Must Love Lycans

by Michele Bardsley

  “Yes,” answered Damian. He was glaring so hard at his brothers, it’s a wonder they hadn’t melted from the molten anger directed at them. “He’s my adopted son—and my heir.”

  “And how many people have you bitten other than Adulfo . . . and me?”

  His jaw tightened. “None.”

  “None?”

  My voice had gone up a decibel higher. I sat up, clutching the sheet. “Why does everyone want me to marry you?” I gasped. “Oh, my God. We’re hitched already, aren’t we? We’ve done the Vegas version of a werewolf wedding. Tell me the truth!”

  Three sets of jade eyes zeroed in on me.

  “What do you mean—everyone?” asked Damian in a low, hard voice.

  I blinked at the fury in his tone. “Did I say everyone?” I asked weakly.

  “Kelsey.”

  “I had a dream. After you bit me,” I admitted hastily. “I was in this glen at night. And th-there was a l-lady and a wolf there. Um, Tark. Anyway, she s-said you’d chosen me. She said it was time for you to t-take your rightful place.” My teeth were starting to chatter. “Did someone t-turn up the air c-conditioning?”

  “The Moon Goddess has blessed your choice,” said Drake. I could feel his relief. My shields were all but gone by now anyway. “That is something.”

  “She has no right to interfere,” said Damian.

  Darrius studied me. “All these years gone from us,” he said, “and she shows herself to a mere human.”

  “Hey!” I said, instantly offended. I wrapped the sheet around me tighter. It was really, really cold. But no one else seemed to notice. “Does anyone have b-blanket?”

  Damian walked to the bed. Then he leaned down, tucked the sheet around me securely, and scooped me up. He sat on the bed, scooting until his back was against the wall. Then he wrapped his arms around me. I huddled into his warmth and nearly purred when he started rubbing my back. Well, I guess I couldn’t purr since I was half doggie now. Maybe I should ask for a belly scratch.

  “We will not discuss the Goddess. She made her choice, and we made ours.” Anger pulsed within Damian. It was old, familiar. He had nursed this rage for a very long time.

  Obviously they were no fans of the Moon Goddess. Maybe that’s why she contacted me—because they had rejected her. But my concern was the tension between the brothers. They obviously did not keep things from one another, and Damian’s attempt to hide the bite mark had offended his siblings.

  “Tell them the rest,” I whispered against his throat.

  His arms tightened briefly. Then he said, “Dante thinks my bite has started an irreversible process. He believes Kelsey is turning into a lycan.”

  “That’s not possible.” I wasn’t sure which brother spoke. I was very much enjoying my current location. Damian smelled really good. I had a sudden insane urge to flick my tongue against base of his throat.

  “Apparently, I’m not just any human,” I offered, mostly so I would be too busy talking to plant kisses on Damian’s neck. I knew I was attracted to him, but these urges were almost beyond my control.

  “She will be able to shift?”

  I pressed against Damian’s solid, warm (oh-somuscled) chest, but I heard the incredulity in the voice of whichever brother asked the question.

  “We won’t know for a while. He gave her the serum.” He paused. “He thinks she will be unable to . . . to transition.”

  Following this announcement, there was a double round of swearing—a mixture of German and English.

  “We’ll have to tell Patsy,” said Damian.

  “Everything?”

  I felt the tension gather in Damian’s body as he said, “Yes. Everything.”

  I glanced at Drake and Darrius. Even though I could feel the swirl of emotions from all three, I still liked to gather information from facial expressions and body language. Mostly to see if it all jived together. Damian’s brothers were worried, not about the confrontation with Patsy, but about something else. Something . . . important. The feelings associated with secrets felt like being draped in spiderwebs—soft and sticky and disconcerting. I resisted the urge to scrub at my hair.

  “She won’t be happy,” muttered Darrius.

  “She doesn’t know about the new prophecies,” said Drake.

  “Not really new,” argued Darrius. “Left out is more like it. Those Vederes pick and choose what they give to us. Had we but known—”

  “What?” croaked Damian. “Would we have returned to Germany? Tried to rebuild the pack?”

  “It would be better than letting our people drift,” said Darrius. “They need a leader.”

