“Some chick in there said some women came in, had a kid with them.”
“Where are they?” Bray asks, grabbing a handful of peanuts from the can and pouring them down his throat.
“Forest Beach?” Earl says. “But she smelled like us.”
“Trap,” Bray says. “Bitch figures she’ll get us there, then the males will round us up.”
“Don’t like that noise,” Billy says.
Earl looks at Billy. “Me three.”
“So let’s finish up here. Gas up, then see what’s so interesting at Forest Beach. But be prepared to get the fuck out of there if they have a scouting pack.”
“Like PT.” Earl shudders.
“Just like.”
They exchange a loaded glance. They’ve got to fight dirty and be more prepared than the werewolves who are born.
Survival of the fittest and all that happy crap.
CHAPTER NINETEEN
Tahlia
For a full minute, Tahlia stares at the door Drek just passed through. She can’t seem to get ahold of her feelings. They press against her insides as though trying to escape.
Understanding Drek is trying to give her some space after all the events of the past week, and desperately needing to clean up from her shift to bird form, Tahlia turns away from the door. As she passes, Tahlia notes the windows are shuttered against the outdoors.
And prying eyes.
Tahlia shuffled to the bathroom like an ancient Were. Lanarre or not, the sudden shifts have taken a brutal toll on her body. And Drek knew that.
She sensed his need to take her. Mate her.
Tahlia stood before him naked, and yet, he did nothing. The restraint speaks to his control.
Moving through the bathroom passthrough, she enters a vestibular space with an open sitting room. Standing before her is a set of open wooden shelves, burnished amber and holding the linens for the bathroom. The narrow floor-to-ceiling window is too small for a person to crawl through. Its glass contains translucent material for maximum privacy. Light spills through the glass in fractured geometrics, causing the granite floor to sparkle.
Her eyes travel the long space and with a final sigh, Tahlia opens the door, eyes widening as she takes in the room.
The bathroom is so like the one from her home den, her eyes fill with tears. Tahlia grinds the base of her palms against her eyes to keep those tears from falling. Crushing homesickness threatens to consume her, and Tahlia sucks in walloping breaths until the sensation passes.
Slowly, she lowers her wet hands, taking in the semi-familiar surroundings. Hexagon-shaped tiles in a pure alabaster are a sea of creams, ambers, and white stretching throughout the huge room.
A freestanding tub in a pristine white rests in the middle like a boat floating in water. At the far end and exactly centered about twelve feet behind the tub is a shower enclosed by glass walls.
Tahlia’s eyes sight on the shower.
She wants the filth of her change down a drain, not lapping at her sides. Tahlia is not interested in soaking in her own filth. However, when she walks by the tub, she runs her fingertips along the rolled rim like she’s petting a favorite animal. Tahlia’s fingers skate across the cold chrome of the faucet, and when they find the hot water tap, she gives it a sharp turn.
Water flows from the spigot. It turns hot within seconds, and she pulls the stopper, letting the wide, deep tub fill.
Tahlia continues to the shower, passing through a break in the glass panels. Directly in front of her is the spigot controlling temperature, and she repeats what she did with the tub.
Tahlia backs up into steaming water from the head at the opposite end. Liquid heat sluices between her aching shoulder blades, and she scrubs her sensitive skin with a lightly fragrant soap. The surface of her body is still raw, which is normal after the shifting pattern she tasked herself with. Tahlia has never shifted so many consecutive times in her young life.
Of course, she’s never had to.
Even now, her home den is probably waiting to hear about her scheduled upcoming nuptials.
That is, if Tanya hasn’t returned bearing sordid tales. Lies.
Because that is who Tanya is. She’s always resented her resemblance to Tahlia—and her place in the birth order.
She is the niece of the king, not the daughter. If only Tanya was aware of how tiresome the role of being a royal Lanarre is.
Tahlia longs for a change to a more democratic existence.
But to vocalize her desires would cause swift repercussions. Ones Tahlia has never been brave enough to push.
