It was too much. Marshall’s tenuous hold on his control incinerated. His wolf howled, racing for release, turning his already burning muscles to liquid fire. Wanting to mount her, claim her, mark her, mate, fuck…
He had to stop it, he had to—
Mark her as your own.
He let out a roar, his orgasm consuming him, flooding her sex with his seed as he fisted her hair, yanked her head to the side and sank his teeth into her neck.
The cool night air bit into Daeved Einar’s flesh, turned his breath to mist as it passed his lips. He stood motionless beneath a tall tree, its dense foliage concealing his whereabouts, hiding him amongst a curtain of slender light-grey leaves and long bottle-brush-type flowers, their cloying fragrance overpowering any scent he may excrete while watching those in the shack.
He curled his hands into two tight fists, cold rage and disgust unfurling in his stomach. How considerate of them to leave the door open.
Stare locked on the two “humans” within the structure’s walls, he studied their actions, noting the smooth, feminine muscles of the female and the coiled, ropey muscles of the male.
The male.
Rourke.
A soft crack shattered the heavy silence in his head and Einar bit back a curse, the dull ache in his jaw telling him he’d ground his jaw so tight one of his molars had fractured.
He pressed his fingers to the side of his face, not daring to rub in case the two in the shack heard the scraping sound of flesh-on-flesh. He ran his stare over the naked form of his ex-partner, mindless to the erotic display. The rage and disgust in his gut twisted into a knot. Marshall Rourke was a dire werewolf.
Disgust turned to contempt and he narrowed his eyes. Icy pain sliced into his head but he ignored it. It was irrelevant, inconsequential. Compared to the revelation he’d just discovered, a broken tooth was nothing. Marshall I’m-Too-Fucking-Righteous Rourke was a dire wolf. How did he not know that? How had the cocky Texan kept that little fact a secret? They’d been partners for years. Years fighting the “good fight”, working so closely together in the hunt and extermination of dangerous paranormal creatures they’d shared the same fucking toothbrush, and he was only discovering now the man was a fucking dire werewolf? A creature as extinct as the thylacine Einar now hunted?
And yet, it explained so much. His phenomenal sense of smell, his preternatural strength and speed, his failure to age in the entire duration they were partners.
His pathetic empathy for paranormals below his own standing.
No wonder he’d never shifted into his wolf form in all the years they were partners. He’d been keeping a big, fat secret.
Einar sank his nails into the centre of his palms. Rourke had fooled him. Fooled the P.A.C. suits as well. All P.A.C. agents were creatures of paranormal origin—they had to be—but only those approved by the Executive Director. A dire wolf, an animal classified extinct for over ten thousand years with little available data known on its behaviour and psyche, was not on that list. Einar himself had needed to jump through more hoops than he’d found comfortable when joining P.A.C. So many hoops his true origin had come close to being discovered.
If the suits had known the Texan was a dire werewolf, not just the common Northern Hemisphere werewolf he purported to be, lying for years about his true species, they would have been less inclined to believe Rourke when he’d stood against Einar during his “trial”.
A silent snort of contempt sounded at the back of Einar’s throat at the word. Trial. Witch-hunt was more appropriate. What P.A.C. failed to understand was he kept them all safe. His “savage, unnecessary brutality” kept everyone safe. The second they’d forced his retirement—thanks to Rourke’s bleeding heart testimony—the suits had handed mankind to the barbaric beings that perverted the world on a silver fucking platter.
Kill them both. Right now.
The enticing thought slashed through his head and he stiffened. It would be easy. Very easy. His eyes narrowed and he studied them in the moon’s pale glow. They had no idea what was going on. Too busy with the depraved sins of the flesh, too busy fucking each other’s brains out. He could slip into the shack unnoticed and slice Rourke’s throat open before the dire wolf’s sickening howls of pleasure died away. He could plunge his blade into the thylacine’s chest, right between the breasts Rourke now mauled, and pierce her heart.
Then do it.
He lifted his right foot, his pulse quickening, his hand stealing to his knife.
And stopped.
