by Anne Marsh
He’d scared her.
The loup garou were long-lived, easily enjoying hundreds of years if the skin hunters didn’t take them down first. Even so, once mated, mated pairs didn’t outlive each other by more than a handful of weeks. A mated wolf would take no lover other than his mate—but she was free to sleep with both him and any unmated wolves in their Pack. Skin touches were an important part of Pack life, and it was the responsibility of the female wolves to make sure the unmated wolves had what they needed.
Lust pounded through him. What he wanted was to drive himself into her, bury his cock in the sleek, wet heat he’d discovered last night. Would she still want him, however, now that she knew the truth?
He’d had her, but that had been the mating frenzy. Each time, he’d gotten a little closer emotionally. She’d let him draw nearer, whether she knew it or not, when she trusted him with her fantasies. The bond between them was so very clear to him. He could sense every frantic beat of her heart, the heated pulse of her blood through her veins. Last night had imprinted her scent on him. Wherever she went, he’d find her.
Unfortunately for him, that connection appeared to be a one-way street. She’d seen his wolf and didn’t like it. Or him.
She twisted, her wrists moving determinedly in his grasp. “No,” she said, her breath a hoarse gasp. “No, Rafer. Let me go. I’m going back to my farm. Alone.”
Now her scent was pure fear.
He let go. “This isn’t somethin’ you can think over. You can’t deny the bond between us, chère. That bond is there now.”
He kept the word forever to himself. She knew. Hell, they both knew. But putting words to what she was feeling made everything too real. He’d been as careful as he could be not to hurt her, but her panic now tore him apart. The wolf was afraid to let her go, but the man knew he had to.
He could follow. Would follow.
He’d coax her back into his arms, show her that he could be trusted.
Then she’d bond with him.
Then maybe she’d love him.
Chapter Eight
When Rafer should have been wrapped around his new mate, skin to skin, he was cooling his heels on her porch. That porch was picture-book pretty, all white picket and wicker furniture. Hell, he had flowered cushions on which to park his sorry ass.
Dre had taken her back to her farm, and Rafer had followed, shifting to keep pace with her easily. Even more so than on his first visit, Lark’s farm struck him as a feminine lair, filled with warmth and good smells—and he wouldn’t admit how much he wanted her to let him in. He’d been cold for so long. Now his heart beat with hers. He would not be shut out. He’d claimed her. He fought the urge to shift, to run her land and learn it like he’d learned her body last night. In too many ways, it was easier to mark her farm than to mark her.
The rest of the Pack had come too, hot on his heels, because where one went they all went. But then they’d stopped and waited on the edge of the farm for Rafer to come to them. He’d staked his claim on Lark, mated her whether she accepted that bond or not. That made her farm, her land, his territory now.
She hadn’t asked him inside, and he hadn’t wanted to push his luck. Not yet. So he’d pulled up a chair on her porch and watched. He should be helping her, he thought, angry with himself and inexplicably hurt that she hadn’t asked him to do so. Taking her away from her human life was necessary, but instead he sat on her porch like a domesticated dog. He didn’t move, though, because clearly this farm mattered to her.
Before he took her away, he needed to understand what she saw in these fields. That first visit, he’d been focused entirely on the woman walking down the dock to meet him. He hadn’t really checked out her place. Now, he took in the tumbled-down, storm-worn farmhouse with its sagging steps and geraniums in tin cans. Pretty, sure enough. But none of these things would keep her alive if—when—the skin hunters came. Still, he’d give her this handful of hours, let her make her goodbyes. Then he could take her away. He didn’t want to have to force her. He wanted her to choose him, choose the life he had to offer her.
Not going to happen. Apparently, he had fantasies of his own.
Her farm was a busy place in the daylight hours. Over the morning’s course, while he’d watched over her working in the yard, he’d seen dozens of humans come in and out of the front yard. Day workers. Men and women loading big plastic buckets of fresh-cut flowers into the back of vans. A few of the farm’s other visitors carried traces of her scent, as if she’d shaken hands or brushed past them, but none were marked anywhere near as strongly as he was.