She’s braver now, though.
Once she is squeaky clean, Tahlia turns off the water and grabs a fluffy towel from a simple chrome hook embedded in tiles that run eight feet high on the wall. She lets her hair drip, slightly chilling her warm skin, and moves to the tub.
It’s only two thirds full. A mammoth-sized water guzzler.
She swirls her fingertips through the warm water. Spying some crystals that stand beside the rim of the tub on a low-slung antique wood table, she walks to where they’re perched and lifts the glass lid. Scenting the vanilla through the glass, her nostrils flare to take in the more subtle tones of cinnamon and orange.
Wow, delicious—a scent like food.
After scooping a handful, she moves her palm beneath the rush of water, and the water spills over the pale cream-colored crystals.
Immediately, bubbles begin to form, filling the surface of the water.
Without waiting another second, she dips her toe in the steaming water.
Tahlia groans with pleasure when her shoulders dip below the surface.
She sighs contentedly, grateful for the momentary solitude, curling her toes in the warmth. Fantastic.
Leaning back, she rests her head on the back of the tub, perfectly contoured for her back and head, though maybe for a longer body.
She smirks. Tahlia is a bit of a runt for a Lanarre female.
Tessa was more the norm for the Lanarre, though she is not royal, just a “common” Were.
Melancholy steals over Tahlia when she remembers Tessa and even Laz. He was an insufferable male. However, he had honor, and that character trait was worth a lot to the Lanarre.
At least this Lanarre.
The sound of the door opening has Tahlia sinking lower while turning rapidly. Water sloshes over the rim as she grips the rolled edge. The rush of escaping water is the only thing she hears, for the approaching female is stealthy.
And Alpha.
Tahlia goes quarter-change with a wince. Her body is not ready even for what would normally be as easy as taking her next breath. Could be that the food the female carries is exactly what her poor body is literally starving for.
Quarter-change has allowed Tahlia to scent deeply of the female. And though her physique should have been the big clue, her scent connects her to Drek.
Closely.
“Are you his sister?”
“I am.”
They stare at each other in what could easily be viewed as a standoff. Then Tahlia’s stomach chooses that moment to roar like a lion.
The female laughs. It’s a natural-sounding, deep belly laugh.
Tahlia can’t help but laugh too.
“I think the food idea is perfect, clearly,” she says in a dry voice. “I am Maeve.”
“Maeve,” Tahlia repeats.
“Everyone calls me Mae.”
She doesn’t look like a Mae. A short, soft feminine name. This woman is not soft. At nearly six feet tall, with a shock of deep-auburn hair and moss-green eyes so dark they could be mistaken for black, she is bright—present.
But Tahlia is in quarter-change and can see nuances she would otherwise have missed in her human form.
“I have only just returned from a scouting trip,” Mae explains.
“Well, I could certainly have used you when I stumbled into your poorly run pack.” Tahlia’s tone is tart, like her words.
Mae’s brows plum
met over her lovely forest-colored eyes. “You speak very plainly for a guest.”
Guest. That implies she was welcome. Tahlia has never felt less welcome. “As you know, I am betrothed to your brother.” She thinks guest status is lesser than betrothed.
Mae sets the food on the table beside the crystals.
Tahlia’s mouth waters. She’s so hungry, she can barely think. But think she must.
Alphas must make friends or fight.
Tahlia is weakened, and her position with Drek is so uncertain that she finds herself battling intimidation. Not a natural disposition for her.
A lot of norms are currently being rewritten.
Their eyes clash, then Mae states, “Things in the Hoh Lanarre are shifting.”
Really? I'd have never guessed, Tahlia muses.
Mae reminds Tahlia of Tessa, down to the thick braid that bisects her back. However, one difference is clear. She trusts Tessa.
The same cannot be said of Mae.
“I know of the betrothal. I did not agree.” Her chin rises almost imperceptibly.
Superb.
“You are a young female, and Drek requires a mature mate. These arranged matches are archaic and not beneficial to the den.”