  “They have Patsy!” Damian gripped me so hard, I let out a squeak. He immediately relaxed—a smidgeon. “She’s been blessed by the Goddess, remember?”

  “Accepted by the temple priestesses,” said Darrius in a bitter tone. “And that’s not the same as a blessing from the Moon Goddess.”

  “It doesn’t matter,” said Damian.

  “You’ve chosen a mate,” said Drake quietly. “Like it or not, the prophecy is coming true.”

  The chills pervading my body worsened. It was almost as if my body was repelling Damian’s warmth. I shivered uncontrollably, and my teeth started to chatter.

  “What it is wrong?” murmured Damian.

  I couldn’t answer him. Instead, I burrowed closer trying to suck the heat of his body into my own. I pressed my face against his chest again, clutching his shirt with quaking fingers. Gawd. He smelled so good. Like freshly baked chocolate chip cookies. Or the first day of spring. Or a Yankee Candle store. Really, like everything in the world that had ever made me happy. And there was color in it, too. Ribbons and ribbons of color fluttering and swirling.

  “Here we go.” Dr. Clark had obviously returned. I heard him tell the other two men to leave. I could feel their reluctance, but neither argued.

  “You’ll have to put her down so I can—”

  “No.” Damian clutched me tighter as if afraid the doctor would try to rip me out of his arms. He was good at shutting off his emotions, even from me, but I felt the echoes of my own reactions within him. What was happening to the two of us?

  “Lay her on the bed, Damian,” said Dr. Clark gently. “Stay next to her if you must, but let me help her.”

  Carefully, Damian put me on the bed and then stretched out next to me. There was barely any room for one person, much less me and a big guy like Damian. He cradled me close, his legs intertwined with mine. He propped himself up with one arm and the other arm he draped over my stomach. I felt safe so long as he was nearby, and I feared the world outside of our bubble. I didn’t feel like myself ... although, I couldn’t actually be sure I’d ever felt like myself. How was one to know?

  “She’s freezing,” he said. “Why?”

  “Shock most likely,” said Dr. Clark. “She’s been through the wringer, Damian.”

  “I-is it b-because of the w-werewolf thing?” I managed.

  Dr. Clark tugged down the sheet and started rubbing my shoulder with some kind of smelly, wet cloth. It was like a combo of antiseptic and rosemary and sandalwood. Weird.

  “What werewolf thing?” he asked as he cleaned the wound.

  “It’s possible she is becoming lycan,” said Damian. He sounded like he was chewing glass. “But she was given an experimental serum that prevents the change for thirty days.”

  “Well, those two points of information are certainly of interest,” said Dr. Clark. “But nothing I can treat. That’s more Dr. Michaels’s area of expertise. However, it might be . . .” He was staring at the wound, which FYI, didn’t hurt at all anymore.

  Both Damian and I looked down.

  The injury was gone. Once Dr. Clark cleaned off the blood, dirt, and singe marks, my flesh was unblemished.

  “Oh, my God.” I stared at the space where the bloody hole had been. “It’s like I was never shot.” I glanced at the doctor. “That’s . . . er, different.”

  “Not in Broken Heart,” he
said.

  “You’re sure it’s not Wonderland?” I asked.

  “Feeling like Alice, are you?” Dr. Clark laughed. “You’re not far off. It’ll take a bit of getting used to, but it’s really a nice place.” He glanced at my wound again. “You certainly have the ability to heal like a werewolf.”

  “And the strength, too,” said Damian. “She knocked Adulfo out.”

  Dr. Clark laughed. “If she managed to do that, Damian, she might well be able to shift.”

  I stared at Damian. I was processing all the information, all the experiences, and I finally had to accept that all that had unfolded wasn’t some dream. I could still be crazy, though. “This is not a dream.”

  “No,” agreed Damian. “It is real.”

  “Hoo-kay,” I said. Holy freaking crap, I thought.

  Dr. Clark stood up and picked up the tray of supplies. “Let’s get her some blankets. Try to keep her warm, make her feel safe. I’d offer Valium, but if she is werewolf, drugs won’t affect her system.”

  “I will take her to my house,” said Damian, “and care for her there.”

