by Amy Green
He showed her upstairs, where there was a big guest bedroom, complete with ensuite bathroom. Tessa brought the shopping bag Anna had given her. Brody wished her goodnight and was gone, leaving her suddenly alone, suddenly uncertain, and suddenly so tired she could barely stand.
She kicked off her shoes and sat on the edge of the bed, rubbing her hands over her face. “Oh, my God,” she said softly to herself. “What am I going to do?”
What if Heath said no? She wasn’t safe anymore. She didn’t know how to be safe again, how long it would take. The idea of going back to her apartment, so that whoever had trashed it could come back, was unthinkable. She was homeless, her belongings ruined. All she owned was whatever Anna had bought her in this shopping bag.
She sat in the darkness and tried not to panic. You can do this, she said to herself. You’ve been through tough shit before. You can go through it again now.
What if Heath said yes?
She’d have to sleep with him. The thought gave her a small pulse of warm excitement. That would be… not so bad, she thought. Maybe even good. Maybe even better than good.
Sex had never been a big part of Tessa’s life. She was too practical to lose her head—or other body parts—to a man. She took care of herself, looked out for herself, and didn’t depend on anyone, certainly not anyone of the male persuasion. Men found her attractive, so she was never short of offers, but she took very, very few of them, and nothing ever lasted very long. Tessa had told herself it was because she was too independent. That the men she dated were disappointments. That maybe sex just wasn’t the big deal some people made it out to be.
But now she was starting to think she’d just been dating the wrong men.
That maybe she just hadn’t met Heath Donovan. Because God, he smelled good. And he was so goddamned beautiful. He had lived a fucked-up life, had depths he didn’t let anyone see. But he’d let her see them. He’d told her some of the truth about himself. That had to mean something.
Maybe she was losing her mind, because being mated to him didn’t sound like a bad deal. At least for her.
As if he could read her mind, the door to her room swung open without even a knock and Heath walked in.
He closed the door softly behind him and came toward her, that badass walk she’d been covertly watching for the nine months she’d been working with him.
“I could have been naked,” she protested.
“Even better,” Heath said without slowing down. He bent over her, braced himself on his hands on the bed, and slowly lowered his face to the skin of her neck.
Tessa’s traitorous body went crazy, her blood pounding, her breath coming short. He was too close, too alpha, too much. “Heath—”
“Ssh,” he said softly, his breath against the skin below her ear. “I know. Sit still. I’m not here to fuck you.”
She snapped her mouth shut at his blunt words and stayed still.
He didn’t put his hands on her. Didn’t kiss her. Just boxed her in on the bed, his strong arms on either side of her, his lips just barely brushing her neck. He moved slowly from the spot below her ear down to the place where her neck met her shoulder. She could hear him breathe. He was scenting her, she realized, taking in something with his wolf smell that she couldn’t perceive. He was so close that if she leaned forward she would be able to taste the skin of his collarbone. She stared, hypnotized, at the place where it met the edge of his shirt.
“Ah,” Heath said softly against her skin. “There it is.”
“What?” Tessa breathed.
“Your arousal.” He inhaled, so softly she almost didn’t hear it. “God, that is the best thing I’ve ever smelled.”
His words sent a shiver through her, and he scented that, too.
“I’ve smelled it before,” he continued, his voice a soft, sweet rumble. “When we were together in the bar. Very rare, just a trace of a scent. You thought I couldn’t detect it, didn’t you?”
He knew, of course. He had perceived it and never let on. She had underestimated him, and she was starting to understand how much everyone else did, too.
“That little ruse of yours out there,” he said, a sliver of ice entering his voice. “I want to know if it was real, or if you’re just teasing me. Because I don’t recommend teasing a wolf, Tessa.”
She gathered her breath, made herself answer honestly. “I wasn’t teasing.”
