by MJ Compton
“Thank you,” she said, her moist breath warming his skin as she buried her face against his chest.
“For what?”
“Coming back for me.”
She just continued to heap insult upon insult. “You didn’t think I’d leave you there?” he asked, his voice almost a growl.
She didn’t say anything, and that hurt as much as it irked.
“Lucy?”
“I didn’t know,” she said, her voice so small he wasn’t sure he heard her correctly.
“What?”
“You left me there.”
“Butler threw me out,” Stoker protested. “I came back as quickly as I could.” He cupped the back of her head and pulled her off his chest until he could look her in the eye. “You’re my wife, Lucy. My mate. I thought I explained that you’re the most precious thing I have. Why would I abandon you to Butler?”
Her gaze slid from his, and she shrugged. “I’m glad you didn’t.”
She shouldn’t be feeling anything. She should simply accept her status as his mate and not worry about him dishonoring both of them by action–or in this case, lack thereof.
“I’m sorry,” she said. “I knew you’d rescue me, but toward the end, I was really scared.”
He hauled her against his side and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry it took so long, but we had to wait until dark.”
“I realize that now. How’s your head?”
He’d nearly forgotten about being bashed. “Fine. Lycanthropes heal quickly because we have fast metabolisms. How’s your hand?”
“It hurts,” she admitted. “I’d offer to rub your back, but it would have to be a one-handed massage.”
He thought of one spot on his body where one-handed rubbing would be perfect. Despite his aching exhaustion, he was fully aroused. “I’m game if you are.”
Lucy hesitated then slid her palms over his chest and unbuttoned his shirt. “We need to get you out of this. Sit up.”
He opened his eyes a crack. Lucy stared at his bare chest, her expression one of curiosity and delight. Warmth filled him. He loved being mated. This part, anyway.
He sat up and shrugged the shirt off his shoulders. Her fingers combed the wiry hair covering his chest. Maybe the massage could wait.
“Roll over,” Lucy said.
He unbuckled his belt. “You’ve got on too many clothes.”
Pink stained her cheeks. “This is a back rub, not a seduction.”
“I’d rather you seduced me.” He was blunt. He eased his zipper over the mound of his erection.
Her gaze followed his motion. Her eyes widened when she saw his need. “I thought you were tired.”
“Most of me is exhausted.”
Her hand hovered, as if she wanted to relocate her explorations, or maybe he was indulging in wishful thinking.
He reached under the hem of her T-shirt, his gaze never leaving her face. His palm closed over a soft globe of her breast. Her already alert nipple hardened into a diamond under his caress. “Maybe a back rub isn’t in order right now.” His whisper was hoarse as the words emerged from his too-tight throat. “Your hand still hurts.”
Lucy swallowed and nodded.
“Touch me,” he pleaded.
She nodded again.
His breath whistled sharply between his teeth as a single finger traced the contours of his ‘equipment’.
“You’re right,” she said, withdrawing her hand.
He groaned his frustration. “Right about what?” he asked through clenched teeth.
“We’re both wearing too many clothes.”
General Randy Butler led a small team of soldiers out the gate of New Sinai and into the mountains of Idaho, USA. The sun had not yet spied over the horizon, but the night sky had faded to gun-metal gray.
“Remember. We’re tracking wolves,” he said, his words exploding in white puffs in the chilly spring air.
None of his fury had dimmed with the night. After laundering his clothing, the slackers had been ordered to clear the compound of wolf shit–with their bare hands. He then planned to let them languish in the root cellar–with Danby’s maggot-ridden corpse.
At first light, Randy had examined the ground around the bulkhead, but too many others had also investigated, destroying most of the wolf tracks and any trace of Lucy.
He understood why the wolves had invaded the root cellar. Lucy’s fear created a marker, so the beasts had pursued easy prey. He had planned to do the same thing, although his Lucy agenda didn’t include killing her right away.
His troops had discovered more animal feces near the burrow hole under the fence. Outside New Sinai, evidence of the invasion hadn’t been trampled in the dark by agitated citizens.
After examining tracks and other signs, Randy decided at least six wolves were involved. The set of small human footprints that were probably Lucy’s were blurred by overlaying wolf tracks. Something relatively big had been dragged down the gulch. One couldn’t mistake that swathe in the dirt and stones.
No one in New Sinai was an expert tracker, but even a babe could follow the trail. At one point, it looked as if Lucy had escaped and run–but not toward the safety of New Sinai–and she’d run quite a ways, the imprint of her small feet easy to see in the dusty and pebbled earth.
