by Raand, L. L.
The image on the screen was crystal clear. The young Were female wrapped her legs around Michel’s hips, undulating as she threw back her head and pulled Michel to her throat. Michel took her for the fourth time, the fire in her eyes more intense than Francesca had seen in months. And the Were knew just how to control her, tempting her to feed over and over. Some Weres were so vital they could host until a Vampire lost control, and this one was young and potent. And dangerous. Michel had surrendered to bloodlust, drowning in the pleasure of the female’s blood. A Vampire in bloodlust was open to attack, and a vulnerable Vampire was a security risk. Michel was walking a very sharp edge.
Francesca sliced a shallow groove up the center of Dru’s belly with her nails as she watched the monitor, and Dru growled and twitched awake.
“What is it,” Dru asked.
“Could you track a wolf?” Francesca idly dragged her nail over Dru’s breast and around her nipple.
Dru hissed at the pain. “Of course.”
“Could you catch one, without killing it, I mean?”
“Of course.” Dru roused herself and rolled over onto Francesca, sliding her hand between Francesca’s legs. She stroked her, entered her, and slowly thrust. “Who do you want me to track?”
Francesca smiled, rolling her hips to take Dru deeper, letting the orgasm build slowly. “No one, just yet.” She buried her incisors in Dru’s throat, formulating a plan as the pleasure burned.
Chapter Eleven
Misha bounded out of the barracks, her wolf still riding her hard. Her skin, lightly dusted with pelt, ran wet with pheromones and her sex pounded from the victus in her glands pressing for release. An image of moon-kissed skin, pale and silky, aglow with power, sprang into her mind as clear and sharp as a knife edge. Not the raw power of Were. The magic of wind and song and star. Misha shuddered and cut across the Compound toward the dining hall, skirting the fire pits to avoid the soldiers and trainees congregated around the simmering embers. Gray was there somewhere, and she didn’t want to see her right now. Gray would sense her agitation, scent her need, and know she was aching to tangle. Any other night, Gray would be the perfect partner to answer her call.
They’d been tangling regularly since they were adolescents, at first no more or less than they’d tangled with anyone else. Nature had held sway when they were younger, and everyone played at sex and dominance games. Misha and Gray and Jazz and Katya all tangled at one time or another as they’d come into their power and sorted out their places in the Pack. No one had been interested in anything more serious than the thrill of release. Certainly no one had been thinking about a mate. Misha had never done more than give a teasing bite to trigger release. More and more as she left adolescence behind, she chose females to tangle with, and more and more, Gray had been the one.
After the Alpha freed Gray and Katya from captivity, Gray wanted a hard chase and a rough tussle before they tangled. Gray was always angry—always spoiling for a fight, but Misha didn’t mind. They were close in dominance, and she liked the challenge and the furious sex. A quick, fast tangle with no worries about a few bites or claw marks or bruises helped defuse Gray’s simmering rage, but even with the release, Gray’s wolf never really settled.
Tonight, though, Misha didn’t want Gray. She didn’t want anyone, and that was as confusing as the need burning in her loins and the insistent ache in her clitoris. Angry and agitated, her wolf paced, pressing for control, craving to run and hunt and kill. Scenting the allure of the forest, tasting the tang of quarry on her tongue, Misha’s wolf wanted to chase down some succulent prey and bring it back to her den. And present it to Torren.
Grumbling, Misha shook her head and shoved her way into the dark, deserted dining hall. She didn’t have a den, and anyhow, why would she want to hunt for a Fae she didn’t even know? Torren didn’t even eat meat, and besides, she was a prisoner. Well, not really a prisoner, but a guest whose status was unknown. Misha’s job was to guard her, not protect her. Her wolf didn’t seem to agree and gnawed at her insides, driving her close to frenzy.
Misha stomped down the length of the long narrow room between rows of communal tables and rough-hewn benches and pushed through the swinging double doors into the big kitchen. The walls were unadorned whitewash with rows of windows beneath high ceilings. The dining hall was almost as central to Pack life as the nursery or headquarters. Everyone for miles around the Compound gathered there for morning meals, and those on cook detail always left plenty of food in the huge refrigerators for hungry soldiers returning from patrol. Tonight, though, the place echoed with emptiness that matched the hollow ache in Misha’s midsection.
