by Raand, L. L.
Francesca drew a breath as pheromones, wild and lush, drifted on the air. A wave of lust coursed through her, along with a spike of anticipation. She always did love feeding from Weres—their rich blood filled her sex more vigorously than any other host’s, leaving her potent for hours. And she was more than potent now and still hungry.
“Regent,” Charles said formally, “may I present Dru. She is an experienced tracker and an excellent hunter.”
The cat Were tipped her head. “Regent. I am honored.”
“We don’t often see cat Weres here in the city,” Francesca said. “What brings you to us?”
Dru’s full upper lip curled briefly into a derisive snarl. “I have no desire to follow the bitch Alpha who seeks to unify the Prides. I am no one’s bitch.”
“Not even mine?” Francesca murmured.
Dru’s shoulders tensed and the angular slope of her features sharpened. Her canines gleamed. “If I serve, I serve willingly.”
Francesca laughed, pleased with her audacity. She grew tired sometimes of the servility of so many of her hosts. “Then I shall remember to ask before I take.”
The female grinned.
“But first,” Francesca said, “I have need of your services.”
“I have told Charles I have no love for the wolf Weres, nor Raina. My services…all my service…are yours.”
“Good.” Francesca descended the throne and slipped her hand around Dru’s muscular forearm. “Come with me and let me tell you what I need.”
*
Callan dropped from the top of the Compound stockade and landed in front of Misha’s party. He wasn’t as muscular as some of the males, but his growl was deep and powerful. Dark hair framed his long, lean face, blending in with his black T-shirt and pants, so he appeared as part of the night as he stalked around Torren, who stood still, facing forward, her posture neither aggressive nor subservient. Somehow, despite the heavy clouds overhead, she seemed surrounded by light. Misha blinked, trying to clear her vision.
“Who is this?” Callan blocked their path to the gate with his legs spread wide and his hands jammed on his hips.
Misha snapped to attention. “A prisoner, Captain. She was crossing Pack land in Were form—”
Callan stepped closer to Torren and sniffed. “She is not Were.”
“I know.” Sweat trickled down Misha’s throat and she resisted the urge to whine and back away. It hadn’t been that long ago that Callan routinely clamped his jaws on her throat and demanded she acknowledge his dominance in sentrie training. “But she was running in pelt. And she smelled like Were, until we got close.”
Callan regarded her steadily, then looked to Gray. “And you, Sentrie. What say you?”
“We ran her down, and she was in pelt and looked like a Were.” Gray sneered. “She isn’t. She’s not strong enough.”
Torren smiled.
“Keep her here until I advise the Alpha,” Callan said to Gray. “I’ll send a squad to assist.”
“I’ll guard her,” Misha said quickly.
Callan fixed her with a hard stare and she ducked her head. “Sir.”
“You’ll come with me to make a report.”
“Yes, sir.” Misha’s wolf howled in protest and pain lanced through her middle. Overhead a hawk, hunting at night when no hawk should be hunting, gave a fierce, strong cry. Misha swallowed, and the clawing pain eased.
Gray pointed her rifle at Torren. “I have her.”
Misha grumbled but jumped up onto the barricades after Callan. She followed him to a nearby Rover, and they drove beyond the encampment and into the forest, following the narrow trail to the Alpha’s den.
“What do you think about her?” Callan asked.
Misha’s skin tingled as if a host of butterflies passed all around her, beating their delicate wings against her bare flesh. Whatever Torren was, she was powerful. And power in anyone other than a wolf equaled danger. Misha answered as she had been trained, like the wolf she was. “I don’t know who she is or why she’s here, but I don’t think we should trust her.”
Chapter Eight
Drake’s wolf dove off the moonlit trail into the dark underbrush and pressed her belly against the cool, pine needle–covered ground. The moment she and Sylvan reached the den, they’d wordlessly shifted, pulled by the call of the moon and their need for freedom, by their mutual need to run free of the pain of loss and threat of danger. To run until all that existed was their bond. They’d ordered the centuri to stand down, and they ran alone. Sylvan wasn’t far behind her, had been shadowing her for miles, keeping pace, taunting her with her presence but never making a move. Waiting for Drake to show herself, to invite the final chase.
