Darkness Chosen 01: Scent of Darkness

by Christina Dodd

  All else was quiet.

  He looked around his great room. He saw the mag­azines on the coffee table ruffled open by the wind through the broken window. He saw the paw prints he'd left on the hardwood floor, the shoes Ann had thrown at him, the drop of blood from his chest.

  The woman had a good eye and a good arm.

  He touched the burn on his cheek.

  A very good arm.

  Ann was the only intruder in this house today.

  But they were coming.

  His mother had had a vision. She'd been, not un­conscious, but speaking words . . . not her own. Or maybe she'd been spouting her own premonitions. Or maybe she'd cursed them all. Hell, he didn't know. He'd never seen her do that before. He hadn't known she had the gift, if it could be called a gift.

  The blind can see, and the sons of Oleg Varinski have found us.

  The Wilder family files were intact. His house was secure. Nothing had changed.

  But . . . everything had changed. Everything.

  You can never be safe, for they will do anything to destroy you and keep the pact intact.

  The pact. He knew about the pact.-How could he not? On that day when he had turned, his father had sat him down and explained it all. But to a thirteen-year-old boy who'd just discovered he could change himself into a beast of prey, who had just developed the coolest tattoo ever, who had a mustache made of five hairs on either side of his lip, the pact had meant nothing.

  A thousand years ago? The Family Varinski? The most dreaded name in Russia? A deal with the devil?

  Yeah, Papa. Sure. Cool Now I can stay out all night, because if I can do this, I don't have to go to school anymore.

  He and Konstantine had had a loud, heated differ­ence of opinion.

  He'd gone to school the next morning. As long as he lived under his father's roof, never once had he skipped school, and only once had he stayed out all night long—and Konstantine had made him very, very sorry.

  Because his father had been from the Old Country, from Russia, and his sons obeyed him, feared him . .. and loved him.

  And you, my love. You are dying.

  His mother had presented his father with a death sentence.

  Jasha walked to the answering machine, its red light blinking fiercely, and listened to Firebird's voice say, "Papa is off the respirator and doing as well as can be expected. The doctors still don't know what's wrong, but they definitely agree it's his heart. It's, urn, a rare condition. They don't, um, agree about it." Firebird's voice shook. "I overheard one of the nurses say it was a mystery and we'd be better off taking him to a witch doctor."

  "Of course," Jasha muttered, and deleted the message.

  Zorana loved Konstantine. Jasha knew that as well as he knew the stars rotated around the North Star. But three nights ago, on July fourth, due north had moved, and his mother had said things, horrible things. Jasha would never forget the sight of his mother's finger pointing at his father, cursing him with death and eternal damnation.

  Her curse had been powerful—and instantaneous.

  His fattier had stared at Zorana. His eyes had filled with tears. And she sprang toward him as he col­lapsed.

  What had she imagined she could do, his minia­ture mother holding up his ox of a father? But she grabbed him, went down with him, stayed at his side when the fire truck from the county volunteer fire department showed up to take him to the local hospi­tal, then on to Seattle and Swedish Hospital.

  Jasha walked to the full-length windows and looked out at the view—at the cliffs along the wild coastline and the ocean, roiling with another incom­ing storm.

  As soon as the doctors had declared that Konstan-tine was stable, Jasha had assumed the duties of head of the family. He had left Zorana, Firebird, and Rurik huddled around Konstantine's bed, and come here to check that the family's secrets—their assets, their immigration papers, their private information—were still locked in the vault downstairs.

  Everything was there, hidden in his wilderness home guarded by the best security system money could buy.

  The security system Ann had turned off and left off.

  Had she done it on purpose? Had the Varinskis paid her to come here and betray him? Or, more likely, threatened her if she didn't?

  "Hi, there." She stood in the arched doorway. His big, white, terry robe swamped her, and she held the lapels close to her chest. She'd pushed her damp hair back from her pale, bruised face. Red scratches etched her shapely legs, and her blue eyes were wary. But she smiled timidly with that kind of wor­shipful expression she wore around the office when she thought he didn't notice. "Is everything okay?"