No. He didn’t want to rush Huddart’s kill. He’d spent too many months hunting her to not enjoy her final moment, and if Rourke was here, there was a distinct possibility other P.A.C. agents were as well. He couldn’t risk their interference. When he killed Jacqueline Huddart, he wanted to relish every slow moment. He wanted to drink in the terror shining in her eyes. He wanted to bathe in the fear leeching from her pores. There was no quick kill for the thylacine. The last of her kind deserved a long, considered death, nothing as crude as a single, fatal penetration. Besides, now he knew what Rourke was, well, his ex-partner deserved the same treatment. There was no way he was going to miss the chance for payback.
Letting his gaze run over the naked forms of his prey, he considered his next move. He had to separate them. Somehow, he had to get them alone.
He thought of the human female trussed to a tree deeper in the bush. He’d moved Delanie Mackenzie to watch Huddart track her scent, curious if the thylacine would transform to do so. How did he use this to solve his Marshall Rourke problem?
Rourke could never resist a damsel in distress.
A slow smile pulled at Einar’s lips and, without a sound, he stepped backward, away from the shack and the copulating perversions within.
He knew what to do. And all he needed was a little bit of the human’s blood soaked into her brassiere.
Items very easy to arrange.
Jackie cried out. Marshall’s teeth sank into her flesh and exquisite pain exploded through her body. She came, again and again, each climax like a detonation of charged heat in her core. Each one driving her higher and higher to the next.
Oh, God, how could this be happening?
The animal inside her howled, consumed by the primitive pleasure of Marshall’s bite. Base rapture flooded through her and she arched her back, the dominating force of his teeth on her neck making her cry out again.
Marking her. He was marking her. As his territory. As his mate. He was marking her and she should be stopping him. Tasmanian tigers mated for life. Once the male marked the female with his bite, once his saliva mixed with her blood they were bound together forever. She should be stopping Marshall, but she couldn’t.
Since the very second she’d seen him across the crowded airport, her very existence hungered for him. Had recognized him. Her body had known this moment would come long before her stupid, backward human brain could comprehend what was going on. Two alphas finding each other. Two equals in every aspect. Two animals, two humans, one undeniable connection.
She should be stopping him—she wasn’t ready to be mated, to be marked—but she couldn’t. She didn’t want to. Her thylacine didn’t want to.
“Oh, Christalmighty, Jackie,” Marshall groaned into her neck, his hands falling from her hair. He grabbed her arse and yanked her harder to his hips, sinking his cock deeper into her sex even as the wild shudders of his orgasm began to subside. “Jackie, Jackie.”
He moaned her name, the sound raw and utterly exposed. His hands slid from her backside and he curled his arms around her waist, holding her close to him. Closer and with more reverence than anyone had held her before, his head buried into her neck, his breath hot and rapid on her flesh.
Jackie stayed motionless in his embrace, her hands still fists in his hair. Her sex throbbed, a fading beat still potent enough to make her whimper. God, what had they done?
What were they going to do now?
Fuck, fuck, mate, mate.
She slammed a
mental door on her thylacine’s rapturous suggestion, her throat tight. What had just happened was insane. She was kidding herself otherwise if she thought differently. Two animals, two humans? What the fuck was she on about? She was an Australian cop hunting the lunatic who’d abducted her best friend and Marshall was a wolf unlike any she’d ever seen… Hell, unlike any she knew even existed. Mated or not, there was no way in hell she could succumb to the call of her needs again.
Heat.
The single word slipped through her mind and Jackie froze, her eyes widening. She sucked in a sharp breath. She was in the peak of her cycle, and they hadn’t used any protection.
Oh, God. What was she thinking?
You weren’t. It was all instinct. Animal instincts. This is what happens when you forget what you are, Jackie, and let your thylacine rule your actions. This is what you get for releasing it. This is what you get for—
“Jesus Christ, Jackie, I’m sorry.”
Marshall’s low growl against the curve of her shoulder jerked Jackie from the grim thought. He moved against her, lifting his head from her neck to drag his hands through his hair. He didn’t look at her. Not at first at least, and when he did Jackie’s chest squeezed tight at the tormented contempt in his eyes.
