by BJ Wane
Copyright © 2020 by BJ Wane
All rights reserved.
This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the author except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Editors: Kate Richards & Laura Garland
Cover Design: Joe Dugdale (sylv.net)
Published by Blue Dahlia 2020
Submitting to Her Mate:
DRAKE
Book 3
Cowboy Wolf series
BY
BJ WANE
Disclaimer
This contemporary romantic suspense contains adult themes such as power exchange and sexual scenes. Please do not read if these offend you.
Dedication
I would like to thank my cover designer, Joe Dugdale, who worked with me to get the cover I wanted and to Sylv, my PA who keeps me sane, I view her as my personal publisher but I have complete control.
You can contact them yourself at Sylv.net:
www.sylv.net
PROLOGUE
Ames, Iowa
“Did you really think I wouldn’t find out about this?”
Her husband’s sinister, cold voice sent a chill down Roz Cunningham’s spine. How had he found out about her appointment with the divorce lawyer this morning? Dean wasn’t supposed to be served the papers until later this afternoon. Sucking in a deep breath, she kept hold of the armful of clothes she still intended to pack and came out of their shared walk-in closet.
Dean took in the clothes with a puzzled frown as she crossed their spacious bedroom and dumped them on the bed. The late-morning sun streamed in through the French doors, but the bright swath did little to thaw the coldness of his glare or ease the sudden worry his unexpected arrival caused her. Not trusting him, she kept several feet of white carpet between them as she schooled her features into a bland expression.
“What are you ranting about now, and why couldn’t it wait until you got home from work? Or did you spend the morning on the golf course with what’s her name, Chrissy?”
Hands curling into fists, he took a menacing step forward, his thunderous expression setting off alarm bells. For two years, Roz had put up with his belittling comments and obsessive possessiveness, but last week, after discovering he had tapped her phone, she decided returning to single, lonely status was preferable to living with an asshole husband. Even though he’d threatened often enough, he’d never lifted a hand to her, but given the way he was practically vibrating with fury, she wouldn’t put anything past him right now.
“Why are you piling your clothes on the bed?” Dean asked, ignoring her question and making her second-guess what he was talking about. He caught her quick glance toward the suitcase lying open on the small sofa across the room in the sitting area, his face turning a mottled red as he rounded on her. “What the fuck is going on?”
This isn’t about me filing for divorce? At a loss as to what had set him off enough to compel him to rush home, she opted for naïve nonchalance as she replied with a shrug. “You tell me. You’re the one storming in here with questions.”
“Don’t you dare take me for a fool.”
Dean moved so fast Roz had no time to evade his sudden grab for her arm. Surprise at the depth of his rage and his tight hold came close to sending her to her knees as she cried out in pain. Her vision blurred, but somehow, she managed to remain upright. Reeling from his sudden physical attack, shaking with both fear and anger, she bit out, “I don’t know what you’re talking about.” She had a lot of practice holding her own against his verbal assaults, but this switch to a physically painful confrontation was new, and scary enough to have her treading carefully.
Lowering his blond head, he got into her face and sneered. “You’re not stupid enough to think I stopped at putting a trace on your phone, are you? Imagine my surprise this morning when I received an alert about the porn site you were on, and the chat you were having with someone named Master Jace.”
Uh-oh, busted. Roz would laugh if Dean didn’t look ready to spit nails. She’d kept her curiosity about kinky sex to herself for years, and, given her husband’s penchant for controlling every aspect of her life, she would never willingly hand over that kind of power to him. Her chats with the private club owner were more of a diversion from her woes over her marriage than an intention to dip her toes into a lifestyle that stirred her curiosity with heated impulsive fantasies. His duplicity in monitoring her computer activity and knowledge of her conversations with Master Jace took second place to dealing with him now that he’d caught her packing.
Before she could come up with a plausible excuse for either infraction, he increased the pressure on her arm, his grip as worrisome as his next words. “Since we don’t have a trip planned, I can only assume you think you’re going somewhere without me.”
The silky menace of his tone drew a shiver, and tears blurred her vision, but she refused to let them fall. No way would she let him see her cry. “Let go of me, you bastard,” she hissed between clenched teeth, her breathing becoming labored from the red waves of throbbing pain radiating up her arm.
Dean chuckled, and Roz tried moving away from the sheer insanity of his laugh. She got as far as the end table next to the bed—one step.
“Not now, not ever. I wouldn’t even share you with that flea-ridden mongrel you brought home. I saw to that. What makes you think I’ll let you get away with leaving me for your perverted boyfriend?”
Suspicious dread formed a knot in her stomach. He didn’t, did he? “I just talk to Jace, that’s it. I’m not running away with him. What did you do to Maisy?”
A tightness surrounded her chest as Roz remembered the small poodle she’d help rescue from a puppy mill, along with numerous other small dogs. She’d only been out of veterinary school and working at a clinic that donated their services to shelter and rescue animals for six months when she’d brought the malnourished, neglected dog home to tend. After bearing four litters in three years without the proper care and diet, no one had expected to save any of the young dogs. She’d lavished Maisy with attention and food, giving her everything she’d been missing, praying she would hold on to the will to survive. When Roz found her dead in her comfy dog bed one morning, she’d been heartbroken, having fallen in love with the trusting dog who had gazed at her with adoration shining in her large, dark eyes.