  I don’t remember much about the trip to Damian’s house. He wrapped me up like a human burrito in two fluffy blankets. There was a car involved, which was better than the atom-explosion mode of transport that had gotten me to Broken Heart. Why would anyone call a place Broken Heart? It hardly created a sense of welcome and security.

  I must’ve drifted off at some point because I woke up in a dark room with my heart knocking in my chest and a scream lodged in my throat.

  I see you, says Robert. Nobody else does, but I do. I know what you are, Kelsey. We are the same soul. You must shed your old skin. You must walk in the darkness with me. And she will help us.

  I tried to block out the images. The sounds. The feelings. But he was there, always there, the other voice in my mind, the one louder than my mother’s, than my own. I know your secret. I know your secret. I know your secret.

  I struggled out of the mountain of blankets piled on me, panic tearing at me with teeth and claws. It was so goddamned dark. I was in a huge bed and I couldn’t find the edge of the mattress. It felt like Robert was in the room with me, standing in the shadows, laughing, taunting.

  I fell off the bed. I landed on my side, and an ache vibrated up my arm. I righted myself, rubbing my elbow, and tried to figure out where a light might be, or better yet, the door.

  This is important, says Robert. It must be done a certain way, you see. Otherwise, you miss out on the essence. It’ll be your turn soon. Watch, Kelsey. Watch me and learn.

  No, no, no. My heart pounded—faster, faster, faster. Cripes. I was going into a full-blown panic attack. I hadn’t had one for months. The nightmares had stopped, too. Well, mostly. It had been a year, but I still felt poisoned. Tainted. Dirty.

  I started crawling, too afraid to stand up. What if he’s there? What if he’s not dead? What if he found me again? What if ... what if ... what if . . . ?

  I saw a sliver of light smudging the carpet, and realized I was close to a door. I launched myself at the knob and wrenched it open, stumbling into a very well lit hallway. On the left, just a couple feet away, was the bathroom. Across, there were two closed doors and to the right . . . to the right was more beautiful, wonderful light.

  See the light in her eyes? That’s the spark we must imbibe. That’s why we cut her like this, so that we preserve the essence for as long as possible. Don’t cry, Kelsey, Robert says. Tonight, we will be reborn. You will be who you were always meant to be. I understand my purpose. I understand your purpose.

  I skittered into a small living room that had a big brown couch and matching ottoman, and floor-to-ceiling bookshelves crammed with books. Ah, there was the front door. And to the left was the doorway to a cozy kitchen.

  The rooms were empty.

  I was alone in someone else’s house. Where was Damian? Was this his place? Or had he dumped me off at a safe house or whatever?

  I couldn’t calm down. I couldn’t get Robert’s voice out of my mind. I couldn’t run away from my own psychosis. I wanted to scream for help, but there was no one to hear.

  I skittered into the kitchen. There was a breakfast nook that had bench seating and a small whitewashed table. There was a back door next to it, and I nearly jumped a foot when it swung open and Damian strode inside. Cool air swirled in behind him, but I was already shivering.

  He looked startled; then he frowned. “Kelsey, are you—”

  “Damian,” I whispered. All I wanted was to feel okay. To feel safe. I ran toward him and leapt into his arms. He caught me easily. I wrapped myself around him.

  “What is wrong, Schätzchen?”

  I burst into tears and clung to him tightly, afraid he would reject me, afraid he would find me too needy, too cowardly. I was still in Robert’s clutches, and I hated it. I realized that even though I’d done my time in therapy, and I’d answered a bajillion questions asked by law enforcement, and I’d sat through the recriminations of my mother and the hand-patting of my stepfather . . . no one, not ever, had hugged me and told me it was going to be all right.

  That I would be all right.

  Oh, God. I just wanted to be all right.

  “Don’t let me go,” I begged. “I . . . n-need . . . please. I just . . . oh, Damian. Don’t let me go. Please.”

  His arms tightened around me. “I’m here,” he said. “You’re safe.”

  I believed him.

  He walked back to the bedroom, and with me clinging to him like a barnacle, he managed to turn on a lamp on the nightstand. Then he sat down on the bed.

  Damian kept his arms wrapped around me, and he whispered to me in German, and we stayed that way for a really, really long time.