“Christ, I’ve fucked this up.” He shook his head, scraping his hand down his face before dropping his forehead to her shoulder. “Shit. Shit. Shit.”
Jackie blinked, her gut churning. This wasn’t quite what she’d expected. “Hey.” She nudged him with her shoulder, running her hands down his back. His skin was smooth and warm, the muscles underneath long and sinewy. Her thylacine stirred in appreciation and the heat between her thighs grew damp. “Hey,” she said again, shutting out the realization he was still buried deeply in her sex.
Marshall didn’t move and a wholly disquieting sense of unease began to gnaw at Jackie. What was going on? Just what in the bloody hell was going on? “Marshall?”
He didn’t respond.
“Marshall?”
For a split second, she felt the Texan’s arms hold her tighter, and then he pulled away from her. Slightly. He looked at her with an unwavering gaze, his eyes reflecting the weak moonlight, his jaw clenched. “I bit you.”
Jackie returned his steady look, her heart hammering. “Yeah, I kinda figured that out.”
His Adam’s apple jerked up and down his throat as he swallowed. “I should apologise.”
Jackie narrowed her eyes. “Should?”
He didn’t say anything for a long moment and then, with a muttered growl, he shook his head. “I should, but I can’t.” He slid his hands up her back, a slow caress that sent sensual shivers all the way to her core. “I’ve fucked everything up, Detective Jackie Huddart. Nothing has gone the way it was meant to, the way I planned, but I can’t apologise for biting you. For marking you as mine.” He shook his head again, his stare growing intense. “I want you, Jackie. I don’t know what it is about you, but I want you. The very idea of not being able to touch you, smell you any time I want makes me crazy. The thought of someone else touching you, anyone else touching you, pushes me beyond crazy to a dangerous place.” He stopped, swallowed, closed his eyes and turned his head away. “Fuck, the thought of Einar getting his hands on you pushes me beyond even that place.” He let out a sharp sigh and returned his stare to her face. “I am an animal at soul, Jackie. A savage animal with a savage history. I am over two hundred years old, have killed more monsters than I care to count and have no discernable future that I can see beyond killing more.”
Jackie’s chest grew tight. So tight she could barely draw breath. She opened her mouth, knowing she should say something, but honestly clueless to what that something should be. What did she say?
Marshall shook his head, his eyes haunted. “I have little to offer anyone, Jackie, including myself let alone a life mate and I swear to God and all things holy, I did not set out to mark you as mine.”
“But you did.”
Jackie frowned at her own words. They weren’t accusatory or angry, and given the situation, either was appropriate. No, they were…what? Confused?
Hopeful?
Oh, you truly are insane, Huddart.
Marshall let out another sharp sigh and she felt his body tense.
“I did.”
She studied him, waiting for him to say more. When he didn’t, when he just held her close, his heart thumping so hard she could feel it in her core, his gaze holding hers, unreadable and inescapable, she let out her own sigh. “So, what do we do now?”
He slid his hands up her back and gave her a wry, lop-sided grin. “We save your best friend and I deal with my ex-partner.”
Jackie raised her eyebrows.
And before she could say that illusive bloody “something” she knew still waited to be said, Marshall leant forward and kissed her.
Chapter Seven
Delanie tugged at the length of rope tying her to the old gum tree. The steely fibre cut into her wrists, a slicing burn that made her eyes water and her temper boil. Damn it, how the hell was she to wear her watch now?
What watch? The psycho nut-bag took your watch, remember? Along with the earrings Jackie gave you and your bra.
She tugged again on her bindings, earning nothing from her efforts but more pain and frustration. Damn it, when she got out of here she was going to…
Slumping awkwardly against the tree, the short length of rope pressing against her chest, Delanie bit back a sob. A dull weight fell to the pit of her stomach. Get out of here? Who was she kidding? She wasn’t getting out of anywhere. The hunter was a certifiable lunatic, and if Hollywood had taught her anything, certifiable lunatics who carried big knives were not likely to leave witnesses to their lunacy alive.
