by Amy Green
“Well, they are,” Caroline argued. “You were better off raised out of that life, you have to admit. What kind of animal just gives up his own daughter like that, because of some ridiculous belief system?”
“But I’m one of them,” Tessa heard herself say. “And humans give up their kids all the time.”
“You are not one of them,” Caroline said sharply. “You are a human, just like all women. You’ve seen the girls raised in those primitive packs, Tessa. They never get out or leave the life. You had a chance from the beginning to be something else. Which is why I don’t understand why you continue to work at that bar, now that a shifter owns it.”
“Heath has been good to me,” Tessa said.
“Heath?” her mother repeated. “Oh, no. You’ve always said you were going to quit that job. Now you’re on a first-name basis with that shifter you work for?”
Tessa closed her eyes. She couldn’t tell her mother that she was standing in the Donovan alpha’s kitchen right now, that she’d slept here last night for protection from the Martells, that she’d offered herself to Heath as a mate to ensure that same protection.
As for the drugging and attempted abduction, the trashing of her apartment—she could tell her mother about all of that, but there was no point. Caroline would just fit it into her neat narrative of how criminal and unreliable shifters were. How Tessa was better off without them. And she would insist that Tessa go to the police.
Tessa had no urge to go to the police, she realized. Because the Donovans were already taking care of it. Going to the police had never occurred to her.
Her world was officially flipped upside down.
“Listen, Mother,” she said. “I have to go.”
“Fine,” her mother said. She was put out, Tessa could tell. “One word of warning. Don’t listen to that Martell person. If he’s contacting you, just ignore him.”
Tessa frowned. Her mother could only mean Christian Martell, her birth father, since she likely didn’t know Xander. “Why?”
“It’s just a feeling I got,” her mother said. “He’s… cold somehow. He’s not a good person, and it has nothing to do with his being a shifter. Some people you just get a feeling. Stay away from him—that’s my advice.”
Tessa said goodbye to her mother, hung up, and paced into the living room, thinking. The sun was up now, dappling through the trees, and she could see the expanse of woods through Brody’s huge windows. It was beautiful here. This was why she’d never left Shifter Falls, never left Colorado. Would never leave. Even with how screwed up her hometown was—how screwed up her own heritage was, apparently—she’d never had that restless urge to pack her bags and move away. A big city held no appeal. She’d been to Denver plenty of times, but even that was too far to move. The Falls was her home.
She was Christian Martell’s daughter. But it wasn’t Christian Martell who had tried to have her abducted, who had sent that note to the Donovans, who had had her apartment trashed. It wasn’t Christian Martell who was trying to get her back. It was his son, Xander.
Why?
She was lost in thought when she saw movement in the trees. The form came closer, and all her thoughts disappeared.
Heath Donovan came limping toward the house. He wore jeans and his white shirt, which was unbuttoned, and his feet were bare. He carried his boots in one hand. His head was down, his body straining against the pain. Tessa gasped.
His shirt was soaked in blood.
12
“Fuck, that hurts.”
“Stop swearing,” Tessa said.
Heath went still. She slid the needle through his skin again, as quick as she was able.
“Fuck,” he said again.
Tessa swallowed. She tried to keep her voice light, casual. “Jeez, I’ve never done this before, okay? Just sit still. I thought you werewolves were supposed to be so tough.”
They were in Brody’s kitchen. Heath was in a chair at the kitchen table, shirtless, and Tessa stood behind him with a first aid kit open, a needle and thread in her hand. She had cleaned most of the blood off his wound—there were bloodstained paper towels on the floor—and she was trying to stitch it up. It was hard to focus with the view in front of her, which she’d never seen before.
Heath Donovan shirtless was something to see. Every muscle—and there were a lot of them—was packed tight to his body, a perfect compact of muscle and bone. His skin was smooth and golden, with a dusting of hair, slightly darker than the hair on his head, over his chest and winding in a fascinating line down his stomach. She had tried not to drool over his stomach itself, with its ridges of lines, disappearing into the bloodstained waistband of his jeans. His shoulders were lithe and strong, and his back rippled every time he moved. Even his arms were like something carved by Michelangelo, a work of art that people still admired after hundreds of years. For once, he had no necklaces on, and there was nothing but skin.