  "So far."

  "Is there anything I can do?"

  She would never betray him. Not without any sign of discomfort. If he was going to say a certain thing existed in this world, it was that Ann Smith was honest. Painfully, completely honest.

  Besides, she adored him. He'd known it from the first time she stepped into his office; worship came off her in waves. Her infatuation hadn't affected her job performance, so it had been unimportant, sort of like a space heater giving off a low-level hum of warmth.

  She limped to the foot of the stairs, so self-conscious, she tripped on the fringe of the rug. She winced, glanced to see if he was watching, then took a visible breath and asked, "Are you mad at me for coming here? I mean, obviously you weren't ex­pecting me. ..."

  "Or I wouldn't have been a wolf, you mean."

  "Yes. That."

  He shouldn't have gone out to run with Leader's pack, but he'd been reeling with shock and grief, and he'd thought, What difference will it make this one time?

  Now he knew.

  If only he'd caught her scent sooner ...

  "You asked me who sent me. And you said I was like the devil, and the illegal hunter, and your mother." Ann straightened and looked into his eyes. "What did you mean?"

  "I was in a rage." Which was no excuse for what he'd done, but it was the only reason he had.

  "You like your mother. Don't you?" Ann's face was forlorn with hope, like a child who'd been disap­pointed in love far too many times.

  Who was she, this woman who had discovered the icon? He didn't know anything about her early life. It had never been important before. Site had never been important before.

  "I do like my mother. She wasn't to blame for any of what happened. I don't know who was to blame." He spoke almost to himself.

  "Then, are you mad about the Ukrainian deal? If you don't want to go through with it, Wilder Wines will be fine. Well have to postpone our expansion, but not forever. We'll find another company inter­ested in taking our wines overseas."

  "I know." And if he needed further proof that Ann knew as much as he did about the company, her assurance gave it to him.

  He looked at her. Looked at her hard. Innocent? Yes. Unknowing? Yes.

  But for all that, perhaps a traitor still.

  She shivered under his gaze.

  "You're cold. Go up to bed."

  "Are you coming? I mean, to bed? You said you were, but . . . soon?" The wariness in her grew.

  What a fascinating woman. She'd discovered his deepest, darkest secret. In a fit of rage and frustra­tion, he'd chased her like prey, caught her, and mated with her without finesse, without a care to the circumstances or to her comfort. Yet while he terri­fied her, while the sex had been rough and new, nothing scared her like the prospect of being rejected.

  'Til be up as soon as I get some plywood and cover the window." He gestured toward the entry.

  "Of course. That's what you've got to do." She turned to climb the stairs.

  He'd always felt a responsibility for his young, vul­nerable assistant, but it had been the responsibility of an employer for his employee. He wasn't a man to underestimate the significance of the old symbols.

  Each of my four sons must find one of the Varinski family icons.

  Ann had discovered the icon. Ann had been a vir­gin. She had bled for him. She h
ad responded to him. She was the key to his family's survival, and he would do anything to protect her.

  For them. And for himself.

  "Ann."

  She looked back, blue eyes wide.

  "Nothing could keep me away from you tonight."

  Chapter 10

  Ann heard Jasha come into the bedroom and won­dered how every muscle in her previously re­laxed body could tense so instantly. She opened one eye and checked to make sure the bubbles—she had used the jets to create a lot of bubbles—still covered her strategic parts. Because even though he had seen everything, and licked it, too, she wasn't ready to pose naked.

  Lots of bubbles, but just to make sure . . . she flicked on the whirlpool jets again.

  He stepped into the doorway. "So you like my whirlpool?"

  "It's nice." Very nice. She was six feet tall, and when she stretched out as she did now, her toes barely touched the other end. The tub was almost as wide as it was long, with jets all the way around, and the rich caramel color matched the grout in the large copper tile surround. When she looked up at the skylight she saw the last swirls of cloud wiping the night sky clean, leaving the stars with freshly washed faces.