“Ah, but what exactly do you mean?” he asked, seemingly to himself, as his lips dragged against her neck again, harder this time. Tessa’s eyes went half-closed in pleasure. “You want me, or at least your body does. You need my protection. I smell curiosity on you, and trust. A willingness to submit, which I admit I find exciting. I’d like very much to make you submit, Tessa.” He paused as her breathing hitched. “The question is, is it enough to get you through life as a mate with me?”
Her head was spinning. “What—what do you want?” she asked him.
His laugh was a low growl that she felt down her spine. “I want what I’ve wanted for months, ever since I stopped looking at other women. But I don’t want what’s unwillingly given.” He raised a hand and touched his fingertips to her cheek, dragging them down gently to brush the corner of her mouth as he angled her toward him. “I’d rather you want it, Tessa. In fact, I’d rather you beg.”
She was thinking he was going to kiss her, but the words came immediately from her lips. “I’ll never beg.”
That didn’t seem to bother him. “Then we’ll have to negotiate,” he said. He brushed the corner of her mouth again. “Goodnight, Tessa.” And then he was gone, the door clicking shut softly behind him.
Tessa sat in the darkness for long minutes, her pulse slowly returning to normal, her mind spinning.
I want what I’ve wanted for months.
He’d hidden that from her, too, all this time. He was so clever, Heath Donovan was.
She’d thought she’d have to win him over.
But she didn’t. He was already hers.
The question was, what was she going to do with him?
10
Heath lay on the sofa for a while, dozing, but he didn’t sleep. Shifters didn’t need sleep the way humans did; they could stay awake when they had to, especially when they were agitated. And a wolf with his mate sleeping upstairs, unclaimed, was definitely an agitated wolf.
When the first faint light tinged the sky, he swung his long legs off the sofa, put on his boots, and walked silently out the door. Beneath the canopy of the trees, as an owl hooted nearby on its way to bed, he took off his clothes and changed. Then he prowled in his wolf form, heading west.
The wind was up, warm and damp, and he scented as he ran, sorting through the information it gave him. Spring was coming to the Rockies, late as usual, but beautiful and crisp. There was the trace of an unpleasant chemical scent from the factory smokestacks nearly ten miles away. There were deer in the woods to his left, at least four or five of them, though they bolted when they caught his scent. Heath didn’t give chase. He wasn’t in the mood to hunt right now; he had other things on his mind.
He ran for miles, scenting the wind, without catching a hint of what he was looking for—the smell of strange wolves in Donovan territory. He was sitting in a clearing, panting and wondering what to do next, when he thought to look up.
There was an eagle circling high overhead. It was Shep Wilson, in his animal form. He was wheeling in circles, his huge wingspan catching the spring wind. When he saw Heath watching him, he changed direction and started to fly.
Heath followed, keeping an eye on where the eagle was leading him. And then he smelled it.
Wolves. A number of them. They were camped in a clearing, their smells mixing with the smell of cooking fires and human sweat and garbage. Heath circled carefully so he was downwind from them and they wouldn’t catch his scent. Then he moved closer to find a spot to watch from. When he looked to the sky to thank Shep, the eagle was gone.
The Martells were in human for
m at the moment. There were tents, a campfire, detritus strewn around that showed they’d arrived at least a few days ago. Camping was easy for shifters, who were impervious to cold, bugs, and almost every other discomfort. Shifters could also shift and hunt, making food simple. They had just finished breakfast—some kind of oatmeal—and the men were moving around the camp, their voices and movements quietly excited, as if something big was going on.
Heath crouched in his spot behind some bushes and watched. He stayed in wolf form, because his wolf had longer-range eyesight than his human did, and he could stay parked further away. He kept downwind and did not move.
There were six men, all shifters. They were dressed in jeans, flannel shirts, and quality sweaters and jackets, with thick boots—not destitute, then. Their clothes were somewhat dirty, their human bodies a little rank, which meant they were several days from their last hot shower. A pickup truck was parked on the edge of the site, with a panel van parked further behind it. Two of the men moved back and forth between the truck and the van, calling and motioning to each other.
