by Renee Rose
But maybe there is a way to make sure. I pick up the crumpled note and shove it in my jeans pocket. “I’ll meet you guys at her new place,” I tell Jared and head outside for my motorcycle.
Amber hates being put on the spot as a psychic, but the more she practices using her gifts, the more she’ll come to accept this magical side of her. And who better to push her than her new mate?
I speed back to my apartment building and find Amber still asleep in bed. Which is where she should be, considering it’s a Saturday and I kept her up most of the night, screaming her releases until she went hoarse.
She rolls over, smiling and humming softly when I come into the room. Her naked body is twisted up in a lavender sheet and I can’t resist the urge to yank it off and simply stare at what now belongs to me.
Amber leans up on her elbows, studying me. Not in the suddenly sex-addled way I’m staring at her, but with concern. As if she can read the emotion I brought in with me.
“What is it?”
I crawl over her and run my tongue over her still-healing wound from where I marked her. Unlike Sedona, whose bite mark closed immediately, Amber is human so her flesh doesn’t regenerate as quickly as ours. My saliva helps speed the process, though.
She tilts her head to the side and makes that adorable humming noise again, but she keeps at me. “What happened?”
“Sedona’s gone. She left a note that she’s leaving town. I’m guessing she’s acting on her desire to see Europe.” I pull the crumpled note out of my pocket and hand it to her. Not for her to read the words, but to sense the energy. We found this method worked in San Carlos with Sedona’s clothing.
Amber takes it, but holds my gaze. “Maybe she needs some time to regroup. A change of scenery.”
“I know. But I hate the thought of her all alone—unprotected. They might go after her—” I shut up when I see Amber’s gaze lose focus.
She stares through me for a moment, then murmurs, “She’s not unprotected.”
I stiffen. “Who?” But I already know who and it makes me want to kill the motherfucker.
“Carlos is following—not to hurt her,” Amber adds quickly, her focus returning to my face. “He needs to protect her, but I don’t think he wants to compel her.”
My most protective urges relax but I grumble as I settle beside my incredible mate. “I still don’t like it.”
Amber blinks several times before she speaks in a faraway voice, “The pregnancy ensures her safety… but not his.”
~.~
Sedona
My phone buzzes with an incoming text. I set my sketchpad and pencil down on the bench I’m sitting on and fish the phone out of my purse. It’s from Garrett. By some miracle, he hasn’t sent some alpha bullshit message demanding I come home or hole up in my hotel room until he gets here. Instead, this text is a list of resources—the pack leaders in each country of Europe and where to find them or how to contact them. It’s sweet, but totally unnecessary. I don’t need help. Unless it’s in the form of a date with a vampire to get my memory of Carlos scrubbed.
But then I guess I’d be pretty confused about how I got pregnant. Le sigh.
I haven’t heard from my parents yet, which means Garrett must not have told them. My mom had planned on coming down to be with me in Tucson the minute I got home, but I talked her out of it, which I know hurt her feelings. I just don’t want to be babied by my parents right now.
I rub a line on my sketch of the ancient statue Winged Victory of Samothrace. I added Nike’s head and arms back in but created the drawing in simplicity—a children’s book version of the Greek goddess. I have to say, her wings are exquisite.
Part of me feels like coming to the Louvre to sketch the art is too cliché—the art student studying the masters. But I actually forgot about Mexico and the pregnancy for a moment here, which is a gift.
A girl—maybe nine or ten—stops and looks over my shoulder. “Wow, mom—look, a real live artist is here!” She’s American. Very cute.
“Shh, don’t bother her, honey.” Her mother has that indulgent tone that says she knows her daughter is no bother, but feels obligated to say something, anyway.
Humans have been looking over my shoulder all morning, murmuring their comments in various languages, but this one is the cutest. I tear the drawing out and hand it to her with a smile.
“Is this… free?” Judging by her look of incredulity, she thinks I’m on par with Michelangelo.