There was a slim chance she was still alive.
A flash of white caught his eye, blazing on the dun-colored ground. Randy headed for it, signaling his soldiers to follow.
He stared at the torn bra for a long time. Scraps of feminine underpants draped a nearby rock. The intimate apparel wasn’t necessarily Lucy’s. It could belong to anyone.
“General.” A soldier called him over to another discovery.
Randy recognized the shredded T-shirt, as did every soldier present. Bill Danby favored desert camouflage T-shirts, and owned several. Randy had thrown one at Lucy right before he’d locked her sinful ass in the root cellar.
One didn’t need to be a master tracker to read the signs.
“It looks as if she struggled,” the soldier said.
Michelle was going to be upset. Very upset.
Only Randy’s steely self-control kept him from reacting. “Let’s spread out and see if we can find her remains.”
Yeah, he’d wanted to fuck Lucy, but really, this saved him the trouble of killing her himself, although he would have enjoyed that, too.
Now Michelle would inherit Lucy’s share of their parents’ estate, despite Lucy’s blathering about her lawyer and Idaho’s laws. He just needed to prove she was dead.
A fist hammering on the door woke Stoker. His first inclination was to pound his fist into someone’s face.
His second thought included the realization that Lucy was still beneath him. Her knees no longer clamped his ribs, but her arms remained threaded under his, and her hands still splayed across his shoulders.
He was nuzzling her neck when the knocking resumed.
Lucy stirred, murmuring something in her sleep.
He disengaged from her embrace. She muttered a protest, which thrilled him. He liked this mating thing just fine. Whoever dared knock on his door had better have a good reason.
“Stoker?” Lucy reached for him, her eyes still closed.
He kissed her forehead. “Go back to sleep.”
He opened the door in the middle of a definite tattoo. “What?” he snapped at a startled Luke. Judging by the color of the sky, dawn would be putting in an appearance soon. He’d had maybe two hours of sleep after a grueling night of constantly shifting his shape and persona, rescuing his mate from a lunatic, and refraining from killing his beta leader.
Not even Luke was stupid enough to . . .
“Restin’s called a meeting in his room,” Luke said.
His nostrils flared as he took in the aromas of mating. He glanced at Stoker’s nakedness and seemed embarrassed.
Odd. The males of the pack frequently wore no clothes. It meant nothing. Nakedness was required when one shifted, if only to preserve one’s human clothing. Teenagers frequently tattered their wardrobes until they learned to control themselves.
Then Stoker realized he had a full-fledged erection, and that was something that never happened with the guys.
He refused to let his condition embarrass him, but he moved to block Luke’s view into the room, knowing that a naked Lucy sprawled across the bed, and Luke spent way too much time looking at Internet porn.
“Bring her, too,” Luke gulped.
Stoker shook his head. “I’m off the task force. You heard Restin say it yourself.” Off the task force and out of the band. One was a relief; the other a dilemma.
“I’m just the messenger,” Luke muttered. He turned and started toward the next door, where the drivers slept.
“I’m delta,” Stoker snapped. “I don’t take orders from omega.” He slammed the door to emphasize his point.
“Who was that?” Lucy’s soft voice dissolved his anger. She lay on her side, everything exposed, and her eyes still shut.
He drank in the sight of her lovely body. How many of the shadows marring her flesh had come from the roughness of his mating, and how many had Butler inflicted on her?
Pride warred with anger. He wanted Butler for himself. To hell with the task force, the United States government, and the pack’s treaty with them.
“Luke. I sent the stupid whelp away.” He locked the door and ambled to the bed.
“You guys are awfully mean to him.”
“He’s omega. It’s our duty.”
“He’s cute.” She opened her eyes and smiled at him.
Jealousy ripped through him.
“Like a puppy dog is cute,” she continued. “You know, eager, slobbering, and anxious to please.”
“Pleasing his betters is his duty.” Stoker stretched out next to her and pulled her close. Exhaustion battled with desire.
Lucy snuggled closer. “What did he want?”
“Punishment. Go back to sleep.” Stoker rested his cheek on the top of her head; her breath ruffled the hair on his chest.
How could he feel so content when he was so torn? Off the task force–and off the road–was what he’d wanted, but he’d never wanted out of the band. He never wanted to lose his music.
His favorite times were those spent with Tokarz, tinkering with the melodies to the lyrics that the alpha so effortlessly wrote. Tokarz claimed Stoker was his favorite collaborator. All of the band’s biggest hits bore the names Stoker Smith and Tokarz de Lobo Garnier. Tokarz wouldn’t let Restin banish him.