Heath didn’t see any weapons, not out in the open. No knives or guns, no instrument that could have ripped open two men. He also didn’t see any humans, which meant the human killer of the hiker and Scott Kraemer wasn’t here, at least not at the moment.
As he watched, a seventh man exited the tent and strode into the middle of the clearing, a cell phone pressed to his ear. From his posture, from the way the others deferred to him, Heath knew he was looking at Xander Martell.
Martell was tall, broad, with hair kept long to his shoulders, the dark locks tucked behind his ears. Like the other men, he was unshaven. He wore jeans and a jacket of military green with heavy pockets on the chest and the waist. Heath wondered if he was military, or merely styled himself that way.
Martell finished his phone conversation, hung up, and began directing some of the men. They started to get into the vehicles. They were leaving camp for now, then. Heath needed to go back and tell Brody, get the others before Martell moved wherever he was going.
He had just gotten to his feet when a movement caught the corner of his eye. By instinct he jerked back into the bushes he’d been hiding in just as a sharp crack sounded in the trees and a bullet tore through the skin over his shoulder blade, embedding itself in a tree several feet away.
Heath dropped to the ground again, his claws digging into the earth. In a split second that followed, his wolf’s sensed registered three things: One, that the explosion of pain from the graze on his shoulder meant that had been no ordinary bullet; two, that a shout had sounded from the camp clearing; and three, that whoever had just shot at him was likely reloading. He turned and ran.
Another crack sounded, but the bullet just missed Heath as he bounded through the trees, keeping low, picking up speed. Faintly behind him, more shouts sounded, as well as the sound of a motor starting up. The pain was nearly crippling, but Heath pushed his wolf forward, lengthening his stride, streaking like a bullet himself through the trees. The shooter didn’t bother to try again, likely seeing that Heath was out of range.
As he left the cover of the trees three miles later and descended the side of a ravine, Heath’s wolf stumbled. He scrabbled for purchase, pulling himself back to his feet before he rolled to the bottom. Blood was soaking his fur, from the back of his shoulder blade and down his left leg. If the other shifters wanted to shift and find him, he was leaving a scent trail a mile wide. He stood for a second, panting, shakily trying to get his balance before running again.
A bullet, a normal one, couldn’t kill a werewolf. Wolves had healing power that would close off any wound within minutes. A bullet could do damage to a shifter in human form—unless that shifter were left alive and strong enough to change into his wolf, in which case he’d heal in minutes. There were, in fact, very few things that could kill a werewolf. And the only weapon that could open a wound like the one he had now, and cause this kind of agony, was a silver bullet.
Silver bullets were rare. A few claimed to make them, but most cut corners, mixing the silver with at least one alloy to make a higher profit. Only a bullet of pure, unmixed silver could do the damage that had been done to Heath’s wolf.
Immediately, he thought of the human they were seeking. The assassin. Whoever he was, he had true silver bullets, and he was a good shot—it was only Heath’s quick reaction that had prevented the bullet from going straight through his throat.
For a second, his vision went dark and out of focus, and he nearly fell. He pictured Tessa. How she had looked last night, her blonde hair tangling down her back. The beautiful, familiar smell of her skin. The curve of her lips. Fuck dying. I’m not doing it. Not today.
He let out a low growl, as if trying to warn off the pain. Then he started running, the blood running warm through his fur.
11
Tessa woke early, but already she knew she had the house to herself. Both Brody and Heath were gone.
She took a long, hot shower, then put on the clothes Anna had bought her. Anna had done a good job: underwear, a navy blue t-shirt, a pair of dark green cargo pants. The pants were just a little loose, which was perfect. There were a toothbrush and toothpaste, deodorant, a hairbrush, even a mascara and a lip gloss. Tessa felt an unfamiliar lump of gratitude in her throat. She’d only met Anna two or three times, when she’d come into the Black Wolf, yet Anna had not only guessed her size almost perfectly, she’d considered the fact that Tessa would like a little makeup. No wonder Ian loved Anna. At the moment, Tessa could have married her herself.