None of them smelled like her.
None of them was a lover.
The newest woman, the one who’d driven up in a beat-up Honda that reeked so strongly of dogs his hackles had risen, looked over at him, shifting a plastic bucket filled with cut flowers to her hip. “Boyfriend?”
The air lit up with Lark’s hunger now, a blush heating his mate’s face as she denied his presence in her life and lied her sweet little ass off. “Friend of a friend and merely passing through.”
That pissed him off, that she’d deny the connection between them. She was still human, so he didn’t expect her to use the same words as the Pack did.
The hell there wasn’t something between them. Whether she was ready to accept him as her mate or not, she’d let him mark her. Let him touch her in ways he knew she’d never permitted before. The wolf in him regarded her possessively now—and the man was in complete agreement.
The woman with the flowers shook her head slowly. “You should rethink that one, honey. A man who looks like that? You want him somewhere besides the front porch.”
His mate’s muttered, “In the doghouse,” carried just fine across the yard, as did the other woman’s rich laughter.
“Like that? Well, when you let him out, he’ll make it up to you soon as you say the word.” Lark’s guest smiled knowingly before making her goodbyes.
Still ignoring Rafer, Lark headed into one of the greenhouses, where colorful sprays of flowers showed through the glass panes. When she opened the door, a blast of heavy, luscious scent hit him. He wanted to follow her in, shut the door, and take her on a bed of lily petals, rub the waxy petals against her soft skin. Tease her to the edge of orgasm and then take her over. Again, something that wasn’t happening.
He tried and failed to imagine her living in his bayou-bound houseboat with its faded, slip-covered couches and a mismatched assortment of beds and chaises and cushions. Pack slept wherever sleep found them, tumbled together. Touching.
Last night, she’d let Dag touch her.
His wolf loved her caring for his Pack—and the man liked it just fine too.
Slamming out of the greenhouse some half hour later, she shot him a glare, but she didn’t leave the farm or get in her truck. He hadn’t wanted to take the keys away from her; and as long she didn’t make moves to drive off, he wouldn’t, either.
She was under house arrest, and they both knew it.
His mate was pissed. He supposed that was better than running from him. The third time she made the trip from the greenhouse to the potting shed, she did an about-face and pointed herself right towards the porch. Frowning, she stomped up the steps and skidded to a halt in front of him.
“You,” she snapped.
He tried to look concerned. Receptive. Hell, he did care. And as much as he could, he’d give her what she wanted. “Yes?”
“You need to go,” she said and, yeah, that was one of those can’t-go-there demands. He wasn’t leaving—ever—and the sooner she got onboard with that plan, the happier he would be.
Since his leaving obviously mattered to her, however, he put the question out there. “Why?” Clearly, mind-blowing sex wasn’t enough for her.
She looked frustrated. “Because I have a job to do here.” She dropped the load of plastic nursery pots on the porch and crossed her arms over her chest.
Not being stupid, he kept his eyes fixed on her face�
�her angry face—and forced himself not to notice how her defensive gesture pulled the faded cotton of her T-shirt tight over her breasts. Her nipples pebbled where the fabric rubbed against her, begging for attention.
“I have things I need to take care of,” she insisted.
“Let me help.” Please, he added silently. His wolf’s instinct was to see to his mate’s needs. Not being able to figure out what the hell it was she needed had that wolf whining with frustration.
“Right.” She snorted, and he wanted to drop a kiss on the tip of her dirt-smudged nose. “You can’t. I don’t know anyone who can.”
“Explain.” Squatting down, he began restacking the pots. Doing something—no matter how small—felt good.
“I have a mortgage.”
“Okay.” He knew what this was. The Pack might prefer open spaces and plenty of room to run, but they’d made a point of learning everything they could about their more human neighbors. He’d had hundreds of years to learn the nuances of human finances. His mate owed someone money. And that worried her.