This is why I want to illustrate children’s books. Or make greeting cards. Some artists would call commercial art a sell-out but for me it’s not about making money. It’s just the kind of art I like to make. The audience I prefer to reach.
“Yep. And it’s just for you. What’s your name?” I pull the drawing back and lift my pencil.
“Angelina.”
I write To Angelina, from Sedona, The Louvre and the date.
She beams at me as she takes it. “Thank you very much.” Her mom cradles her shoulder as they walk away. Angelina turns back. “Your English is really good.”
I laugh and her mom looks embarrassed. “She’s American, honey.”
Out of nowhere, Carlos’ scent fills my nostrils. It’s happened at least a half dozen times a day since I left. I think it’s because his essence is embedded in me now.
It could drive a she-wolf crazy.
Because I seriously don’t know how I’m supposed to get over him when his scent assaults me at every turn. Even a continent away. Not that I ever forget, except that rare moment drawing. Everything reminds me of him. I remember the growl of his voice speaking low in my ear, of his large hands coasting over my skin. The way his eyes glowed amber when his wolf came to the surface.
And I wonder a million things about him. What it would be like to run with him in wolf form, what he would think of Paris, of my family, of my art. Will I be able to keep the news of this pregnancy from him and his pack?
I pick up my pencil and start to sketch again, only this time it’s not Nike, it’s a black wolf. He’s snarling, teeth bared, fur standing up in a ridge down his back. When I finish, I smudge the fur around his ears and hold it at arms’ length for perspective.
Goosebumps prick my skin. It’s Carlos, but I don’t know why I drew him this way. Do I think he’s protecting me?
Or coming after me?
~.~
Carlos
I watch Sedona head into her hotel room and sag against a wall in defeat. Is it possible to go moon mad when you’ve already taken a mate?
Because I seriously can’t stand being near Sedona but not with her. I’m feverish with the need to touch her, to get closer to her. I want to be the recipient of the smiles she reserves only for children. Thank fuck she doesn’t smile at other males or they’d be dead before they hit the floor.
I know I’m not thinking straight. I’m drunk on need. I’ve forgotten what I’m doing here.
Or rather I’ve changed my mind a hundred times. Right now, my mind is set on winning Sedona back—not that I ever had her. But she’d been warming up to me back in that cell. If I could just get some extended time with her alone again, I know I can seduce my mate. The physical attraction is strong. We’ll start with sex and build from there. I’ll learn everything else about her and show her I can be the mate she deserves.
So. How to get her alone?
It’s wrong. So wrong. But I’m an asshole enough to think I can pull it off. I head out of the hotel and find a sex shop. The kind that sells handcuffs. Bondage tape. Ball gags.
This could backfire horribly. Or it might be just the thing we need…
Chapter Nine
Sedona
I step in yet another puddle and rain water soaks my shoes and socks. It’s rained all day and I’m not as excited as I expected to be walking along Montemartre tracing the steps of Picasso, Renoir, and Degas.
I don’t even know how much of Paris I took in as I wandered the streets today. My chest aches like someone punched me. A f
ew Frenchmen give me odd looks, and I realize my wolf is whining. The only time she’s happy is when I think of Carlos—or fall asleep and dream of him.
This is Stockholm Syndrome. Right?
I stop at a sidewalk cafe to get some dinner and sink into a seat protected by a wide blue awning. Water pours from the edges, splashing my legs and gathering in little pools beside my table.
When rain comes in Tucson, we celebrate because the desert is always thirsty, but today it just depresses me. I stare unseeingly at the menu. It hardly matters—I don’t speak French and no one seems to speak English—or if they do, they don’t bother to help me—so I’ve ordered frites and chocolat chaud or cafe au lait everywhere I’ve eaten. I’m going to get sick of French fries and hot chocolate soon.
Carlos’ scent swirls around me again and sadness stirs behind my eyes. Part of me wonders what our date would’ve been like, if I’d stayed in Tucson and let him take me to dinner. He would have held the doors and paid, like a perfect gentleman. That much I know. But would we have found laughter together? Would we joke? Tease? Would the same sparks be there between us that we felt during the full moon?