So, yeah. Eye candy. But adding to the complexity were the tattoos. He had one across his right shoulder blade, winding over his upper arm—a wolf in silhouette, its teeth bared, its legs tensed, as if it was hunting and ready to spring. It was beautiful and a little terrifying at the same time, and since she’d never seen him with his shirt off before, she’d had no idea it was there.
The second tattoo, a stylized D, was on the back of his neck, right beneath the ridge of bone. She’d glimpsed that one once or twice, when she was standing behind him behind the bar and he had a t-shirt on, but she’d never gotten a close look. It was the only hint she’d ever seen that Heath was inked.
As she cleaned the blood off him, he’d explained that every shifter had the image of his animal on his shoulder blade. The D marked him as a member of the Donovan clan—only elite members carried the mark. As she looked down at him, at the ink on his flawless skin, she couldn’t help but be impressed. She’d always thought of Heath as her no-good shifter boss, but he was a wolf, and he was Donovan royalty. And even injured, she realized he looked it.
Still, she couldn’t let on that she thought he was kind of awesome, and hot, and that she was starting to seriously hope he was going to take her up on the mating offer. So she kept their conversation to business.
“We are tough,” Heath said in reply to her dig. “I’m just not used to this. We usually heal in minutes.”
Tessa slid the needle into him again, closing the skin that had ripped open along his left shoulder blade—not the one with the tattoo, thank God—and felt his muscles go hard as rocks as he tried not to flinch. “That means you’re not very tough then, doesn’t it?” She pulled the thread through. “This feels totally wrong, not disinfecting anything.”
“We can’t get infections,” he explained for the second time.
“I know, but it still feels medieval. You think this stitching will make the wound heal faster?”
“I have no fucking idea,” Heath said. “I’ve never been shot by a silver bullet before.”
Tessa swallowed. This could have killed him. He’d told her the story. If he hadn’t ducked, he would be dead right now, lying in a pool of his own blood in the woods. The thought made her feel slightly panicked. “Do you think Devon will find the shooter?” she asked, just to keep talking. Heath had used her phone to call Brody and warn him about the silver bullets, as well as to let him know where he’d seen the Martell camp. They seemed to have done a quick strategy session, deciding what to do. Heath had been cagey about exactly what was going to happen next when he hung up, but he’d told her that Devon was being sent to track the shooter.
“If he does,” Heath said, “my money is on Devon. He was Charlie’s enforcer for years. He’s our best hunter, and he has no problem hurting people.”
“Okay.” She made herself stay calm as she tied off the thread and used the scissors in the kit to cut it. “As long as you’re not going back out there.”
He was quiet for a minute. Then he turned his head and looked at her, his steel-gray eyes somehow hot. “Are you worri
ed about me, sweetheart?”
Tessa dropped the scissors and needle back into the kit. “Not if you’re too stupid to worry about yourself.”
He smiled. “You are worried.”
“Of course I’m worried, you oaf,” she said, slamming the kit closed harder than she needed to. “If you die, it’s just me against Xander Martell. Who apparently is my brother.”
Heath pushed the chair back and stood, turning to face her. There were dried smears of blood on his chest, which only made it sexier. He stepped closer. “Don’t fear,” he said, his voice going low. “Nothing important was damaged. I’m still perfectly capable of mating.”
“Really?” she said. She was suddenly barely keeping calm. She was tired of trying to keep calm. This whole situation was insane. She looked him up and down. “I worked with you for nine months, and you never so much as made a move. I don’t see any evidence of this legendary lover you’re supposed to be.”
“Damn it,” he said, his voice almost quiet. Then he took her face in his hands and kissed her.