From the gleam in Dean’s brown eyes, she braced herself for his worst betrayal. “A little rat poison in that expensive, gourmet food you were always feeding her took care of the bitch and freed up your time once again to spend with me.”
A surge of gut-wrenching fury and despair shook Roz’s whole body. Until she’d fallen for Dean’s fake charm and married him out of loneliness and a lack of prospects for the husband and family she coveted, she’d gone through life’s ups and downs with breezy, light-hearted acceptance. Her late aunt, who had raised her, often said, “Don’t sweat the big stuff, and the small stuff will take care of itself.” That wise advice had held her in good stead—until now.
Giving in to the rioting emotions consuming her, she let her rage come through as she ground out, “I should have left you months ago, or never married you in the first place.”
Without thinking, she brought her knee up, ramming his balls, her aim spot-on from his strangled cry and vicious twist of her arm. They both crumpled to the floor, Roz fighting nausea from the snap of her bone, her vision going black, the pain robbing her of breath. Dean’s cursing filtered through the waves of agonizing, tortuous throbbing, and she relished his suffering as much as she bemoaned her own.
She didn’t know how long they lay there wheezing, nothing registering except the queasy thrumming of her entire arm and the slow realization of the extent of the break along with the depth of Dean’s fury.
“You’ll…fuck…you’re going to pay…” Struggling to stand, he hauled her up, the icy-cold calculation of his gaze as he reached for her other arm revealing his sadistic intention to break that one next.
Roz gave a strangled cry of fearful, angry desperation as she thrust her uninjured arm behind her and encountered the bedside lamp. As her husband leaned forward, she reacted on impulse, gripping the lamp and swinging with all her strength. The sickening crunch of impact with his head added to the bile already threatening to come up, his stunned expression giving her satisfaction until his eyes rolled back and he fell to the floor, his bright-red blood staining the white carpet.
Panicked, she grabbed one of her tops off the bed and pressed it to the gash and, forgetting her injured arm, reached for the phone on the end table. There was no stopping her whimper or the tears from escaping the excruciating, fiery agony that forced her to lower her head to avoid blacking out. After several deep breaths, she forced herself to focus on Dean, letting go of the makeshift compress to grab the phone.
“Don’t even think about dying, you son of a bitch,” she muttered, pressing 911.
Roz relayed the need for an ambulance, answered questions the best she could, and prayed the blow hadn’t caused anything life-threatening. She might not love the man anymore, if she ever did, and he definitely fit the bill as a first-class jerk, but that didn’t mean she wanted to cause him severe harm.
It seemed like hours instead of minutes before she heard the wail of sirens, and she tried not to get alarmed at Dean’s stillness. He was breathing, and that was most important. She cringed thinking about his mother’s reaction when she heard about her beloved, “can do no wrong” son’s injury. The Cunningham family was one of the wealthiest, most influential in Iowa, something Roz hadn’t known when Dean had brought his horse up to the veterinary school for treatment on a pulled tendon. When he’d started pursuing her, refusing to take no for an answer with an engaging, teasing smile she’d fallen for hook, line, and sinker, she’d been in the middle of finals and preparing for graduation after eight grueling years of study. When he couldn’t cajole her into going out, he brought food to her apartment and sat quietly watching television while she crammed. His presence was enough to dispel the loneliness that often plagued studious nerds such as herself, and, by the time she’d made it through and accepted a position at a clinic, she’d been emotionally and physically drained, easily susceptible to his charm and grateful for his support.
“Paramedics!”
“Up here!” she announced when the call echoed up the stairs following a loud knock and the door opening.
Footsteps pounded on the wood staircase, and she raised her voice to guide them to the master suite. “Last door at the end of the hall. Hurry!”
As soon as the paramedics entered, followed by two police officers, Roz stood and moved out of their way until one noticed her arm. After that, everything passed in a blur of questions and pain as she was rushed along with Dean to the hospital.
****
One month later
Roz stiffened, hearing the door snick open behind her. Without turning around from gazing at Dean’s comatose face, she braced herself for another confrontation as his mother entered the hospital room. The woman seemed to possess an inner radar telling her when Roz was here, and never failed to harass her over Dean’s condition.
“I’ve told you to stay away from my son.”
“And I’ve told you I was only defending myself, but that hasn’t stopped you from using your influence to come after me, now has it?” Just this morning, the charge of attempted manslaughter Patricia Cunningham had persuaded her close ally, the D.A. to level against her was dropped by the judge. Roz wasn’t naïve enough to believe that would be the end of it.
Walking to the opposite side of Dean’s bed, Patricia glared at her with eyes as cold as her son’s were four weeks ago, the day he’d broken her arm. Two surgeries and still sporting a cast, and yet the woman insisted Dean was innocent. She’d been insufferable from the moment Roz had first met her, never trying to hide or relinquish her possessive hold on her only child, the son who was perfect in every way, and too good for any woman in her eyes.