Lucy stirred against him. If he had to choose–not that there was a choice–Lucy would always win. Yes, he would surrender every elemental part of himself for her, but he hoped the future would include both her and his music. He would never be complete without them both.
Lost in his dilemma, he gently stroked the smooth skin of her body, starting at the top of her ribs, running his fingertips down her side to her hip, using his palm on the return trip.
She was his. More than a possession, she was an essential part of his spirit. He’d never realized how incomplete he’d been until he’d mated with her. The thought of a future without Lucy in it scared him, which was ironic because he was the one who scared others.
His glare and sullen expression kept others from seeing how deeply he experienced life. A perfect spring morning could bring tears to his eyes. Wild flowers dancing in a mountain meadow awed him. Males, even deltas, weren’t supposed to notice those sorts of things, but he did. He always had. And he’d learned early that he needed to hide his respect for nature’s beauty if he didn’t want to be as disrespected as an omega.
Lucy encompassed all the things he held most dear. She was spring, sunshine, and the best flower he’d ever met. Without her, he would wither.
Like Hank, after Charlotte died.
No wonder he’d latched onto his bizarre notion that Lucy’s very pregnant sister housed Charlotte’s soul. It would be nice for Hank if he found another mate, but Stoker doubted the wife of Randy Butler was the one, even if she was Lucy’s sister.
The soft rap on the door startled him. “Ancient Ones, save me from omegas,” he muttered, once more disengaging from his mate. The next person who disturbed them was going to die.
He flung open the door, intending to let Luke know exactly what he thought of his interruptions, and came face to face with Restin.
“I ordered you and your mate to a meeting,” Restin growled.
Stoker bristled. “You don’t give Lucy orders.”
Restin narrowed his eyes. “I learned something from Tokarz and Delilah,” he said very slowly, as though loathe to admit he didn’t already know everything. “The counsel of a mate can be wise. Especially when the mate is human and her advice is with regard the way a human mind works.”
The admission stunned Stoker.
“I believe there is merit to your mate’s suggestion,” Restin continued.
Ancient Ones, is the world coming to an end? For Restin to swallow his pride and admit that a female–and a human one at that–might have a valid opinion was surely a sign that the old order was dying.
”You thought there was merit to her wedding reception idea, too, and look how that turned out. We’re delta, Restin. We don’t come up with plans.”
“She has good ideas. It’s the execution that’s lacking. She sang a song,” Restin continued. “We need to know that song. Otherwise, Butler might not get the point.”
“What point?” If all Restin wanted was a song, Stoker didn’t mind Lucy helping. Songs were harmless.
Restin glanced around. “I don’t want to discuss this in the open.”
And Stoker didn’t want him in the room while Lucy slumbered. He thought a moment then told Restin to stay put. He closed the door then crossed the room to the bureau.
He hated to disturb Lucy. Her ordeal had exhausted her.
He rummaged through a drawer until he found a faded red T-shirt. He really needed to buy her some clothes of her own.
Sitting on the edge of the mattress, he kissed the side of her neck, near the spot where he’d marked her. Her petal-like lips curved in a smile.
His palm ached to cup her breast, but he knew if he did, Restin would tire of waiting and break down the door. “We have company,” he murmured.
“Mmm,” Lucy replied. “Send them away.”
“If I could, I would. Let’s get you dressed.” Wrapping an arm around her waist, he helped her sit. Then he pulled the shirt over her head.
She lifted her arms, sliding them through the oversized holes, as he adjusted the shoulders. He helped her draw the length over her legs, until she was presentable. “Who’s here?”
“Restin.”
Her sleepy eyes widened. “I’m having a nightmare, right?”
He kissed the tip of her adorable freckled nose. “No.”
“Right. I forgot. Idaho is an alternate reality.”
He smiled. Maybe she had a point.
“What time is it?”
“Before dawn,” he said, pulling on a pair of sweatpants.
“The only way I’d be happy to see him is if he’s bearing coffee.”
“No coffee,” Stoker said as he opened the door.
Restin’s blue eyes flashed his irritation at being kept waiting. “I need to talk to you,” he said, without greeting Lucy and heading straight toward the bed on which she reclined.
“Good morning to you, too.” Lucy smiled sweetly.
Stoker choked back a laugh. She was like no one any of
them had ever before encountered.
“Jericho,” Restin replied.
He would have perched on the edge of the bed if Stoker didn’t step in front of him. “Forget it. Bad idea.”
Lucy rolled over, presenting her spine and lusciously curved backside to Restin.