He knew exactly how to do it. Exactly. His lips were warm and firm, slightly salty, framed by the scruff of his beard. His hands held her, cradling her jaw, bringing her closer to him. She gasped a breath, and when she parted her lips he kissed her more deeply, his tongue making an expert run along the inside of her upper lip. Tessa leaned in, seeking him as if by instinct, her body trying to press itself closer, her hands running up his stomach, his chest.
When he felt her soften against him, he dropped a hand down her body, curling an arm around her waist. He pulled her against him, and the only thought she could process was that they fit, their bodies matched as if cut from the same cloth. Heat coursed through her, singing in her blood. He pressed her flush to him, her body pressed against his, her breasts flattened against his chest, and kissed her more deeply. She forgot about injuries and dried blood and silver bullets as she reached up and pulled him closer, her arms around the strong, elegant column of his neck, her fingers tangling in his hair.
He broke the kiss and lowered his mouth to her neck, brushing his lips along it like he’d done last night, only this time he wasn’t scenting her, he was kissing her, leaving a soft line of sensation over her skin. “Listen,” he said, sliding one hand up her back, his firm, confident fingers pressing the line of her spine and making her shiver. “You don’t have to make some kind of deal. My wolf wants you, Tessa. He wants to make you his.” She pressed herself even tighter against him, and his hand moved up, up, to the back of her neck. “There is a ritual,” he growled in her ear. “It happens between the wolf and his mate, and it seals the mating.” His hand wound in her hair, grabbing it with quiet force, holding her in place. “But I have to be inside you, Tessa, to make it final. And I’m not doing that here in this kitchen.”
She couldn’t breathe. He was holding her, his grip filled with effortless power, and she couldn’t move, not easily. She looked into his stormy, long-lashed gray eyes, which were fixed on her with utter focus, and saw how hard he was working to maintain control. He wanted her. He wanted to take her right here, right now, on the kitchen table, where anyone could walk in and see.
Was this what he did to every woman? No wonder they all fell into his bed. But he wasn’t just beautiful. He was big, powerful, wickedly intelligent, witty, quietly ruthless. He had the power to change and to kill and to heal. Honey, he’s a god. And if he took her as a mate, he’d be hers, all of him, and no other woman would touch him ever again.
That sounded good to her all of a sudden. No one had ever said she wasn’t selfish.
She licked her lips and watched him watch her. “So where do we go?” she asked him.
His eyes went very dark for a second, and then he smiled a wicked smile. He let her hair go, slowly, taking his time. “I have an idea for that,” he said. “But I have orders from my alpha first.”
Damn it. Damn.
She let her arms slide off him, not caring if he could tell how reluctant she was. She slowly peeled herself away from him as he stepped back. “Fine,” she said, trying to get her voice steady again. “Where are we going?”
“Back to the bar,” he said.
Despite how turned on she was, she felt herself perk up at the idea. “We’re going to the Black Wolf?”
“I have to get a few things from my apartment. And I hear that Nadine Walker, the Grange County sheriff, is looking for me. I intend to let her find me.”
Tessa stared at him. “You’re going to talk to human law enforcement?”
“Oh, yes,” he said in his lazy drawl. “For quite a while. My task is to keep the good sheriff occupied.” He gave her a grin. “Not the way you think. I’m going to let her ask all the questions on her mind, for as long as I have to. I’d rather be fighting, but until this wound heals, unfortunately my job is talking.” He looked down at his bare chest. “I need to find a shirt first, though. Hopefully Brody is my size.”
13
He had been so close. So close. He’d almost had her.
But the time wasn’t right, not yet.
Never in his life had he come across a woman as hard to win as Tessa Keefe. Heath put on a good show, but he thought he might quietly die of frustration. Either that or his wolf would strangle him and get it over with. Because he was so damned close.
Oh, she wanted him. That much he could sense, and it was stronger every time she was near him. But she still saw him as a means to an end. One that promised pleasure—but still a means to an end. She was fighting it, fighting with herself, and it was no way to take a mate. Even his wolf knew that.