She flicked on a single bare bulb hanging from a cord over a prep island and checked the nearest refrigerator, staring at its contents without really seeing them. Her mind was far away. She was deep in the shadowy forest, bounding up rocky escarpments and leaping over icy streams, racing after prey, absorbed in the ancient cycle of life. The cool air from inside the refrigerator struck her, and the sweat drenching her skin frosted like morning mist on blades of grass. She shuddered and felt her canines drag across her lower lip. She had to think—had to pull her wolf back from the hunt.
What was it Torren had said? Cheese. Vegetables. The things that Misha ate without noticing. She pulled out a loaf of bread, collected a handful of vegetables from another drawer, and carried everything to a counter. For a few seconds she stood still, the objects before her fading as the memory of Torren shifting from wolf to skin underneath her claimed her awareness. The glow emanating from Torren’s pale skin had radiated heat into her core, exciting her and rousing her wolf. She recognized the sexual call—she had grown up surrounded by Weres, bathed in the potent allure of their pheromones from the time she was old enough for her body to register the sensations. But Torren was not a Were, and for the first time in her life, she distrusted her body—and her wolf. To be at odds with her wolf was worse than uncomfortable—she was disoriented and unsure.
Blocking the tormenting uneasiness, Misha concentrated on assembling the sandwich, hoping the contents would be adequate. She wanted to make up for the mistreatment Torren had endured while imprisoned. A red haze obscured her vision—she wanted to stake every Vampire who had touched Torren. Take the head of every Vampire who had fed from her. Burn Nocturne to the—
“What are you doing?” a soft female voice inquired.
Snarling, Misha spun around. Elena, the Pack medicus, stood just behind her. Elena’s dark eyes widened and she backed away, shivering. She was mated and submissive, but she was still a wolf, and the cloud of sex pheromones and aggression bursting from Misha was a call she couldn’t totally ignore. Elena knew better than to confront a wolf in that state. Lowering her head, she said softly, “Misha. What do you need? Can I help you?”
“I am…” Misha shook her head, swallowed past the rage in her throat. She couldn’t remember what she was doing. All she knew was want and a deep burning hunger to take and claim. “I’m…” She glanced behind her, focused on the array of food spread out across the chopping block. “Getting food for Torren.”
Elena’s gaze sharpened. “Torren. The prisoner?”
Misha shook her head. “Not a prisoner. A…guest.”
“Ah.” Elena edged closer, seeing with knowing eyes. “Did Callan tell you to feed her?”
Misha frowned. “No.”
“You weren’t ordered to bring her a tray of food?”
“No.” Misha wanted to feed Torren because others had fed from her against her will. She wanted to erase the taint of her imprisonment, ease the pain of her incarceration. She wanted to protect her. Kill her enemies. Pelt burst down the center of her torso. She growled a warning.
Elena flinched.
“Sorry,” Misha said. “I didn’t mean—”
“I know. You don’t need to be sorry. But…” Elena sighed. “You know how intimate offering food is for us.”
“She’s hungry.” Misha’s canines throbbed and her visio
n shimmered. Her wolf was about to take over. She had good control, hadn’t shifted involuntarily in a long time, not since she’d shed the last vestiges of adolescence, but she had such a need to hunt and tangle she couldn’t resist the pull. She gripped the table on either side of her hips, dug her claws in. The room fractured into flat intersecting planes of gray and white. Her wolf vision sharpened, her senses grew keener. Her voice became gravel on steel. “They kept her in chains.”
“Who?” Elena asked softly, holding her distance but remaining perfectly still. “Who, Misha?”
“The Vampires.”
“But she’s all right now.”
“She’s hungry.”
“Why don’t I take the tray to her?”
“No.”
“All right,” Elena said. “If you have to.”
“I’ll feed her.”
“Yes.” Elena carefully stroked Misha’s damp face. “Misha?”
Misha blinked. Focused on Elena’s calm face. “What?”
“Can you control your wolf?”
