ever seen her completely shut down her reactions with this man, but right at this moment, he wondered just exactly what Vivianne was capable of feeling. The woman sitting in the chair, her legs crossed, hands folded in her lap, was nothing like the warm, vibrant, voluptuous vixen he’d held in his arms—or dreamed he’d held in his arms. He tilted his head. Had he dreamed it? Or had it happened for real? Like, as real as it could get with a ghost? If it was just a dream, had he dreamed it, or had she? He shook his head from the never-ending round of questions bombarding his mind, and focused on the not-so-subtle power play.

  Vivianne didn’t bother to address her father’s remark.

  “I’ll ask you again,” she said, and her gaze was direct. “What is this campaign—bill,” she corrected, “and what do you want from me?”

  “I want you to purchase that parcel of land on the western border of Summercliffe.”

  “Why?”

  “I’m your father. I don’t need to explain myself to you. Just do it.”

  “And I’m your Prime,” she snapped, and Zane’s eyebrows rose. This was more than your average daddy-daughter issues, he suspected. “You’re a Reform Senator. You don’t control Nightwing anymore, Dad. I do.”

  Zane folded his arms and sat on the corner of Vincent’s mahogany desk inside the expansive den of the cold and draughty Marchetta Manor. His gaze darted between the two vampires. Things were getting interesting. Reform senators had to renounce any familial or tribal associations, to avoid conflicts of interest. Vincent Marchetta had once been the Nightwing Vampire Prime, but had had to cede his position in order to run for politics.

  Vincent’s gaze lowered, and Zane saw the old man’s fist clench. “I want to purchase that tract of land.”

  “Why? It’s virtually bear country.”

  “It’s also a thoroughfare for wolves between Woodland and Alpine.”

  Zane frowned at the mention of those packs. His packs.

  Vivianne sighed. “What do you plan to do? Shut down the thoroughfare to get back at the lycans?”

  “Oh, no,” Vincent said, smiling. “In fact, I want the opposite. I want it used. A lot.”

  Vivianne straightened in her chair, suspicion bright in her brown gaze. “Why?”

  “Because I’m proposing a change to the territorial rights bill,” Vincent told her. “I want to adjust the jurisdiction for trespass.”

  “Why?” she asked, frowning.

  “Because I want the crime reclassified as a Class 1A crime.”

  Vivianne’s frown deepened, and Zane saw her confusion creep through her mask.

  “Why, Dad?”

&
nbsp; Yeah, why? Currently trespassing was a Class 2 crime. When a trespasser was caught, there were two options. If it was interbreed, say, a werewolf trespassing on another pack’s land, there was the escort to the boundary. If it was cross-breed, say, a vampire trespassing on a pack’s land, then either hostage and negotiation for release, usually resulting in a boon for those being trespassed against, or an outright kill. Upgrading to a Class 1A crime meant the prime owner of the land could kill or imprison the trespasser indefinitely.

  “Because I want to set up a new clinic on that parcel of land, and send any lycan trespassers over for testing.”

  Zane gaped. That sounded...wrong. Like, weird wrong.

  “Testing? Don’t you meant torturing?”

  Vincent shrugged. “Semantics.”

  Zane’s head whipped around to face Vivianne. “You can’t be serious,” he roared.

  Chapter 5

  He’d overheard some of what that underground clinic had been used for, and it turned his stomach.

  Vivianne flinched slightly, but masked the move by skimming her hands over her skirt, as though straightening the fabric over her curves. Yeah, she’d heard him. She could try to ignore him all she liked, but he was going to make sure she heard him, on this topic at least.

  “I know you want to resume your project—” she began, but halted when her father leaned forward in his chair.

  “My project?” he repeated in a low voice. “Don’t you mean our project?” Zane’s eyes widened, and he glared in accusation at Vivianne. She’d been part of it? Had she condoned what her father had done at that clinic? He’d heard the whispers, the stories of those who’d been abused, but who’d escaped just before the clinic was destroyed. He’d also heard the cries of pain, the moans and screams of the other “patients,” just before her brother, Lucien, had unleashed on his father. He folded his arms as he glared down at the senator. The man was a monster.