by Jessa Slade
Mated by Moonlight
( Steel Born - 3 )
Jessa Slade
As the latest in a long line of female Alphas, Merrilee Delemont lives by the code be strong always. While she will never forsake her duty to her pack, she sometimes longs for a mate to share her life with. At least she's found someone to share her bed: Beck Villanova, leader of the neighboring wolf pack.
Their red-hot attraction and struggle for dominance leads to wild sex, but any chance of a real relationship goes up in smoke. Until phae invaders threaten the peace of their remote valley, forcing Merrille and Beck to finally decide which is more important: vying for power, or a passionate partnership that could change their lives forever.
Mated by Moonlight
by Jessa Slade
Steel Born - 3
Chapter 1
So, an Alpha female wereling walks into a bar, and...
The rest of the joke was on Beck Villanova as his good sense evaporated like dry ice at the sight of the pocket-size beauty stalking toward him. Waves of lustrous sable hair brushed her shoulders when she twisted her curvy hips to angle between the close-packed tables. A whisper of night wind from her entrance carried her scent to him: rich, warm and spicy as an amber incense stick, smoldering.
Thankfully, the massive pine bar stood between them, or he might’ve gone right to her. His uncle who’d carved the soft wood himself more than fifty years ago to honor the trees felled to make way for the Sun-Down Tavern would no doubt have had a better joke about mighty wood.
Distracted by the insistent thump of his cock against the fly of his jeans, Beck half turned toward the taps and gave himself a quick adjustment. The brush of his hand made him groan as his erection surged higher.
He sent a sidelong glance across the busy tavern. Damn, but Merrilee was in fine form tonight.
Though he’d tried not to listen, he’d heard she was out of town last week, and judging by the sleek way she was pulled together, she’d just gotten back. Life in the Eastern Oregon mountains even in early summer tended toward flannel and denim, so her sleeveless Chinese blouse and ankle-length skirt with its slit-up-to-there ventilation looked wildly out of place.
And wildly sexy. Emphasis on the wild.
She paused to chat up a table of grizzled old-timers. Mad Dog Valley wasn’t big, so everyone knew everyone except for the tourists who came through to take advantage of the pretty vistas and outdoor activities. She smiled at Orson, ringleader of the gray-hairs, and continued her progress across the bar.
The click of her high heels tripped up Beck’s spine like teasing fingertips. Only a woman with wereling grace could walk the gravel parking lot in heels that high without breaking stride or her ankle. He found his hand on the bar rag making restless circles on the pristine pine, but all he felt under his fingers was the lush, heavy weight of her dark hair as he angled her mouth toward his aching flesh.
He swallowed hard and averted his gaze. If she glimpsed his inappropriate thoughts, she’d be on him in a heartbeat.
Not that he’d mind.
He jerked his eyes back up. Damn it, he was Alpha here, in his own territory and in his own bar. She wasn’t going to make him look away with merely a twitch of her mesmerizing ass.
He wanted to stick his head under the ice-cold flow of the taps. Or maybe he just needed to put the dispenser down his pants.
Instead, he turned to the back bar to grab a wine bottle. An up-and-coming Columbia Gorge vintage he wouldn’t have known to stock, except he’d heard Merrilee’s design company was masterminding the vineyard’s ad campaign.
“Oh, God, Beck, no more wine.” Her throaty voice wrapped around him like cool night fog. “Give me one of your homebrews.”
He veered his hand toward a pint glass. She’d made it clear enough last time, two Alphas should consider themselves lucky not to tear each others’ throats out, so he kept his tone pleasantly neutral. “How was your flight back?”
“Came in over Hell’s Canyon just as the sun was setting with a full moon chasing my tail.” She slid onto a stool and watched with avid hunger as he poured in two slow stages to give her the dense, creamy head of a good stout.
Moving closer to the bar to hide his erection, he slid the glass gently toward her, relieved his hand didn’t shake. That comment about chasing her tail...
She met his gaze—her blue eyes piercing his soul like the sight of a perfect, cloudless sky—and saluted him with the glass before she tipped his brew to her lips.
He took the unguarded moment to study the exposed column of her neck between the three undone buttons of her collar. His heartbeat stuttered and reset itself in time with the barely visible throb of her pulse.
When she finally put the glass down, half the beer was gone and most of his composure. Friend zone, he reminded himself sternly. Only a little more dangerous than a demilitarized zone.
She licked a spot of foam from her upper lip. “Ah. Now I’m great.”
“Tough week at the office?”
“You have no idea.” She leaned down—giving him a glimpse between those three loosened buttons to the shadow between her breasts—to pull off her shoes. “Why didn’t I pick a job like bartending that would keep me barefoot at home?” She set the piercing heels on the stool next to her.
Good thing the stools were hardwood. Just like the rest of him. Which didn’t stop her comment from poking him a bit. So he was a homebody, so what? He’d done his adventuring and hadn’t found what he was looking for out there. “I guess that’s what you get for running such a successful business.”
She grimaced and took another drink. “Telecommuting sounds good, but the big clients always want to meet in person.” She wet her lips again. None of the natural redness left her mouth.