“On this farm,” she said pointedly. “A really big mortgage.”
He wondered what she considered a large sum and then decided it probably didn’t matter. Whatever amount she owed, she obviously couldn’t pay it. “Tell me about it,” he invited. He set the neat stack of pots on one corner of the porch and tugged her over to a wooden rocking chair, pulling her down onto his lap before she could protest.
“Rafer—” The sound of his name on her lips had him hardening, the thick ridge all too evident beneath his worn jeans. Yeah, she sounded skeptical, and he couldn’t blame her. Still, he could no more turn off his reaction to her then he could stop the moon from rising.
Capturing her hand, he massaged the palm with long, sure strokes. She was tense. Tired.
“God,” she breathed. “That feels good.”
Her pleasure pleased him. “Tell me more about your mortgage.”
Her fingers were long and capable. Bare. Unexpectedly, he found himself wanting to give her a ring, to mark her like human males marked their females. He needed everyone to know that she’d chosen him.
Except that she hadn’t. Not really. She hadn’t understood Luc’s question last night.
Not yet, he told himself fiercely. Not yet, but she would. Soon.
She leaned into him, and he wondered if she knew that she had, even as he savored the soft heat of her. “This was my grandmother’s farm. When my mother brought me here, my grandmother was still alive. She’d run this farm since my grandfather’s death twenty years before.”
“She must have been lonely.” Humans died. The thought of losing his Lark made him painfully glad that wolves rarely outlived their mates. When he lost her, he would follow her shortly thereafter. He wouldn’t have to give her up or leave her. Ever. “And glad that you had come to be with her.”
“I hope so.” She paused, clearly remembering those long-gone days. “I was a child. Maybe I didn’t see everything I should have. But I loved her. We were happy here,” she said fiercely. “And then, when she died two years ago, she left me the farm. All of it. The fields, the flowers, the customers—and the bills. The mortgage. The good with the bad. I did the best I could, but there’s not much money in selling flowers.”
Selling flowers was foreign to him. He’d seen the stalls in New Orleans, known that those blooms had come from somewhere, but he’d never stopped and wondered where. Humans bought, and the stalls sold—a rainbow of cut flowers, bouquets and potted arrangements. A few dollars bought an armload—so she couldn’t have been making much. And she owed money.
“Maybe it was stupid,” she said.
He let go of her right hand, picked up her left, and started the massage again, working his way down the muscles, over her knuckles. “No,” he assured her. “This place was your grandmother’s. Now, it’s yours. Why wouldn’t you want to keep it?” Wolves were territorial. He understood why she wouldn’t want to let go of a place she’d claimed as hers. Which only made his job harder.
She smiled, and it was as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds. “Yes,” she said. “That’s it exactly. I can’t just give up. The bank’s scheduled the farm for auction in three days. Even if there’s nothing I can do to stop it, I can’t stop trying.”
“Good.” He gave in to temptation and buried his face against her neck. When he inhaled, he got lemon verbena and rosemary, all earthy and sweet. Soft, with a side of tart and bright that reminded him his mate was strong. Strong enough to stand on her own without him, if she wanted.
“That’s not helping.” This time, a hint of laughter brightened her voice.
He wanted to offer her money, but then she would have even stronger roots to this place, and taking her away to live with the Pack would be harder. She had to come.
He couldn’t lose her.
And he couldn’t let her lose her dream. Her lair. Her place full of her grandmother’s memories and the life she’d built for herself. Fuck. He knew what he had to do, knew he had to put the Pack’s welfare first, but he didn’t want her to pay the price for those needs and wants.
But what else could he do? He couldn’t stay. He belonged with his Pack and they needed him. Needed her.
Loser, his mind taunted him. He was scared to tell her the truth. That he could fix this particular problem if she let him. Money wasn’t an issue for him. He’d had centuries to amass a fortune.