Drake’s wolf understood this game. Sylvan fought every day to keep her natural instincts in check—she struggled to keep her Pack safe in a greater world that feared and reviled them. And in order to keep her Pack whole and healthy, she had to suppress her primal urge to hunt down and kill those who threatened her wolves. But out here, in the wild that sustained her, she did not have to chain her wolf. She could hunt, and chase, and conquer. She could take what was hers. But not without a challenge. Wolves liked games. And surprises. And Drake was good at playing.
Slightly smaller than Sylvan, she was ever so slightly more agile, and her speed was nearly a match for Sylvan’s. And she knew how to use the shadows. She’d kept Sylvan at bay until they were deep in the heart of the forest, flitting in and out between islands of brilliant silver and deepest midnight, ghosting along ridges on twisting deer trails and bounding over streams, letting the icy mist rising from the water obscure her scent. She wouldn’t lose her, Sylvan’s senses were too sharp and she was too deadly a hunter, but she could make her work, make her blood race and her heart pound. Make her wolf long for the capture.
Drake panted softly, her tongue lolling, her ears perked. Listening for the telltale rustle of leaves shifting in the wind that let her know Sylvan’s power rose to meet the moon.
The jaws that closed on her neck were strong, but gentle. The weight of Sylvan on her back unanticipated, but familiar. She’d expected Sylvan to take her while she ran, striking as Sylvan so often did like a bullet streaking out of the dark, pulling Drake down under her, pinning her with her greater weight, her lethal jaws clamped around her throat. The ultimate dominance.
This surprisingly tender claiming was just as exciting for its gentleness. Drake relaxed under the weight of Sylvan on her back, and her wolf, wary and interested, withdrew as she shifted from pelt. Sylvan shifted with her and loosely clasped her wrists, welcome manacles reminding her of where she belonged. Sylvan’s skin was hot, slick with want.
“You didn’t wait for the chase.” Drake turned her head and kissed Sylvan’s jaw.
“I missed you.”
Drake laughed. “Afraid you couldn’t catch me?”
Sylvan bit her shoulder. “Careful.”
“Or else?”
“Or I might make you chase me.”
“I would…but…” Desire swelled in Drake’s belly, hard and fierce. She pressed her butt firmly into the arch of Sylvan’s hips. Sylvan’s swift intake of breath made her stomach tighten. “I like it when you chase me, and I like it even more when you catch me.”
Rumbling softly, Sylvan kissed the mate bite on the curve of Drake’s shoulder, and Drake moaned. They hadn’t tangled all evening, and she’d been ready since before Sylvan left her alone to run and hunt. Too many others laid claim to what was hers. She gripped the rich untrampled earth in her fists, drew in the cool mountain air, and let her wolf rise—let her own power wrap around her mate. Sylvan growled and thrust against her ass.
“I expected you to come at me hard and fast tonight,” Drake said.
Sylvan pushed up on one arm, grasped Drake’s shoulder, and rolled Drake beneath her. Moonlight shone in her eyes, and they were still pure wolf. “Disappointed?”
“Never.” Drake scissored her legs around Sylvan’s hips and tugged her dow
n, trapping her between her thighs, belly to belly, breast to breast. Sylvan was full and firm, as she knew she would be, as she was, distended with the essence of their unique joining.
Sylvan shuddered, her skin gleaming with a sheen of sex and power. She thrust slowly, possessively, sliding her clitoris over Drake’s, readying her when she was already so close she wanted to give everything.
“I don’t have the control to play,” Drake warned.
Sylvan’s smile was arrogant and all animal. She nipped Drake’s lip, her canines lightly scoring the inner surface. “You don’t have a choice.”
She didn’t, not because she was submissive or because she feared Sylvan’s strength. She couldn’t deny what she needed, and that was always and ever Sylvan. And she knew how to get what she wanted. Drake raked her claws down Sylvan’s back, calling Sylvan’s wolf with the aggressive move. The bones in Sylvan’s face angled, her canines gleamed longer, and a growl reverberated in her chest.