  Of course, she'd known all this was here, drooled over the remodeling plans, hut seeing made it real. Seeing him strolling across the heated tile floor, his gait unhurried and predatory, made the whole strange day real, too.

  Casually, she brought the bubbles toward her.

  The currents pulled them away.

  A little more frantically, she brought them back.

  "Did you find the 'Who needs a man?' setting?" He looked down into the tub.

  The bubbles kept escaping. "The 'Who needs a man?' setting? What's the . . . ?" A mental picture formed—her sitting with her legs in the air, getting off in the whirlpool, while he walked in. "No!"

  "You should try it." He knelt beside the tub and stirred the water with his forefinger, and the way he looked . . . "The saleswoman gave me to understand it's quite satisfying."

  "The saleswoman said that to you?" Ann was shocked at the strange woman's temerity. Shocked . . . and a little pissed.

  "I believe she was offering to demonstrate it."

  "What kind of professional behavior is that?"

  "That's why I refused her kind offer." He looked solemn. "I wanted to wait and see if it works for you."

  “I would never ... I mean, not in yours . . ."

  "But in yours?" He chuckled, and shoved the bub­bles away so he could see into the water. "Why not? I loved seeing that expression of ecstasy on your face."

  "You're not looking at my face." And she didn't know what to do with her hands. Put them over her breasts? But wouldn't that look as if she were playing with herself? Over her . . . ? No, that playing-with-herself idea went double there.

  "Then why do I know you're blushing?"

  "Because . . . oh, darn you!" She sank all the way down to her chin and sort of waved her hands beside her hips like some perverted mermaid. She knew good and well this heat just under her skin had noth­ing to do with embarrassment and everything to do with Jasha's gaze on her body.

  He undoubtedly knew it, too.

  Which was why she blurted, "I would never be­tray you."

  The amusement fell away from him so suddenly, she knew his rage was still simmering closely under his skin. "No. Not on purpose. But what brought you here?"

  "Your engagement."

  "My engagement?" He blinked as if .he'was con­fused, and flipped off the jets. "That was six months ago."

  Dumb guy. What did he think had brought her here now? “When you asked me to shop for an engagement ring, I was so ... excited." She flushed. Man, this was embarrassing. "I thought you'd finally realized I was the love you'd waited for your whole life."

  He kicked off his shoes and socks, climbed into the tub, and sat on the tile surround facing her. With his elbows on his knees, he leaned forward, his eyes fixed on her face. "I'm fascinated.”

  "But no. You wanted the ring for Meghan Naka-mura." Every time Ann thought about the gorgeous, petite, strikingly beautiful woman, her palm itched to slap someone. Jasha, sometimes. But usually Meghan herself.

  "Do you know every time you say her name you sound—"

  "Sarcastic?"

  "No. Disapproving. Like a nun."

  Ann sat up stiffly. "I am not a nun."

  He ran his gaze along the curves of her breasts, wreathed with bubbles. He smiled. "I noticed."

  She sank back under the water. Why had she never noticed his smile was wolfish, with lots of wicked teeth? And why, when she should be scared, did it make her want all of him entangled with all of her? She took a big breath, then in a rush said, "The tub is big enough for both of us."

  "Believe me, I've noticed that, too." But he made no move to slide in.

  "You got your pants wet. At least take them off!" Because she felt, well, naked, sitting in here naked while he interrogated her.

  "How about this?" He pulled his T-shirt over his head.

  "I like it." Her voice had changed pitch. Gone higher and sort of wobbly. All because he had a six-pack, a pair of shoulders, a scar, and an inky black tattoo. Which she'd seen many times around the of­fice after he worked out. And seen at very close quar­ters about an hour ago. But they never lost their allure, and more than that, it seemed he had just made a promise . . . about later.

  "Regarding Meghan," he prompted.

  She wrenched her attention back to the conversa­tion. "Well ... I don't sound like one, either. A nun. I don't." She did not sound like Sister Mary Magdalene. She did not.