Hah. How can I even doubt that? He couldn’t keep his hands off me in Tucson, and he was trying to make amends.
I stare at the cafe across the street, not really seeing anything or anyone. Not until my eyes meet the gaze of a man who has the look of a spy stealing glances.
A jolt of electricity flashes through me.
Carlos.
The man looks away, playing it cool.
Wait, is it him? I can’t tell now, because he’s turned his face away. But it has to be. The man has the same broad shoulders, same dark hair and bronze skin.
Fuck. Me.
What in the hell is he doing here? Has he been following me this entire trip?
I resist the urge to stomp across the street and sock him in the face. No, he doesn’t know he’s been made yet, which gives me the upper hand. If he wants to follow, I’ll make it exciting for him.
I finish my meal and pay the bill, then play entitled oblivious American and walk right through the kitchen and out the back door, slipping into the alleyway behind the cafe.
Catch me if you can, I murmur through clenched teeth.
I have no doubt he’ll find me soon, and I’m not feeling kindly toward him at the moment. But how to punish him for this incredible infringement on my privacy, my space?
Garrett’s text yesterday said his contact in Paris could be found at a paranormal bar called The Dungeon. I don’t care about meeting up with the contact, but a paranormal bar would be just the kind of place to get under Carlos’ skin.
Normally, it wouldn’t be a location I’d frequent alone. I’ve been warned my whole life about staying away from places like that. As a shifter, I’m fairly safe in a normal bar—no human man could mess with me unless he drugged me first. But a paranormal bar is full of trouble, and dangerous for a single female. Or maybe that’s just the bullshit lie I’ve been fed all my life.
Either way, I have a feeling Carlos will lose his ever-loving shit at seeing me there, and that serves him right for stalking me like a creep-o.
I look up the location on my phone and, as luck would have it, find it’s just six blocks from the boutique hotel where I’m staying. I grab a cab to go back to the hotel, certain Carlos will show up there when he realizes he’s lost my trail.
Feeling almost cheerful for the first time since I arrived in Paris, I shower and put on the dress I packed. A red dress. With a short flippy skirt. I blow dry my hair and apply some mascara and lip gloss. It must be the pregnancy, because despite my low mood over the last week, I look radiant.
Carlos, eat your heart out.
I don a pair of black knee-high boots and march out of the building with a flick of my umbrella and a toss of my hair. Now that I’m watching for it, I notice when the door opens behind me, sense the black wolf’s presence behind me.
Did you just want to make me chase you?
Yeah, I guess I do. Because my wolf loves this game. I have a bounce in my step as I walk down the narrow, cobblestone streets in search of The Dungeon. I walk past it a few times before I locate an unmarked door at the bottom of a short set of steps. Well, of course the Dungeon is located below ground level. Guess that should’ve been obvious.
I stretch out a hand to the door knob, listening first to make sure I’m not trying to walk into someone’s home or something. No, I hear music. I push the door open.
It’s like the cliché in every movie, when the needle scratches off and the place goes quiet, everyone turns to look at me.
One of these things is not like the other. At least I hope not. Because the crowd inside is seedy. With a capital S. And I stand out like a bright, juicy grape in a pile of raisins.
Scents assault my nose—shifters of all kinds are here, along with vampires and whatever else is freaky in Paris. They look like they live in this bar, faces flushed red and pickled with alcohol use.
I’m one of three females in the place, and the other two are old shifters of some kind and not attractive. I pick my way toward the bar. Dirt coats the floors, the tables haven’t been scrubbed down to the wood in ages, if ever.
Behind the bar, a short, disheveled man dries a glass with a dirty rag, openly staring at me like everyone else.
I swallow and swagger to the bar, nudging my way between two leering males who don’t have the decency to move their limbs and feet out of the way for me. “I’ll take a ginger ale,” I say.
The bartender doesn’t move, just keeps polishing the glass like I didn’t say anything.
