Must Love Lycans

by Michele Bardsley

  “Do you know who the president is?”

  “Why would I know that? Those are human concerns.”

  Bingo. “Aren’t you human?”

  His brows slashed down and his lips thinned. “These are strange questions.” He angled closer still, and it took all my effort not to suck in an unsteady breath. “You are trying to determine if I’m crazy.”

  “Are you?”

  “I cannot remember anything. So maybe I am.”

  Trepidation crept through me. Most people suffering from delusions or other psychological disorders firmly believed in their realities. They wouldn’t admit that they were wrong, much less that they might be insane. It could be that even with amnesia Damian was operating within his delusional framework, but my instincts were whispering that all was not as it appeared. Still, I kept a tight wrap on my empathic powers. No way would I go delving into his emotions just yet—especially since I couldn’t get myself under control. Damian’s nearness was messing with every one of my senses. I knew what it was like to be attracted, and what I felt with Damian was like attraction on steroids. It took all my willpower to keep myself from inclining toward him, into accepting that challenge in his eyes.

  Kiss me.

  I gulped. Did I think that? Or did he say it?

  “Are you American?” I asked. I hoped the question would jostle something loose. I wanted to test Jarred’s information. I don’t know why Jarred would lie about Damian’s origins, but the man’s motivations were murky at best.

  “How would I know?” he countered. “I don’t even know if I’m human.” Amusement threaded his words.

  “Of course you’re human,” I said. “There aren’t any other options.”

  “Are you sure?”

  I kept my expression pleasant, but it took some effort. I got the distinct impression he was screwing with me. “Okay, then. Tell me about these options.”

  “Mmm.” He looked me over, his eyes going all smoky. How the hell did he manage that? My breath stalled in my lungs. Way to be professional, Kel.

  “I don’t know where I’m from, if my name is truly Damian, if I’m American, or who the president is . . . but you believe I’m aware of alternatives to being human.” He slid the very last inch, trapping me against the wide arm of the couch. “You do think I’m crazy.”

  “I’m trying to help you,” I said, injecting calm into my voice. “We may not know much about you, Damian, but prior to your amnesia you believed you were a werewolf. Can you tell me about that?”

  He laughed. “What a conversation that would be, Frau.” His gaze lingered too long on my lips. “Do you like werewolves?”

  The question startled me. I wanted to blurt, “I like you,” but I managed to bottle that response. “Werewolves don’t exist, Damian.”

  “But if they did?”

  “I don’t know if I could like a creature that was so dangerous.”

  “A very therapeutic thing to say,” he said. “But not entirely honest.” His gaze darkened more, and my heart flipped over in my chest. “You think I’m a werewolf.”

  “Not at all.”

  “I could be.” His rock-hard thigh pressed against mine. I couldn’t stop the shiver that danced up my spine. “Because I very much want to devour you.”

  “Th-that’s inappropriate.”

  “Very,” he agreed. “You should probably stop me, Frau. Especially as you think werewolves are dangerous.” He offered a toothy smile. “Or perhaps you find the human me dangerous, ja?” He tugged the knot of hair pinned at my nape. The strands drifted around my shoulders like tired dandelions. He sniffed my hair (Sheesh! He really did like my smell!), his fingers daring to stroke my neck. Then he lowered his head and pressed his lips against the hollow of my throat.

  Hot need sparked in my belly. I put my hands on his shoulders, intending to push him away, but I couldn’t quite work up the outrage. His lips trailed up my throat, tracing the same path as his fingers, then coasted along my jaw. I felt his teeth tug my earlobe, and I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  “That’s quite enough,” I rasped.

  “I smell your arousal. You’re wet for me, Kelsey.” He pulled back and cradled my face. “My memories have abandoned me, but I recognize desire.”

  Oh, good Lord. He was right. I was aroused. And so was he. Worse, he was going to kiss me, and then I’d be a goner for sure. I could commit the final sin—sleep with a patient. Then I would be as awful and immoral as my mother believed. (Honestly? No real down side there. But I was trying to have morals, damn it.) “S-stop,” I managed. I cleared my throat. “Damian! You’re being rude!”