Her phone was dead, so she wandered down to the kitchen, hoping that Brody’s newfound fixation on cell phones would mean that he had a charger. He did, plugged in helpfully on the edge of the kitchen counter, and Tessa plugged her phone in while she raided Brody’s fridge and put on a cup of coffee.
She barely knew Brody, and she’d always thought she didn’t like werewolves, yet she felt almost at home here. As she poured a glass of orange juice and drank it down, it hit her that she felt comfortable because Brody had made her feel that way. He made her feel like pack. They all did. The Donovans were a gruff bunch, each man very different, but they had come together to protect her from Xander Martell without question. They had made her feel like she belonged here.
No one had ever made Tessa feel like that before. She’d always relied on herself, a loner with very few friends, even girlfriends. The Donovans were loners, too, yet they acted so naturally on their bonds of family and pack they made it look easy. It was part of their nature to be alone, but it was also part of their nature to work together to protect each other.
Remind me again, Tessa thought to herself, why everyone hates shifters?
Maybe she felt she belonged here because she was supposedly the child of shifters herself. Or was she?
She only had one person to ask to get the answer to that particular question. When her phone was alive again, she called her mother.
Caroline Keefe answered almost immediately. “Is something the matter?” she asked without saying hello. “I’m just on my way to a meeting.”
Tessa’s father was a lawyer, working long hours, and her mother had made a profession of volunteering. She gave time to a dozen charities and sat on the board of at least three. By age nine, Tessa had figured out that adopting her had been a way for her mother to take on yet another project, one that her father approved of. It hadn’t been a terrible childhood, exactly—she’d been fed, clothed, and taken care of, which was more than she would have had if she hadn’t been adopted. But it hadn’t been exactly loving, either.
“Mother,” Tessa said, since she knew Caroline wouldn’t want to pause for small talk. “What do you know about my birth parents?”
“Nothing,” Caroline answered, and instantly Tessa knew it was a lie. She didn’t know how she knew—she just did.
“Really?” she asked. “So you don’t know anything about a man named Martell, who claims I come from his family?”
“So it’s true, then?” Tessa said. “I’m one of them?”
“Who knows what’s true?” Caroline hedged.
“Just tell me, or my next phone call is going to be to Xander Martell.”
“Fine,” her mother said. “I suppose you’re old enough to know. The Martells had one of their… people. The leader, you know.”
“The alpha.”
“Yes, that. He got some girl pregnant when he was young, and he didn’t want anyone to know about it, because the girl wasn’t his—whatever they call a wife.”
“Mate,” Tessa supplied, thinking of Heath Donovan.
“I suppose that’s the term,” her mother said, “uncivilized as it is. So, because of some primitive rule shifters have about pairing up, he had you adopted, and we took you in. That’s really all there is to it.”
Tessa stared at the empty kitchen, letting this sink in. “So I’m the daughter of a shifter, and you never thought to tell me?”
“Because it doesn’t matter,” Caroline said, her voice tight. “We adopted you. We raised you like a proper human so you don’t have to live that life. Those shifters gave you up, Tessa. A defenseless baby. They just gave you away.”
It hurt. She’d come to terms long ago with the idea that she was adopted, that someone somewhere—a mother and a father both—had decided they didn’t want her. It was the same burden every adopted child carried, but she was over it. She had built a life. Except now the wound had been reopened, and it hurt all over again.
She was the illegitimate daughter of Chrisitan Martell, the alpha of the Martell pack. Xander Martell was her half brother.
She had more in common with Heath, the bastard son of Charlie Donovan, and his three bastard half-brothers, than she had with almost anyone else in the world.
“You always told me that shifters are no good,” she said to her mother. “That they’re unreliable, trash. That they’re dangerous.”