Maybe he doesn’t speak English. I sigh and try again. “Café au lait?”
This time the bartender’s lip curls and he shakes his head.
Well, peachy.
Even if I hadn’t sensed Carlos come in, I wouldn’t let this asshole’s lack of hospitality chase me away. I plunk both elbows on the bar, like I’m going to stay awhile. “Well, what do you have?”
He pours a clear liquid from an unmarked bottle into a small glass and pushes it over to me.
It smells like rubbing alcohol. For all I know, it’s a home brew. Maybe laced with the date rape drug for good measure. Probably what they reserve for every stupid female who finds her way in here.
I don’t touch it.
A shifter with broad shoulders and a tight black t-shirt comes over and leans his elbow down next to mine, a broad smile on his face. I don’t recognize his scent until I see the dragon tail tattoo curling around the side of his neck.
No. Way. I’ve never met one before.
Before Carlos I might have been impressed. The guy is big, good-looking and oozes male dominance. But all I can think is how much better-defined Carlos’ muscles are, how much kinder his dark-lashed brown eyes appear.
And suddenly, I’m not so sure about my plan to strut in here and get under Carlos’ skin. I don’t actually want to make him jealous—not in the real sense of the word, and this guy might do that.
I try to take a step back, but I’m pinned by another guy to my left. Also dragon. They’re hunting together.
The dragon murmurs something in French and I shake my head, twisting and looking around the bar with a forced nonchalance. Where did Carlos go?
The dragon frowns and picks up my drink, lifting it to my lips.
I turn my face away and some of it spills down the front of me, cold droplets trickling between my breasts. The dragon’s eyes light on the droplets and he leans forward like he’s going to lick them off. I shove at his head, trying to get his tongue away from my skin. His friend grabs me from the back, chuckling as he pins my arms behind me. I scream.
I see a flash of skin and hear the crack of bone on bone. The dragon shifter roars and leaps to his feet, rubbing his jaw, as two hundred pounds of angry wolf wedges in front of me.
Carlos.
I’ve bitten off way more than I can chew. I never meant for him to have to defend me or fi
ght for me. I only wanted to rile him up a little. To reveal himself.
Now we’re both in serious danger. In human form, Carlos might be an even match for this guy, maybe even for the guy and his friend. But if they shift, a wolf is no match for a dragon. Hell, the dragon could burn this place down with one roar.
The dragon behind me chuckles, but he’s released my arms. “The she-wolf has a mate,” he observes in English.
I grab Carlos’ arm and tug him toward the door. “Carlos, it’s all right. Come on, let’s go.”
Carlos won’t stop growling, nor does he take his eyes off his foe.
I pull with all my might. “Carlos, let’s go.”
The dragons haven’t moved to escalate the fight, but I have no doubt they will if Carlos keeps it up.
I change my tactic, and push in front of Carlos, as if I’m going to defend him. He immediately picks me up by the waist and tries to set me aside, but I don’t go. I repeat the action of pushing my way between them. It seems to do the trick, because his brow furrows. I’m banking on the instinct to get me out of danger being greater than his need to prove himself in front of me.
Carlos picks me up again and carries me toward the door, only stopping to readjust and throw me over his shoulder when we’re clear of the dragons.
Miraculously, no one follows, no one challenges him.
He doesn’t say a word to me or anyone else as he shoves out the door and climbs the steps. The rain has stopped and mist curls around the buildings and lamplights. Carlos’ breath puffs in and out at an angry cadence as his shoes hit the cobblestones.
A shiver of excitement goes through me.
I like him mad.
Of course that makes no sense. I don’t even know how to analyze it, other than recognizing his take-charge display of male dominance curls my toes. Maybe I do feel a teeny bit guilty, too, for nearly getting him killed in there.
He marches all the way back to my hotel, not setting me down until the elevator doors close behind us. Then he drops me to my feet, spins me to face a wall, and flattens both my hands against it with one of his pressed over the top of them. His other hand crashes down several times on my ass.