“Yet, I gave up everything—prestige, respect, and the support of my pack to come here and join with Drek,” Tahlia points out. “You know what the consequences of my return would be.”
“Yes.”
Mae’s lack of compassion underwhelms Tahlia.
“If you were a common Were, you could return, tail tucked, and they would reabsorb you without too many entanglements because of your gender.”
“And you claim things are changing.” Tahlia hikes her eyebrow.
“They are.” The deep timbre of a masculine voice breaks through their stalemated conversation.
Tahlia sinks lower, her chin in the water.
She can’t afford to be vulnerable. The sister of her chosen hates her, then said chosen strolls through the door.
And wonderfully, Tahlia’s wet and naked. Still naked.
“I hope you’re done with your words, Mae—unhelpful as I’m certain they’ve been.” Drek’s dark eyes narrow at his sibling.
Tahlia’s gaze shifts between the two. She could cut the tension with a blade.
Mae whirls, facing Drek.
Tahlia reaches for the first piece of food she can touch. Cheese slice. She folds the entire piece in her mouth and chews. Instant satisfaction fills her.
Moon, to have some food.
Drek’s eyes flick to her eating, and the ghost of a satisfied smile hovers over his lips. Then, gaze darkening, those brooding eyes move back to his sister.
“We do not need another mindless royal, vacant of brain and the lowest of warriors.”
Tahlia moves through the water and swings her leg over the edge of the tub, exiting with the smooth grace she was trained for.
Grabbing the dumped towel from the floor, she yanks it over her naked form, wrapping her long curly hair inside.
Drek’s eyes drive down her body then return to his sister; his desire for Tahlia perfumes the air.
Mae gives a haughty sniff. “Disgusting, as usual.”
“I cannot help what I feel for Tahlia. She is my chosen. I am her predestined male.”
“She is barely more than a whelp.” How easily Mae dismisses her.
Tahlia’s fists clench. “If you wish to speak derogatorily behind my back, face me.”
Mae turns, eyeing Tahlia with raw disdain, lingering on her breasts and her sex. “You certainly are lovely to look at. Not a drop of artifice, but fair of face and rounded in the places for a male to hold onto.” Her lips twist, like her words.
Bitch.
Tahlia doesn’t telegraph her next move. Pivoting her body, she slams the instep of her foot into the other female’s gut.
Mae flies back, hitting the wall.
Tahlia rushes her, grabbing the female’s arm and jerking her close so that their noses brush.
Mae slaps the side of her head.
Stars burst inside Tahlia’s vision, but she’s had worse during her sparring sessions with males far bigger than Mae.
Tahlia swings her skull into Mae’s forehead as she jumps, knocking the female’s head against the wall. The back of her head bounces hard, and Mae begins to slide down the wall.
“Stop!” Drek roars.
Tahlia smashes her elbow into Mae’s perfect nose. Tahlia’s own has been broken many times. Set and healed. Rebroken. She believes now her father longed for a male offspring but was stuck with Tahlia—small and female.
Tahlia growls.
Drek approaches.
Blood rolls out of Mae’s nose, and her wounded, surprised eyes don’t move from Tahlia.
Smart.
Tahlia’s vision warbles, and she sits down hard. When her naked rear end touches the stone floor, she jumps then crawls away from them both.
Her vision narrows to a singular point. Toward the food.
Drek bends over her body and easily picks her up. “My sister’s temper overrules her mouth.”
Yes.
“I’m terrified you might drown if I put you in the water.”
Tahlia shakes her head. Then she’s just shaking—all over. Her reserves are gone.
“Food,” she croaks, vision gray.
“Yes, my female.”
Not yet.
Drek strides to the position near the tub where Mae placed the food. He begins to hand-feed Tahlia while she rests in his arms, nude and starving.
“Drek,” she says between chews as his sister bleeds and suffers just a few short feet from them.
“Yes?” His dark brow rises, and he plops a plump strawberry inside her mouth.