Beck refused to look away, much as he imagined some New York exec had glimpsed her photo on her company’s “about” page and demanded a face-to-face.
Her pack, which claimed the upper end of the valley, was full of creative types. Her Beta, Keisha, took nature photos for all the best magazines. Even in black-and-white, Keisha had captured a hint of Merrilee’s Alpha presence: strong, focused and always in command. Seeing her in living, breathing color with those blue eyes and red lips, any man would want to capture more.
Not that an Alpha would ever allow such liberties.
Merrilee kept one hand on her beer as she swiveled the stool to half face the room, the chatting of the patrons a contented murmur in the background. “And how is the Beck pack?”
The small town—home to his pack as well as a mix of unaffiliated werelings and unsuspecting humans—nestled about two-thirds of the way up Mad Dog Valley. Merrilee’s great-grandmother had claimed the lake in the hills above to the wilderness beyond. Female Alphas—unusual among wolf-kind—had held the land ever since, even when Beck’s great-granduncle’s bigger pack had claimed the town and the lower valley and spread out onto the ranchlands below.
“Been quiet,” Beck said. “No more wanderers.”
“Speaking of.” She took another drink and glanced at him. “I’m sure you’re wondering what happened to that loner who drifted through last month.”
He shrugged. “We followed him to the edge of our territory and then I called you. I’m sure you took care of it.”
Even though he’d longed to continue the hunt onto her lands. He had met her in his human shape while she had already been in her verita luna her Second Truth. When he pointed to where the prints crossed the invisible line between them, she had blinked at him—her blue eyes paler and more piercing in wereling form—then lowered her nose to the scent and trotted off.
Stopping himself from chasing after her that night had taken all of his considerable strength. Since
then, he’d been working out.
A lot.
She quirked her lips, as if she knew what he was thinking. “His tracks headed upcountry, out into the wilderness. I have Peter and a couple others patrolling that border. If he crosses back, I’m sure you’ll hear all about it.” She tilted her head toward the tavern patrons.
He found a grin at her disgruntled tone. “Small towns are the best, aren’t they?”
She looked at him through her lashes. “Unless you want to keep something quiet.”
His smile slipped. Maybe he was getting tired of secrets.
She finished her beer with another swipe of her red lips and grabbed her shoes. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you later.”
She didn’t make it a question and certainly didn’t wait for his answer, just sauntered out with those high heels slung over her shoulder. He stared toward the door for a long moment, even after it closed, before he reached for her bottle, aligning his fingers with the empty places her grip had left in the condensation.
By the time he closed the till—after finally booting Orson and his cohorts into the night at the end of one of their impromptu barbershop quartet sessions—and hauled the trash out back, the moon was directly overhead.
In the silvery light, the parking lot looked like a sea of ice, and a shiver raised the hair at his nape. He walked the bar’s perimeter once, running his hand over the seat of his Harley as he passed.
Since the Sun-Down was situated at one end of the main street, he looked straight up the dark asphalt to the slumbering town, all in classic-movie grays. From the alleys branching out to various backyards, Orson’s tenor warbled “Bright Was the Night” and his quartet answered from their own stoops. When their doors closed, the street was quiet.
Behind the tavern, a line of trees marched up to the ridgeline like a finger pointing to the forested mountains. The moonlight turned the pine needles to pewter, leaving the shadows underneath more mysterious in comparison.
Feeling the subtle prickle of a watchful gaze sweep over his skin, Beck faced the darkness. “I know you’re out there.”
The darkness held its breath, but it had been a long night—a long time—and frustration grated on him like the parking lot gravel.
“Quit hiding, little girl.” He knew that would work.
From the pitch-black under the pines glided a lean shape that did not give up its sable darkness despite stepping into the moonlight.
At a distance, the shape screamed wolf. Sometimes outsiders literally screamed wolf. But the faint glimmer of the verita luna lingering around her was a clue to anyone who knew to look that this was no ordinary canid.
She chuffed at him, a reprimand for the little girl remark.
He was in no mood to be scolded. “You forgot to pay for the beer.”
Quick as a thought, she dodged at him. Her shining teeth caught his pant leg and tugged him off balance before she jumped away.
He staggered and almost went down. “What, you left without a word, and now you want to play? You can’t have it both ways.”
She growled. Werelings in the verita luna were always more volatile, their human-style principles and filters stripped away.
He knew his complaint was stupid—werelings lived two ways every day—but the sight of her all dolled up had reminded him of the distance between them. And how easily she always walked away, whether in high heels or barefoot. “Go home. I’m done with your games.”
She stared at him. The moonlight couldn’t catch her plush, dark fur but it glimmered in her pale eyes.
“Shoo,” he said.
She charged.
He was hampered by the towering bulk of his human body while she was smooth and quick in her four-pawed drive. Her teeth caught his jeans again, higher on his thigh this time, too close for comfort. Denim ripped with a sound like laughter, and a gust of cool night air wafted across his privates before she danced back.
“Dammit, Mer!”
She darted forward again, but this time he was ready. As she came at him, he juked and caught her by her scruff and the thick base of her tail. She was a bit of a thing, especially for wolf-kind, and he was big for any man. He hefted her weight easily.