He needed more time—but he didn’t have it. Because Xander Martell had already made one attempt to take Tessa, and he gave no indication of quitting. Every hour that Heath didn’t claim her was another hour she was vulnerable.
The Black Wolf was quiet at this hour of the morning. Their second bartender, Oliver, was there, but Tessa immediately stepped behind the bar as if she’d been away for a year, sorting through the inventory, checking receipts, giving orders. One of the Donovan pack shifters, Wes Carter, was sitting at one of the tables. Heath gave Wes a single command—“Watch her”—and went up to his apartment to take a shower.
With the last of the blood washed off him—his wound still hurt like hell, though it was starting to heal—he changed his clothes. He put on fresh jeans, a black t-shirt, and some of his favorite jewelry—the rings he liked, this three favorite necklaces, the leather and cloth bracelets that meant the most to him. Then he packed a small bag of essentials. He left it near the door at the bottom of the stairs and walked back into the bar, pouring himself a drink and shooting the shit with customers as if he intended to spend all day.
He circulated as he always did, talking to customers, telling stories, pouring drinks. If no one noticed that the Donovan pack members who came in often left with his quiet instructions in their ear—or that most of the shifters who came in had pieces of information they gave him in quiet murmurs—that was because he was good at keeping a low profile. Happy, lazy, careless Heath Donovan, who liked nothing better than to shoot the shit instead of working, who never took life seriously. Within half an hour, he had feelers out all over Shifter Falls, looking for the truck and the van he’d seen at Martell’s camp site. And he knew that the sheriff was on her way.
During a lull, he washed some glasses and stood behind the bar, drying his hands on a towel. His gaze, as it so often did, stayed on Tessa. She was refilling the salt on the margarita tray.
She glanced up at him. She was still wearing the shirt and pants Anna had bought for her. The shirt fit pleasantly snugly, showing off her breasts—he very much looked forward to seeing those—while the pants hung casually loose on her hips. She had twisted her blonde curls into a knot at the back of her neck. With only a light dusting of makeup on, she still somehow looked like a siren. A stripper on her day off, maybe. He watched for a while, not caring that he was being obvious.
Finally she put th
e bag of salt back under the counter and turned to him. “What are you doing?”
“Watching you work,” Heath said.
She should have given him sass. The old Tessa would have given him sass. Instead, her cheeks went the sweetest, faintest pink.
“You like working here,” he observed.
That made her frown. “You knew that.”
“I knew you liked having a job,” he clarified. “I knew you liked working here before I came along. I knew you didn’t want me as your boss.” Her cheeks went redder, and he shrugged. “What I didn’t realize until now is that you like working here.” He motioned around the room. “The Black Wolf. It isn’t just any job to you, is it? You don’t really want to work anywhere else.”
Again, the old Tessa would have given him sass. She would have rolled her eyes and said Dream on or You’re just looking for an excuse not to give me a raise, you jerk. Instead, she said, “I like being good at something. I’m good at this.”
Since this was true, and they both knew it, Heath stayed quiet and waited.
“I never liked shifters,” Tessa continued. “My mother always taught me they were… lazy. Criminal. Untrustworthy.” She was still red, and she dropped her gaze in embarrassment. “I suppose she thought she was protecting me, especially considering where I come from. But, you know, since you turned this into a shifter bar…” She raised her gaze again and looked around. “It feels safer. No one’s ever bothered me. They talk to me, and they flirt, but it’s harmless. It’s different. It’s hard to explain.” She thought for a second, putting together her words. “Shifters are nice.”
The words surprised him. Shifters were, actually, polite with women; they had senses that could tell them clearly when a woman was interested and a woman was not, and it was frowned on in shifter culture to bother a woman who wasn’t giving the right scent. But Tessa was sexy, blonde, and beautiful, and much of the reason for the good behavior in the Black Wolf was that anyone who stepped over the line would get Heath Donovan’s wrath, and they all knew it. She didn’t have to be his mate for them to know that.