For young dominants, control was a point of honor. Misha drew a shuddering breath. Nodded. “Yes, I’m all right.”
“Good. Do something for me first, before you take Torren the tray.”
“What?”
“Walk through the yard. Tangle if someone approaches. Calm your wolf.”
“I don’t want to.”
Elena smiled softly. “I know. But try. It will be safer for Torren.”
Reluctantly, Misha set the tray down on a table near the exit and walked out into the dark. She smelled Pack everywhere, males and females, dominants and submissives, all their power combining to send her spiraling toward frenzy. Jazz approached, a question in his eyes and a smile on his handsome mouth, but she shook her head. He shrugged, clapped her back, and went on his way. They’d come up together through sentrie training and were friends, but she didn’t want him to quench the burning.
Gray stepped out of the shadows, gripped Misha’s shirt, and dragged her close. Fabric shredded. Gray nipped her lip. “I felt your call across the yard. My room is empty.” She grimaced, eyes flaring with rage and sex. “Katya isn’t there.”
Misha’s skin burned, her guts twisted into aching knots of want and need. The pressure to release pounded between her legs. She needed to quench the fire scorching through her. “I don’t…”
“Yes, you do.” Gray stroked Misha’s abdomen and cupped a hand between her thighs. “I want this. So do you.”
Misha gasped. Her canines fully emerged. The barracks were too far away. Ten more steps was too far to go. She pushed Gray into the shadows and up against the stockade, grasped Gray’s wrists, and pinned her to the wall. Scraping her canines down Gray’s throat, she straddled Gray’s thigh. “Jerk me off. Hurry.”
Gray shoved her hand into Misha’s pants, gripped her clitoris in her fist, and squeezed. The pressure was so intense, Misha howled. Gray milked her, hard, fast, furious strokes, and Misha’s hips bucked. Misha bit her, couldn’t stop herself, and the taste of Gray’s powerful pheromones pushed her over the edge. She exploded in Gray’s hand, drenching her with one hot pulsation after another until she was empty.
Not thinking, not even feeling, Misha dropped to her knees, opened Gray’s pants, and took her into her mouth. She let her canines graze the rigid shaft of Gray’s tense clitoris, and within seconds of sucking her, brought her to convulsing release.
Gray slumped in the twisting shadows, head thrown back against the rough logs. Misha got unsteadily to her feet, pushed her shirt into her pants, and shoved away. “I’ve got to go.”
“You can’t trust her,” Gray gasped.
“How would you know? You don’t trust anyone.”
“Why should I, when anyone can make us want anything? Make us do anything?”
“You don’t know that,” Misha said.
“I know it wasn’t me fucking you just now.”
“And who was fucking you?” Misha asked softly, unable to deny Gray’s accusation. She hadn’t used Gray—their need had been mutual—but she hadn’t wanted her either. What she wanted was the shimmer of moonlight on her skin and the sharp cry of the hawk soaring inside her.
Gray didn’t answer, and Misha left in the shadows to retrieve the tray of food for Torren.
*
Michel softly stroked Katya’s breast. “Why are you here?”
“Isn’t this enough?” Katya pressed her breast into Michel’s palm. The hallway behind them reverberated with the sound of Vampires feeding and hosts, human and Praetern, crying out in the depths of thrall. Her shirt and pants were open, her thighs slick with victus, her neck burning from the bites that would be healed in another few seconds. She’d torn through Michel’s silk shirt to get to her flesh. In the near dark, Michel’s eyes glowed like perfect embers, ready to flare at the first breath of desire.
Michel kissed her, leaving behind the smoked-oak taste of her feeding hormones. “I could feed from you endlessly.”
Katya growled as the rush of stimulants struck her sex and she readied again. Curling her fingers into Michel’s hair, she kissed the bite she’d made on Michel’s shoulder and smiled when Michel’s lips pulled back in a grimace of pleasure, her incisors gleaming. Michel might be older and more powerful, but Katya felt the ache of Michel’s hunger flare inside her. Michel was ready for her too. “Take me as often as you like. I’m here.”
Michel shook her head. “You shouldn’t be.”