“So you see why I’m not packing up here,” she said, her eyes sliding away from his. His wolf was satisfied. She’d dropped her gaze, and that meant he had the upper hand. The man didn’t like how she flinched. And he was more than an animal. Wasn’t he? For her, he had to be. “If that was what you were really offering. I mean, I know we just met, so talking forevers and happily ever afters isn’t really practical, is it?”
He dragged a thumb up the sensitive skin of her palm, finding and soothing the sore spots. “I’m your mate. Whatever you need, I provide. That’s how this works, Lark. It’s that simple.”
She’d had her own Pack. A Pack of two, but he understood about memories. She was fighting to hold her territory here, and he got that. He really did. Still, he made a note to look into it more. It wouldn’t be hard to pocket one of her bank statements. Find out what it would take to stop this auction. He didn’t have to interfere with this. He could let the sale runs its course and make it easier for her to leave with him.
“There’s nothing simple about this,” she protested.
“It can be.” He traced a hand down the curve of her spine. Straight as an arrow beneath the cotton shirt, her back practically vibrated with tension and some other, less well-defined emotion.
His Lark needed him.
She just didn’t know it yet.
~~~~
Getting her to admit that need wasn’t going to be easy. Later that afternoon, because some things couldn’t wait for nightfall, he shifted and reconned the farm’s borders, assessing the defensibility. In his wolf form, scents hit him more intensely, a primal simplicity to the information. Lark had marked every inch of this farm, and the land smelled sweetly of her.
And of danger. An oily, all-too-familiar stench coated the space.
Skin hunters had found the farm.
Christ, he shouldn’t be surprised. The vamps had been on their asses for centuries, tracking the Pack from one continent to the next. Three centuries ago loup garou had followed French settlers to Louisiana, and the vamps had been right behind them. The same blue moon that led the Pack to a potential bride also drew the vamps, and once they had wind of a loup garou mate, all they had to do was wait. When the wolves came, the vamps picked them off. Running wasn’t an out, and fighting was a stopgap. The way Rafer saw it, their two races would butt heads on this particular battlefield until they were all dead.
His Pack melted out of shadows as a group, greeting him. The wolves rubbed along his sides, butting their muzzles against his head and licking him happily before shifting
back into human form. In his wolf form, Rafer had savored the wild feel of the run. Nose to the ground, he’d learned every inch of Lark’s borders, but now shit was hitting the fan and he needed to discuss matters with his brothers face-to-face. He shifted.
The marks on the ground here betrayed the presence of a vamp scouting force nearby. Four, maybe five males, none of whom had bothered to hide their tracks. That kind of brazen confidence meant the skin hunters had a significant backup force. The Pack could fight off twenty, maybe thirty hunters. If, however, the vamps had fielded any force larger than that, sheer numbers all but guaranteed the vamps the victory.
Luc stepped up beside him. Even bare-assed after his shift, there was no mistaking the lethal menace of the man. He was a predator who’d scented prey. “With those numbers, we take your mate and we head back into the bayou.”
Christ. Rafer was a warrior. A fighter. Standing his ground in his own territory—even in a hallelujah moment—was the best option as far as he was concerned. Except that it wasn’t just him anymore. Lark wasn’t a fighter. She wouldn’t know what to do when the skin hunters came at her, and it was his job to make sure she stayed safe.
And it didn’t matter anyhow. His chère was as stubborn and pigheaded as any member of his Pack.
“She won’t go.”
Luc looked over at him and shook his head. “She’s your mate,” he said, as if it was as simple as that. “You think she has the muscle to say no if you’re sayin’ yes?”
“She’s human,” he countered, because there was no avoiding that truth. “She doesn’t do things our way.”
“Not yet. But she will.” Luc knew what the Pack was capable of.
“You convince her, Rafer.” Dag swung back towards his Alpha. “This is the tip of the iceberg here. A scoutin’ force means there’s about to be an entire fuckin’ army of vamps camped out on your doorstep. You need help explainin’ things to her, you call on me.” His words made it clear what form that help would take. “She liked me just fine before.”