“Be careful.”
“Why should I be?” Drake pressed her canines to the mark on Sylvan’s chest, igniting their bond and the fury that joined them. Sylvan’s back arched and she pushed deeper between Drake’s legs, notching her clitoris beneath Drake’s. In a frenzy to join, Drake dragged her claws back up the length of Sylvan’s back and locked her legs around Sylvan’s. Her breasts and nipples tightened, her belly tensed. “Now, Sylvan.”
“Mine.”
Sylvan, at last, took her hard, driving into her with powerful thrusts of her hips, forcing Drake to explode over them both. Drake gave herself to the wolf in Sylvan’s eyes, releasing in a pulsing rush of pleasure as Sylvan claimed her and was claimed.
“Mine,” Sylvan growled again, wild for her mate, for the solace and blinding pleasure of joining, emptied hard and fast. Her hips pistoned until her breath gave way and her muscles trembled and she collapsed with her face buried in Drake’s neck. The claws on her back soothed her now, gentling her beast, welcoming her to sanctuary.
“I love you,” Drake whispered, stroking her hair.
Sylvan shivered, as weak as she had ever been and stronger than she could have believed. “You take everything. And give me more.”
Drake twisted Sylvan’s hair in her fist and pulled her head up to kiss her. Sylvan tasted wild, untamable, and hers. “You are my heart. I will give you everything until the end of time.”
“If I asked, would you take the young and leave?”
“Never. Where you are, we will be.” Drake kissed her again. “Ask as many times as you must, and the answer will always be the same.”
Sylvan rested her forehead on Drake’s. “Sometimes…”
“You won’t lose us. I swear it.”
Sighing, Sylvan finally relaxed and Drake tightened her hold. This was what Drake lived for—to drive Sylvan until she gave up control for these few seconds, to shield her, to protect her. For their joining to strengthen them both.
Sylvan stiffened, pushed up on her arms, scented the air. “Company.”
Drake, her powers growing daily, sensed them then. “Callan and Misha.”
Sylvan rose in one fluid movement and pulled Drake up with her. “Yes, and something’s wrong.”
*
An hour later, Misha dropped from the barricade and landed lightly in front of the small group of sentries and soldiers congregated in front of the gates. Torren, still naked, stood in the center of the ring of armed Weres, and despite the cloudy sky and the intermittent flickers of moonlight that slashed the shadows and then disappeared, her skin seemed bathed in silvery light. Misha stilled as Torren’s gaze slid over her like river water over slick stones, cool and fresh. With effort, Misha pulled free of the hypnotic sensation and strode to Beryl, the lieutenant Callan had placed in charge.
“The Alpha wishes to see the prisoner.”
From above, Callan’s deep voice called down, “Open the gates.”
Misha kept her rifle on her shoulder and stepped next to Torren, aware that every other wolf held their weapons trained on Torren, even though she was without weapons and gave no indication of challenge. Torren was a stranger, and not even a wolf. Not even a Were. And she was about to be escorted into their sanctuary, where their pregnant females and young lived safe because no one encroached on their territory and lived. Not one Were would hesitate to kill Torren if she showed the slightest sign of a threat.
“Stay close,” Misha murmured, gripping the back of Torren’s neck and leading her through the gates into the Compound. Two Rovers idled just inside. Callan stood by the first one and motioned them toward it. Another squadron of soldiers milled around the second.
“I told you I would not resist,” Torren said.
“I have no reason to believe you, and they even less.”
“You know little of the world,” Torren said, “so how do you know where to place your trust?”
Misha’s wolf snapped in protest. “And you know nothing of me.”
“You’re wrong. I know you are strong and brave and loyal.”
“And I know you are not what you seem.” Misha spoke without real heat, realizing Torren sounded more curious than accusing. As they approached the first Rover, she said, “You can’t know that.”
“No?” Torren smiled. “I know your wolf loves sunshine and running through wildflowers. I know you like to chase, and not only to kill. That when you catch, you like to bite and ride your prey—”
Misha dug her claws into Torren’s neck. Her canines punched down and her pelt bristled beneath her skin. Whatever Torren was doing made her sex pound, and she would not be played with—not by this female who shimmered with power she did not recognize. “I am not yours to call.”