“I’ve felt your hunger,” Katya murmured, tracing a line down Michel’s throat with her tongue. She angled her hips between Michel’s legs. “You wanted me to come to you.”
Michel shuddered, her mouth against Katya’s neck. “Yes. You’re the only one who fills me.”
Katya imagined Michel feeding from others—taking them inside her, drawing power and life from their blood. Filling them with her essence. Katya’s canines throbbed. The pelt line on her belly thickened. She wanted to bite Michel again, claim her. “Then let me feed you when you need to be filled.”
“Francesca will know if you come to me here.”
“I’m not afraid of Francesca.”
Michel laughed. “You should be. She is more powerful than you can imagine.”
“What does she care if you feed from me?”
Michel pressed Katya to the wall, her eyes glowing like fire. “Because it’s more than blood.”
“Is it?” Katya ran her clawed fingertips down the center of Michel’s chest and left a trail of scarlet on her pale skin.
“Be careful, Katya. My hunger is ancient and endless.”
“I am stronger than you think.”
Michel bent her head, kissed Katya’s breast, filled her senses with the spicy tang of Katya’s pheromones. Katya’s blood, potent and rich, raced within her. She’d fed from her too many times already, and she hungered for her still. “You bit me.”
“Yes.”
“My blood flows in you now.”
“And mine in you.”
Michel looked up. “You must be careful not to do that again.”
“Why?”
“If we exchange essence, you may become bonded to me.”
“And then?”
Michel smiled thinly and traced her finger along the edge of Katya’s jaw. “Then you will be mine.”
“And you?” Katya pushed Michel’s shirt aside and kissed the bite she’d left on her shoulder. Michel hissed. The marks were still visible, but fading. “What will you be?”
Instead of an answer, Michel jerked Katya’s head back and kissed her hard. “You are not safe here.”
“Then where?”
Michel should send her away—should protect herself and her Regent. Katya already sensed her need from afar, fed her without succumbing to thrall. The bonding had begun—and Francesca would never allow a Were that close to the center of her power. If Francesca suspected Katya might know what was in Michel’s mind, she would kill them both.
“Where?” K
atya asked again.
“I will send for you.”
“When?”
Michel lifted her up and Katya wrapped her legs around Michel’s hips. As Michel slid her incisors into Katya’s flesh, she whispered, “Soon.”
Chapter Twelve
The edge of dawn trickled through the high window above the bed. Drake knew without opening her eyes she was alone. Sylvan never made a sound when she moved, in the forest or anywhere else, but even asleep, Drake had sensed the instant she’d left the bed. Their metaphysical connection was as strong as their physical bond, and whenever Sylvan left her side, she ached not from loneliness, but from the absence of a part of her that ran as deep as her soul. She imagined Sylvan running again, driving out her demons as her wolf paws pounded the forest floor and she leapt through crystal cold air, driven by instinct, unfettered by any law but that of nature.
The air stirred with anticipation a heartbeat before the bed sagged and Sylvan slipped in beside her. Warm lips moved over her neck. An arm, possessive and irresistible, banded around her waist. A hand, the contours of which she could trace in the depths of every cell, closed around her breast.
“Morning,” Sylvan murmured against her ear.
Drake pushed back against her, settling her ass into the curve of Sylvan’s hips, her back to Sylvan’s chest. She covered Sylvan’s hand and entwined their fingers. “Did you run?”
Sylvan nuzzled Drake’s neck. “Not yet. Waiting for you.”
“You could have wakened me.”
“No reason for both of us to be restless.”
Drake lifted Sylvan’s hand and kissed her palm. “Where did you go?”
“To see the young.”
Not running from them. Visiting the nursery. Drake’s heart lurched. Sylvan had never visited the young alone. Since Andrew died, she’d claimed her agitation would only frighten them, and she’d only visit when Drake was there to buffer her rage. Sylvan hadn’t let her family, her Pack, be her solace. Instead she’d run, letting her wolf take her, but seeking to outrace her pain had been a futile task. Drake rubbed her thumb over the tendons in Sylvan’s hand. Everything about her was bowstring tight. “How are they?”