  He reeled back as if I’d slapped him. His hands dropped away and he scooted to the end of the couch. “Forgive me,” he said stiffly.

  Fierce regret rose inside me. I didn’t want to hurt his feelings, but I’d already crossed the line between therapist and patient. If him being wounded by my rejection kept his hands off me, then that was good. He affected me in a way no other man had, and I wasn’t sure what to do about my own reactions. My entire body was trembling, even my hands. I clasped them together tightly.

  “Only if you’ll forgive me,” I said softly. “I shouldn’t have let you touch me.”

  He stared at me. “You’re right. Permission is needed. I’ll remember that next time.”

  I stood up, my legs feeling like Jell-O. “There will be no next time,” I chided. “I have a professional and moral obligation to help you. I cannot give in to . . . that is, I shouldn’t indulge your . . . er, wooing.”

  “Wooing?” Once again, amusement ghosted his tone.

  “Our next session will be in my office,” I said coolly. Now that I was able to breathe again, I could see that he wasn’t repentant about our encounter. A fire burned in his gaze; it was banked, but by no means doused. I felt another jump in my pulse. “It’s not wise to be alone with you in other environments.”

  “Are you afraid that I will be unable to control myself?” he asked. “Or that you will?”

  “Both,” I admitted frankly.

  He seemed surprised that I would admit my own culpability, but I’d learned well the lessons of taking responsibility for my actions.

  “Help me,” he said.

  “I will,” I promised. “I’ll do everything—”

  He shook his head. “Help me leave this place. I’m not crazy. I’m just . . .” He trailed off. He rubbed his temples. “I don’t belong here.”

  “That may be true,” I said. “But you don’t have anywhere to go, or anyone to contact.”

  “And if I did?”

  “Then I would call your family myself.”

  He peered at me as though trying to discern if I was telling the truth or just placating him. I wasn’t lying. If Damian had loved ones out there, I would make every effort to find them. They would be worried sick. And having familiar faces around might well help Damian recover. I could get the medical information I needed, too.

  “What’s your brother’s name?” I asked.

  “Which one?”

  I smiled. “Doesn’t matter.”

  He opened his mouth, then paused. “I don’t know.” Surprise registered. “But I must have brothers, ja?”

  “It appears so.”

  He nodded, and I saw relief glint in his eyes.

  “If you give it some time, I’m sure your memories will return. Don’t you think your sister would think so?”

  “She died.”

  “I’m sorry,” I said softly. “How did she die?”

  “She was . . . taken. Killed.” He frowned. “How can I know that, but not know my real name? Or where I was yesterday?”

  “The brain is weird. An injured brain is even weirder. I think your memories will return, Damian. A good night’s sleep may be enough to get the healing process started. Try to rest,” I said. “I’ll see you in the morning.”

  I walked around the couch and headed toward the front door.

  “Stay for dinner.”

>   I turned and gaped at Damian. “What on earth for?”

  “You’re the only person I know.” He flashed me an unguarded smile. “I told you. You feel like home to me.” He paused, and gave me a considering look. “And much more.”

  “Damian, whatever ill-advised attraction we may feel toward each other, I cannot let you believe that I can—or will—indulge in . . . well, anything. With you. Ever. Because that’s unprofessional.”

  “Are you trying to convince me? Or yourself?”

  The latter mostly, but I wouldn’t admit that to him. “It may be wise to reassign you to one of our visiting therapists.”

  “No.” The word was absolute. His tone held command and intent.

  “Then you’ll have to behave.”

  “I am not the only one,” he said, smirking. “And if we are nothing to each other, then having a meal together has no implications.”

  “I already have a dinner engagement.”

  His glance took in my bare fingers. He may not have remembered his life, but he sure remembered how to scope out a girl’s status. “Your boyfriend?”

  “With my boss, Mr. Dante. He owns the clinic. He’s the one who rescued you. And it’s a business dinner. That’s all.” Terfreakingrific. I was babbling. I had to go before I did something else really stupid.

  “When will I see you again?”