Beryl spoke from behind. “What is it?”
“Nothing,” Misha said quickly, pushing Torren toward the Rover.
Gray stepped past them and yanked open the rear door. She motioned with her rifle to Torren. “Get in.”
Torren climbed in and Misha followed. Gray sat opposite on the long, low bench, her rifle angled across her knees with the muzzle pointed at Torren’s chest, her fingers hovering above the trigger. A gunshot probably wouldn’t kill a Vampire and, unless it was a silver slug, probably wouldn’t kill a Were, either. If Torren was human, a bullet at this range would surely be lethal. But she couldn’t be human. Whatever she was, she had too much power to be human. Still, maybe she could be killed.
Misha struggled against the urge to put herself between Torren and Gray’s rifle. Gray was spoiling for a fight, and Misha was ready to give her one, but not in the confines of the Rover when everyone was armed. Before the night was out, she would teach Gray her place. She’d given her enough time and enough room to find herself.
They bumped along over the narrow trail back to the Alpha’s den and pulled up at the edge of the sparse clearing. A fire burned in the fire pit in front of the cabin, and the Alpha stood on the porch illuminated in flickering flames. She was shirtless in tight black combat pants, her arms folded across her chest, her gold hair glinting in the moonlight. The door behind her opened and closed, and the Prima came out dressed all in black. She stood to Sylvan’s left, her expression alert but calm. The Alpha was the power that held them altogether, but the Prima gave them the safety to rest. The Pack needed them both to be whole. Being in their presence settled Misha’s wolf.
The Rover stopped and the back door opened. Callan motioned them out. He pressed his rifle to the middle of Torren’s back. “Walk forward.”
Torren did as he asked and stopped where he indicated she should at the foot of the stairs leading up to the Alpha’s den. Misha stood just to her right and the other Were sentries and soldiers fell in behind them in a loose semicircle.
“You are far from home,” Sylvan said, taking in the prisoner. She’d scented her before they’d brought her through the gates. Not Vampire, not Were. Fae. She’d smelled something similar enough times at the Coalition meetings with Cecilia Thornton and her high-ranking emissaries to recogniz
e the honeysuckle and spice scent that played across the surface of her consciousness like birds’ wings riding on air currents, effortless and graceful.
Torren took a knee and bowed, a graceful and respectful greeting that did not diminish her. She slowly straightened. “Thank you for allowing me to interrupt your evening, Alpha Mir.”
“And who might you be, Fae?”
“I am Torren de Brinna, of the royal court of Cecilia, Queen of Thorns.”
“As I said, you are far from home.”
“I’m afraid I am farther than you think.”
Sylvan recognized the beginning of a negotiation cloaked in typical Fae innuendo and insinuation. “Callan, Misha, remain. The rest of you may go.”
Gray rumbled unhappily, and Sylvan slowly turned her head, locking eyes until Gray flinched, ducked her head, and backed away with the others.
Callan looked over his shoulder at Beryl. “Take the Rovers and wait for me with the others at the first clearing.”
Beryl saluted, and the Weres piled into the Rovers and pulled away.
Sylvan made no move to invite the Fae into her den. She brought no one into her inner sanctum except those she most trusted. She’d only brought the prisoner this far because the area was secluded and virtually impossible to find from outside the Compound perimeter. She would rather the Fae see an unadorned cabin in the woods than any more of the Compound itself than was necessary. If she determined the prisoner would not be executed, she would need to decide just how much she would disclose. Cecilia had made it very clear the Fae did not favor the Exodus and was reluctant to expose Faerie to humans or Praeterns. The Fae might not be enemies, but neither were they friends.
“Why are you here?” Sylvan asked.
“I seek sanctuary until I can return to Faerie,” Torren said.
“Why do you need sanctuary?”
“I have this night escaped from the dungeons of Francesca, Viceregal of the Eastern Vampire seethe. She hunts me.”