  It took forever for me to feel like I could loosen my grip. My breathing and heart rate had steadied, even though my mind still felt bruised from the dream, the memories.

  Also, my bladder was starting to complain.

  “I have to go to the bathroom,” I said.

  “Okay.” He stood up, still holding me, and started for the door.

  “Damian!”

  He chuckled as he stepped into the hallway. “What?”

  “You can’t go with me.”

  “But I think we are fused together.”

  “Well, unfuse us!” I demanded.

  He released me, and I unfolded my legs. My feet touched the carpet, but I stayed in his embrace, waiting until I felt steady enough to walk on my own. I estimated it would be some time next decade.

  “Thank you.” I met his gaze. “I’m really not a wimp. Not much, anyway.”

  He cupped the side of my face, his thumb sweeping over my cheek. “You are amazing. And strong. And beautiful.”

  My shields had dissolved long ago, so I could feel the truth imbued in every word. And underlying those compliments was the heat of his lust. He desired me, but his need to protect me, to comfort me had taken priority. But the slow burn was there, and it wouldn’t take much to get the flames roaring.

  “You won’t leave again?” I asked.

  “No,” he said. “I only left to take out the trash. I’d been checking on you every half hour.”

  “Oh.” I leaned in, because I couldn’t help myself, and pressed my cheek against his chest. His heartbeat was so strong, so steady. “Thank you.”

  His arms went around me again, and for the first time, I realized that I was giving something to Damian, too. His emotions felt a little . . . I guess “musty” would be the best word. Yes. A little unused, as if he’d locked them away for a long time. Well, at least the ones I was beginning to associate with me. He liked holding me. And doing so allowed him to feel affection. Knowing that he was receiving comfort, too, made me feel less selfish.

  “I’ll fix you a snack,” he said. “Meet me in the kitchen.”

  He pulled back, but I clung, not quite able to let go. Shame filled me. I was so freaking pathetic. All this non-judgmental warm-fuzzy-type notice
from Damian had turned me into a piping hot bowl of Cream of Wheat.

  “I can wait for you,” he offered.

  “You can’t listen to me pee,” I said, horrified.

  He laughed. An all-out burst of genuine hilarity, too. His response made it easier for me to move away, especially since his chest was jiggling so much. I pried my fingers off his arms and took a wobbling step back. “Obviously, I can cling to you like a beauty queen clings to her tiara,” I said crossly, “but I hardly think we’re to the point of being comfortable with bathroom . . . um, noises.”

  He laughed harder.

  “Damian!” I whopped his arm. “I’m serious!”

  “I know,” he said, “that’s why it’s so funny.”

  “Whatever, Mr. Sensitive.” I pushed past him, and looked over my shoulder. As soon as he had left the hallway (laughing all the way to the kitchen, thank you), I went inside and took care of business.

  A few minutes later, I entered the kitchen. Damian was seated at the table. A built-in bench seat accented the window, which jutted out from the kitchen like a pointy chin. He sat in the middle with a tall black can of something in front of him, and to the left, a triple-decker sandwich filled with meat and slathered with spicy mustard. I could smell it—even from the doorway where I stood surveying the counter where jars, bread bags, and meat containers were strewn across it. I was starving, and that sandwich looked delicious squared.

  “Oh, baby. Come to mama!” I scooted onto the bench seat until I was thigh to thigh with Damian. There was a can of Sprite, too. Meat and sweet, empty calories. If there had been a cupcake, it would’ve been the perfect snack. Still, I was a happy, happy girl.

  Damian had apparently spent his time making sandwiches and neatly boxing away any residual kindness or humor. It didn’t take a psychotherapy license (or maybe it did) to figure out he didn’t like the way I invoked his emotions (not on purpose, mind you). He liked me, and he wasn’t thrilled by his attraction to me.

  He was giving me that stone-faced, mean-eyed look again. I didn’t understand his need to create distance, but I wasn’t having it. I liked him. We were in this big ol’ muckety-muck—together. For all I knew we were really were werewolf married. I wasn’t sure how to feel about that (Just because I was an empath didn’t mean I had my emotional shit together—haven’t you figured that out already?), but I did know that I didn’t feel bad.