  “Tomorrow morning. I usually have breakfast in the main dining hall with everyone else. That’s served between seven a.m. and nine a.m. We can meet in my office at nine thirty.”

  He inclined his head. “Until then.”

  “Good night, Damian.”

  “Good night, Frau Morningstone.”

  I should’ve been glad Damian took the hint to keep our relationship on the required level, but disappointment still whispered through me. I had to work through these inappropriate feelings if I hoped to help the man. That was motivation enough to tell my libido to take a hike. Damian needed me, and I wouldn’t fail him.

  “One more thing, Kelsey.”

  I gasped and spun around. Damian was right behind me. How he’d managed to get so close without making a sound—not to mention how fast he moved—I had no idea. He pulled me into his arms. I stared up at him, wide-eyed.

  “When I get my memories back, I will no longer be your patient.” His confidence bordered on arrogance. “We will be equals.”

  “I would be thrilled if that were the case,” I said. “I want nothing more for you than for you to be happy and healthy.”

  “I want nothing else . . . but you.” His gaze bore into mine, and I was absolutely astounded by the surety that shone there. He wanted me, he would have me, and that was that. The problem, the really big problem, was that I wanted him back. Shame washed through me. I truly sucked as a psychotherapist. I couldn’t separate my libidinous emotions from my professional ethics. I hadn’t ever been attracted to any of my clients like this, but that hardly earned me a gold star on the morals chart. (Yes, my mother kept a real morals chart. It would’ve been easier to find gold than it was to earn one of those stars.)

  I slid out of his embrace. “Until tomorrow, Damian.”

  “Tschüss, Schätzchen.”

  “What does that mean?” I asked.

  He grinned. “How am I supposed to know?”

  I stared into the full-length mirror, examining myself from head to toe. After my shower, I’d pulled on a blue satin camisole with matching lace panties in anticipation of wearing a dress of the same color. My boobage wasn’t plentiful, which is why I often wore bras that made the most of what little I had. On the up side, my B cups made it possible for me to wear camisoles instead of cleavage-enhancing instruments of torture. No way was I gonna give Mr. Dante the impression that I was interested in sexual bennies. That’s why the dress I’d chosen for our evening together opened only a little at the throat and ended midcalf. I was also gonna wear decidedly unsexy black flats instead of slipping into the silver stilettos.

  I studied my hair. It was dark brown, the color of mud, and since I almost always wore it in either a bun or a French braid or sometimes even a ponytail, it hardly seemed worthwhile to worry about its lack of style. It was straight and fine, and always had been. Attempts to put in waves or curls either by chemical or machine always met with disastrous results. I’d resigned myself to the fact that I could only keep it trimmed and brushed.

  My eyes were blue and fringed with thick lashes, probably the most normal feature of my face. I kept my brows waxed, but as natural as possible. Once, I tried that thin, arched look, and it made me appear constantly surprised. My nose was okay, I guess, though a little too pert for my liking. I had good cheekbones, but my lips were too big. And my chin was too pointed. My face looked like a heart, especially the way my hairline curved around the top of my head.

  I was six inches over five feet—not quite short, but not quite tall, either. I’d been described as “slender” by one kind high school boyfriend, though I’d heard “scarecrow” applied to my physique more than once. I was a shade too pale (me and the sun broke up a long time ago), but my skin was smooth and once-upon-a-time unblemished. I couldn’t erase the scars on my ribs, stomach, and back—courtesy of Robert’s blade. Even so, my skin was the only physical attribute for which I had any vanity, and so I often indulged in long bubble baths, spa treatments, and expensive creams to keep it pearlescent and supple.

  After I finished inventorying (read: criticizing) the rest of my body, (Pointy hips! Knobby knees! Bulgy ankles!), I looked down at my unpainted toenails. I regularly indulged in mani-pedis, especially since there was an on-site spa in the clinic, but I never wore polish. It made me feel whorish, and I’m sure that has to do with the fact that when my eleven-year-old self returned from a slumber party with red nails Mother told me that sprinkling gold on a pile of manure didn’t make it smell any better. Yes. My mom basically called me a pile of shiny poop. And yes, I understood why I had issues.