Another sob worked its way up her throat, thick and choking, and she closed her eyes. She couldn’t see anything anyway, so what was the point? The bush around her was darker than pitch, the moon too thin and new to cast any light, the stars too far away to do anything but taunt her.
“Oh, God, Delanie, now you’re just being melodramatic.”
Opening her eyes, she squinted into the darkness, trying like hell to make out her surroundings. She wasn’t giving up. Not after all the shit the hunter had put her through already. So what if she was tied up out in the middle of the bush? Big deal. She’d survived the Boxing Day sales in Sydney. Five hundred pushing, inconsiderate shoppers all fighting for the best bargain made this look like a picnic. A much, much darker picnic, albeit, minus the food and friends and folding chairs, but a picnic all the same. It even had the annoying bugs buzzing at her face.
Delanie huffed at the unseen insect dive-bombing her ear, wishing she could swipe at it with her hand. She didn’t want to be here. She wanted to be in her motel room with Jackie, sharing a bottle of white wine and doing her best to convince her best friend not to go back to the mainland.
The dull weight sitting heavy in her gut rolled and she chewed on her bottom lip. She had to get out of this. She had to warn Jackie what the psycho nut-bag was planning to do.
Pushing herself from the tree trunk, she returned her attention to the rope knotted around her wrists. She would get out of this, damn it. Hollywood could go stick their gory, blood-soaked clichés in their ear. The heroine’s best friend didn’t always die. Sometimes she came back for the sequel.
Delanie glared at her wrists. “And I plan on being in the sequel.” She bent over, raising her wrists to her mouth. She’d get out of this bloody insane situation even if she had to gnaw her way out. She’d paid a fortune for her caps. It was about time they earned their keep.
“I assure you, Ms McKenzie,” a friendly voice uttered behind her, making Delanie’s blood ran cold. “You will not be able to chew through that rope.”
She snapped upright, the sight of the hunter stepping toward her through the darkness slamming her throat shut. “Let me go, you sick fuck.”
The second she snarled the words she wanted to take them back.
Her skin broke out in a clammy sweat and she tensed, waiting for the sick bastard to strike her.
He didn’t. Instead, he laughed, the relaxed sound making her stomach roll some more. “Tsk tsk, Ms Mckenzie. Surely by now you know I’m not going to let you go.” He moved closer, the waning moonlight catching in his eyes for a second and Delanie shrank back, ramming herself against the tree.
God, he looked like a walking corpse. An insane walking corpse.
Oh, Lord, help me.
The man’s smile stretched wider. He lifted his right hand to her face and Delanie bit back a cry, flinching as he lightly patted her left cheek. “Now I have two traps to set, you are more important than ever.” He chuckled. “In fact, I would not be able to do this without you, Delanie.”
A sob burst up her throat and she shook her head, unable to stop the tears stinging her eyes. God, she was pathetic. “Please,” she croaked. “Just let me go. Please. I won’t tell anyone. I promise. Just let me go and leave Jackie alone and I won’t tell anyone.”
Pathetic, Delanie. Pathetic.
The hunter’s face creased into a worried frown and he lowered his hand from her cheek. “I’m worried about you, Delanie. This is not at all becoming.”
“Fuck becoming!” she screamed, throwing herself at him.
Hot agony detonated in her shoulders as the rope snapped tight, jerking her backward. She cried out, yanking at her bindings, blinded by her tears.
He chuckled again. “That’s better. I like this Delanie McKenzie more.”
Delanie thrashed against the rope, each wild tug cutting her wrists deeper. She felt her blood seeping from the ragged wounds and didn’t care. She couldn’t do this anymore. She’d had enough, damn it. Enough.
The hunter didn’t move. “Keep it up, Ms McKenzie. The more you fight now, the less I will have to make you bleed.”
His words punched into her like a fist. Her knees collapsed and she slumped as far as the rope would let her, half-dangling, half-standing, her face wet with tears and sweat and snot. “Jackie is going to kill you,” she mumbled, staring through the tangled mess of her hair at the ground near her feet. “And when she does I’m going to watch and laugh my arse off.”
Savage Transformation: Savage Australia, Book 2 Page 10