“This isn’t over, will never be over,” Patricia hissed, her jaw tight. “I’ll see to that.”
Roz sighed, the flash of pity she felt for Patricia’s blindness toward Dean’s faults a first. An hour ago, the doctor informed the family they were transferring him to a special-care facility, the best in the state, as they’d done all they could do from a medical standpoint. As it looked now, Dean would either come out of the coma on his own or remain in a vegetative state until he died. It broke Roz’s heart to think of anyone suffering such a fate, but guilt didn’t contribute to her sadness. Her husband was to blame for his current condition, something no amount of talking, explaining, or proof would make his mother believe.
“I’m sure you will. Until our next battle, goodbye, Patty.” Roz smirked as Patricia went rigid and flushed with anger. Her mother-in-law, along with Dean’s uncle, Richard Lindstrom, hated it when Roz addressed them as Patty and Ricky, which was why she did it whenever she got the chance.
Pivoting, Roz walked out of Dean’s room for the last time, more than ready to put this chapter of her life behind her. Too bad the odds of that were next to nil.
****
Snake River Valley, Idaho
Agonized screams of pain and terror echoed in the Afghanistan cave as the growling, frenzied wolf, bleeding from several wounds, attacked the two Taliban members without mercy. His body ached from enduring two weeks of torment, beatings, sleep, food-and-water deprivation, and taunts aimed at inflicting mental anguish. The threats against his family, accompanied by a knife slash opening his cheek, took him to the breaking point.
There was no controlling his animal; he didn’t want to enough to even try. In his fever-ridden head, the two men deserved every piercing bite that ripped flesh and drew blood. By the time he limped from the cave into the afternoon desert heat, mental and physical exhaustion had rendered him incapable of coherent thought or the ability to travel far. Leaving behind the two bloody corpses, he crawled toward a cluster of small hills and collapsed in the first spot of shade he found.
The whirring blades of a helicopter roused him hours later, and, with a surge of hope blossoming in his chest that overrode the fear, he ceded the fight back over to his master.
A roaring filled Drake’s head as sand scraped his wounds and heat blistered his back. Voices neared…friend or foe? He panicked, his uncertainty dousing the spurt of hope, his heart beating out a rapid tattoo of fear and hate until his commanding officer’s familiar voice broke through his disorientation.
“Lt. McCullough… Stay with me… We’ve got you, son… Stay with us… That’s an order….”
Drake McCullough awoke with a start, jerking upright, a shiver racking his body as the cool breeze from the open window dried the sweat coating his body. With a low curse, he yanked the sheet off and got out of bed, the night and the forests calling to him with an irresistible lure of freedom as he snatched his jeans off a chair. He tried to never allow his need to escape the demons haunting him let him forget to protect their family secret. With over fifty thousand acres of crops and grazing land for thousands of cattle and horses that needed constant tending, there were always ranch hands on patrol.
With his heightened vision, he made his way downstairs and through his darkened house to the rear door, slipping outside. Pausing for a deep inhale, he struggled to get himself under control before giving in to the wildness surging through his blood and his wolf’s clawing demand to be turned loose. Setting out for the woods beyond the new stable housing his mustangs, he tried to shrug off the remnants of another nightmare reliving the extremes
he’d been driven to to escape his two captors. He left the military ten years ago, and still suffered with the occasional setback to complete recovery. He resented like hell his failure to overcome the mental duress of his ordeal as fast as he had the physical trauma.
Not every prisoner of war has the capability to tear out the throats of their captors. Yeah, there was that little fact, he thought. For two weeks, he’d fought like crazy against his animal instinct, to hold on to his humanity long enough for rescue, never doubting the military would do everything in their power to find him. His breaking point hadn’t come until they’d threatened to send someone from their cells embedded in the U.S. to kill his family. There had been no restraining himself at that point, and God help him, he’d relished every scream and taste of blood his wolf ripped from them.
Entering the woods, Drake stripped off his jeans and braced for the transformation. He welcomed the fleeting discomfort of stretched muscles and bones as he contorted, fur replacing skin, hands and feet shaping into paws. As soon as his wolf took over, he set out at a run, an owl’s hoot greeting his presence, a coyote’s lonely howl revealing a nearby, kindred spirit. October had blown in with gusty north winds yesterday, but tonight the cool, lighter breeze invigorated him and his canine after another bout of sweaty, restless sleep.
He gave his wolf an hour to splash through the creek, follow a trail up a hill, stand on top and bay at the moon, and then take off to chase rodents until tiring of the game. Sides heaving from exertion, he returned to where he’d left his pants and wrenched into human form before the temptation to shuck his human side altogether grabbed hold.
Drake always disliked donning his clothes, preferring the freedom of nudity to the confinement of garments, just like he opted for the outdoors whenever weather permitted. Yeah, the military shrinks said he’d get over that once he adjusted to his release. Ten years. I guess the brain pickers were wrong about that, too. Striding across the field between the woods and stables, every muscle aching from the laborious run, experience had taught him the physical exhaustion wouldn’t be enough to overrule his mental turmoil.