  I glanced at the digital clock on my nightstand and sighed. It was just past six o’clock and I was less than an hour away from my private dinner with Mr. Dante— with Jarred. Nerves made my stomach squeeze, so I fell face-first onto my bed and tried to smother myself in the pillows. Unfortunately, my survival instincts were too strong and I ended up rolling onto my back and staring at the ceiling.

  What did he want from me? We could discuss my plans for the clinic anytime. Actually, I had no plans for the clinic. It practically ran itself. I knew Jarred had chosen me for my desperation rather than my skills (obviously). He needed someone in the profession to run his clinic, but more than that, he needed to control that someone.

  Despite that whole serial-killer debacle, I wasn’t a bad therapist. Not that my session with Mr. Danvers was any proof. I sighed. I wanted so much to help him, and the others. It wasn’t entirely an altruistic goal. I wanted to feel like I was doing something right, something good for people. I wanted to wash clean my sins by paying penance here. Unease fluttered through me. Why couldn’t I ignore the feeling that all was not as it seemed at the clinic? I couldn’t point at anything or anyone and exclaim, “Aha!” I had no proof of nefarious dealings. I just . . . freaking didn’t like it here. My mind circled back around to Mr. Danvers. Should I have at least poked at his emotions, see what was twisting him up? No. Not yet. If I hadn’t tried to use my gift to manipulate Robert, to fix him, things might’ve ended differently. You can’t fix empty. You can’t give a soul to a man who has none. As much as I’d wanted to wiggle into the cracks of Mr. Danvers’s emotional barriers and help him see the truth about the nonexistent Malphas . . . I would wait.

  I yawned. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until now. Lolling on the bed was a bad idea. But maybe . . . a teeny-tiny nap would help delay the threatening headache. No doubt that was a physical response to the stress of having dinner with Jarred, who so did not want to talk about the clinic.

  I yawned again and let my thoughts drift. Then I curled up around a pillow and fell asleep.r />
  In the dream, I wore a frilly blue dress. Its crinoline skirt brushed my knees. My feet were bare, my toes digging into the soft grass beneath my feet. It was dusk. I stood next to a large tree that was an amazing shade of purple.

  “Late,” said a growling voice. “Late. Always late.”

  I looked around, trying to see who was speaking. The forest around me looked as though it had been created by a five-year-old on a sugar buzz. I saw no one else—nothing else.

  A huge black wolf jumped over a mossy log and stopped short. He looked me over, tilting his head. I saw the jade green eyes, and gasped. “Damian?”

  “Late,” he said with a bark. Then he turned and took off.

  I followed.

  “Wait!” I cried.

  The wolf was fast and nimble. He sailed over fallen limbs and scrubby bushes, and darted past trees in Easter egg colors. I tried to keep up, but he was too quick. Then I stumbled into a small clearing. We were at the massive purple tree again, only this time, I could see a gaping, dark hole in its thick, gnarled base.

  The wolf looked into the hole, and then at me.

  “What?” I asked. I crept closer, staying clear of the hole. “You want me to go in there?”

  He nodded.

  “I can’t,” I said. I smiled weakly. “I’m not Alice.”

  “Mate,” he said. “Mate.”

  “Don’t you mean late?” I asked.

  “Save me,” he said. Then he leapt into the hole.

  I screamed, and lurched for him, my arms wide, and then I fell, tumbling, tumbling into the dark.

  I awoke gasping for breath. I shot off the bed, the pillow still clutched in my arms. I tried to get myself together, but I was shaking. Way to be helpful, subconscious. I sucked in some steadying breaths, not even remotely ready to dissect the meaning of that dream.

  I glanced at the clock on the nightstand and cursed. If I didn’t get my ass in gear, I would be late for my dinner with Jarred. Like it or not, he was my boss, and I wanted to keep my job.

  Damian. I paused. I really did want to save him. Despite my stern self-lectures, my unrepentant pulse gave a little leap. How could I ever hope to treat Damian if I couldn’t stop drooling over the man?