  "Of course not. I was mistaken. Tell me more about Meghan and me and you."

  "You know what happened. I bought a fabulous diamond. I gave it to you. You gave it to her. Then you told me to contact a wedding planner, and took Meghan to a celebratory dinner." Ann glared, trying to convey her outrage. "Unrequited love is hell."

  "So. You love me."

  "Out there"—she jerked her head toward the window—"you knew when I was aroused. You said you could smell it."

  "Yes/but—" He paused as if searching for a way out of his dilemma.

  "You knew I was aroused, but all the women are aroused around you so you didn't think anything of it." She pointed her finger at him. "Right?"

  He ran his hand through his hair.

  She turned on her side so she didn't have to watch him.

  When she thought of the time she spent hiding in a stall in the ladies' lounge and crying . . . and all her friends trying to coax her out . . . and the ugly realization that not only had she imagined she could compete with one of Jasha's beautiful women, but now everyone in the company would know it.

  That was the nadir of her whole, empty, loveless life.

  She had thought she was going to have to quit the job she adored, leave the man she loved, before the gossip slipped out, and someone stopped Jasha in the hall and shared a good laugh about tall, gangly, plain Ann.

  But none of the other girls laughed at her. Instead they took her out to a mall and made her shop. They made her buy the short skirts and the Wonderbra, and Celia, the ringleader of the group, had spoken bracingly of positive attitude and embracing your fu­ture and setting goals and making plans. Those women, especially Celia, had figuratively grabbed her by the back of the neck and made her face the fact that she could take action—or she could dream her life away and die an old maid with only a grave­stone to mark her passing.

  Okay. She hadn't wanted that. But she didn't want this, either, finding out that Jasha was a wolf and that she was the custodian of an icon with supernatu­ral powers. ...

  He slid into the tub with her, and around so that he rested against her back. His arms slid around her, pulling her close, and his words ruffled the tendrils at the base of her neck. "Meghan looked like the hottest woman in the world. But in bed . . . she com­plained if I made her come, because it made her sweat. She complained I was too intense and wanted sex too often. Sh
e considered body fluids—hers, mine—as the enemy. If she had seen me turn—I mean, you know, change—she would have com­plained that I shed on her carpet."

  Ann shrugged one shoulder and tried to wiggle away.

  Jasha nuzzled her ear. "She would have enrolled me in a puppy-training session."

  Ann reluctantly grinned.

  "As soon as she stepped in a doggy land mine, she would have put me in a kennel." He rested his cheek on Ann's hair.

  He'd never turned on the charm for her before. She knew perfectly well he was manipulating her, and she liked it—too much. "You don't know her at all.” she snapped.

  "What do you mean?"

  "She wouldn't have put you in a kennel. She would have had you put down."

  He laughed and turned her to face him. "At the very least, she would have dropped her fingernail file." He ran a knuckle down Ann's cheek. "You nailed me with a damned heavy shoe."

  She bunked at his chest. All that remained of the earlier wound was a red scar in the shape of her heel.

  "You ran and almost got away," he said.

  "I would have if not for your speed bumps."

  "I actually put them in to keep visitors out, but I bless them for keeping you in."

  Since she'd arrived, she'd been nervous, thrilled, terrified, aroused, and enraptured. And terrified. And aroused some more. She just wanted to stand on sta­ble ground for one minute, to know what he thought. "You said you shouldn't have done it. Chased me, I mean."

  "I shouldn't have. It wasn't right, and all my ex­cuses aren't worth a damn. But darling, darling Ann, I'm not sorry." His expression went from whimsical to severe. "Because to have you, I would do it again."

  Chapter 11

  Jasha's words echoed in the steamy silence. Ann swallowed, for in the depths of his golden eyes, she saw the red of the wolf. He meant it, and everything in her recalled the panic and the pain— and the might of his passion. The Ann she'd been before had imagined sex with him would be highly enjoyable with a bit of conflict—a Meg Ryan ro­mance. She had never envisioned this darkness, this glory, this clawing need and fear and splendor.