She yelped as her paws left the ground, but mercilessly, he tossed her into the stock tank he kept filled for the ranchers and pleasure riders who stopped for drinks.
The splash was mighty, but not nearly as impressive as the snarling.
He stood with his hands on his hips. Oh shucks, he had infuriated the beast.
She launched out of the tank with her back paws braced on the steel rim. He had just enough time to admire the wild ice shine in her eyes before she hit him square in the chest.
He went over backward like an axed pine tree, one arm curling protectively around her wet fur. Gah, his stupid body wouldn’t let her fall even though she was the one at fault.
He lay in the gravel, staring up at the moon, while she scrambled to her feet, her front paws braced on either side of him. She shook, sending a cloud of damp diamonds in all directions. The scent of her—pine duff and warm spices and secret shadow places—made his breath catch.
That and her back paw in his crotch.
He sat up to heave her off his chest. “Forget it, Merrilee. I’m not interested—”
She snagged the hem of his T-shirt in her teeth and sprang over him, skimming the fabric inside out over his head.
He swiped at her, but she was off and running, his shirt between her teeth and her tail between her legs.
Which was a load of horseshit. She wasn’t afraid of him or anybody. But she should be. That was his favorite shirt.
Chapter 2
She ran. It felt good to run with her kill in her teeth and the bright moon on her back. And Beck was behind her, which made running even better.
Weaving between the blackjack pines, she chanced a glance back. He would need a moment to recover from the unsettling transformation of the verita luna, when the beast was dominant, but she knew he was fast—There! That brindled flash between the trees was Beck’s rich brown hair streaked with sun-bleached locks and a bit of gray at the temples from being so damned honorable.
She thrashed her head from side to side, slinging the T-shirt through the pine needles. He called the shirt a classic. Most of the band members featured on the front had died of overdoses decades ago.
Which was still more recent than the decade Beck occupied in his head.
She had sensed his irritation when she talked about her job. In his 1950s mind, he probably believed she should stay home. Probably thought she should turn over her pack lands to him. With a belly roll while she was at it.
Although sometimes it might be nice to share the burden...
No. Her pack expected more from her.
A hundred years ago, her ancestress had defied wolf-kind patriarchy to kill the abusive Alpha who had battered the pack and founded a place for werelings with their own unique ways. But championing such a sanctuary required a leader tough enough to hold hidebound traditions at bay while still holding the pack together, a precarious balance upon which rested their independence. To each female Alpha since came the same warning: Be strong always.
She thrashed the T-shirt again as if it had questioned her vow.
From behind her, a low, deep roll like thunder vibrated in her bones. For half a heartbeat, she wondered if Beck’s inner beast still had the upper hand. Or paw, as it were. But it was rare that the verita luna, the Second Truth, completely eclipsed the more human aspect. Werelings spent most of their childhoods in their upright forms, learning the intricacies of the human world and human control, before puberty made the shift—and the passions of the beast—inevitable.
Of all werelings to succumb to the il-luna, it would not be Beck Villanova. From his strictly traditional upbringing, right down to a stint in the army, he was the perfectly controlled Alpha. She’d had to practically bite him to get him to shift. She shook her head at her own flight of nerves. Beck woul
d never let his beastly side rule unopposed.
Although sometimes she fantasized about the possibility.
The whiff of his manly sweat was ripe in her nostrils from the T-shirt he’d worked in all night. The bite of whiskey and the smoky scent of bacon were heady enough, but the hints of leather, musk and books also made her senses whirl.
Books? Had he been out running even once in the time she’d been in New York? No wonder he was so slow—
With a roar, a large shape dropped to the path in front of her. She tried to dodge, but he clamped his teeth on the T-shirt. Since she refused to let go, her momentum whipped her around. Her paws left the ground and she was airborne. Which reminded her, she owed him for dunk-tanking her.
When she opened her jaws, she went flying. She landed in a poof of pine needles and lay still. Wait for it...
Beck’s presence loomed in her awareness, though her eyes were closed. Wait for it...
He whined softly, even more softly than the whisper of worn cotton as he dropped the T-shirt.
Instantly, she scrabbled up, seized the T-shirt and fled.
Through the trees—weaving, dodging, their twinned shadows dark as ravens skimming across the earth, silvery under the moon—up to the ridgeline, higher yet to where the trees thinned and the moonlight thickened and the town was just an old campfire of cool, yellowing embers below them.
In a small clearing, lush with early-summer grasses, she slowed. She expected him to pounce, but instead he kept pace just behind.
She trotted in a circle to face him, finally letting the prize fall between them.
Beck was magnificent, even for wolf-kind. He sacrificed none of his immense size to the change. If anything, his heavy ruff and luxurious tail tipped with silver made him seem even larger in the verita luna.
His eyes were the same molten gold though. Not exactly the same, of course. A wereling’s eyes always seemed brighter, as if some tarnish of the human flesh was scoured away in the Second Truth. Despite the flattening effects of the moonlight, the gold gleamed at her with a purity that made her shuffle her paws uncomfortably in the long grass.