She economically chews, swallowing the lush fruit. Taking a deep breath between mouthfuls, she says, “I’m not a figurehead.”
Drek’s sudden grin is shocking on his stoic face. Cupping her bulging cheek, he strokes it with his thumb. “Oh, I think we’re well aware.” Without looking at Mae, he prompts, “Right, Mae?”
A grunt is her only reply.
Tahlia understands she made an enemy today. Sometimes, a Were must fight for respect. It didn’t matter that she was naked, hurting, and starving, Tahlia had to demand respect or fight small battles with another Alpha female for the remainder of her life.
She chose the more permanent result.
Mae would not underestimate her again.
“You’re seeing me without clothes a lot,” Tahlia states, struggling to not be embarrassed.
Drek’s smile widens. “A circumstance I will never tire of.”
A door slams in the distance, and when they look at the space Mae just occupied, it is vacant.
Only the blood of their brief battle remains.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Jenni
Jenni isn’t a fan of sitting around and cooling her heels. Ella and Devin are fine because they’ve got stars in their eyes over the werewolves. The novelty of it all.
Jenni doesn’t. She was a practical person as a human, and apparently, changing into a werewolf hasn’t altered that part of her. Her parents died, Lance let her down, Adi turned her into this thing she knows nothing about, and a drug-addicted werewolf is chasing them while they hide in a den full of them.
Then Quillon goes running off because there’s some kerfuffle about a female Were returning with her badass mate.
Werewolf equals Were. Some new term for her to get used to. Like there isn’t enough to get used to already.
God. Jenni understands she’s being a disgruntled bitch. It’s almost obligatory at this point, though.
And Jenni thought living with terminal cancer was stressful. And patient weirdness. Nope. This Were thing is so much more.
Quillon stationed Sebastian here as a “guard” in case Bray the Bad crops up again, which Jenni’s pretty sure is likely. Guys like him don’t go away.
Biting her lower lip, Jenni decides she’
s pissed at herself. Would she know Bray’s scent if he were nearby? Would she remember it? She sure as hell remembered the myriad of scents wafting from his nasty parts when they were in the parking lot of McDonald’s. Stale BO, combined with filthy drugs in his blood and day-old sex drying on the base of his skanky crank.
Gross. Bray was a disgusting specimen. Not that she’s a seasoned werewolf—Were, she reminds herself—at this point, but then, she was so new that the scents were too confusing for her to even understand, let alone memorize. She wouldn’t even have begun to know how. So Jenni’s what Quillon told her the Were refer to as “nose blind.” `He said she was learning to catalog scents, and though her senses are currently overwhelmed, when things calm down, Jenny will start recognizing scents automatically.
But in the meantime, she’s screwed for any real supernatural alarm bells.
Sebastian is standing outside the door to Quillon's small house. Jenni looks around, unimpressed. It’s a spartan space, and though it’s clean, his cottage doesn’t have a homey, lived-in look.
Not a surprise.
The space is like a placeholder. The two bedrooms—one of which Devin and Ella have claimed—are little more than closets. Quillon offered the bigger of the two to them. That left no place for Jenni to sleep, but she didn’t really care. There’d be somewhere. But when she asked where she might be sleeping, Quillon gave her a sly smile.
Fat chance, asshole.
She stomped off to see what the girls were doing in the other room while his darkly amused chuckle followed her all the way there.
Now she is by herself in the tiny living room.
I guess werewolves watch TV, Jenni thinks, eyeing up the huge big screen taking up most of the wall. She runs her fingers over the surface of a cozy leather couch she rests on, just perfect for two.
The extent of his decorations is a pair of humongous black boots stuffed underneath a sturdy but scuffed all-wood coffee table with that morning’s coffee in a mug that reads Do it by the Moon.
Classy.
Jenni’s rabidly curious about Quillon and recognizes how dysfunctional that is. Relationships begun in turmoil don’t work, even if she’s got the hots for him. She viciously stuffs down all thoughts of Lance.
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