Beauty and the Werewolf (Entangled Covet) (San Francisco Wolf Pack)

by Kristin Miller

  She’d never find him.

  “Get off the ground,” the same person roared. “Put up a fight!”

  Her stomach dropped.

  She’d come here to figure out why he kept ditching her at the end of all their dates. But clearly he had bigger issues…

  “Jack?”

  Her voice carried too easily through the room. It must’ve been the high pitch against the grumbling of the men. The swarm in front of her turned to glare. And as they moved, they created an alley for Isabelle to get a clear shot of the darker wolf—Jack—on the ground.

  She squealed as the auburn wolf reared up, teeth bared. Ready to sink its teeth into his neck.

  “Jack, get up!”

  As if her voice made a direct shot from her lips to his ears, he twitched. Writhed beneath the auburn wolf. And craned around to search for her in the crowd. In that split second of distraction, the auburn wolf sliced his paw across Jack’s neck. He howled, a sinister sound that hurt her ears.

  The mob went silent as blood squirted from his neck.

  Shift back, shift back, shift back.

  Slowly, the auburn wolf released him and backed off. Jack didn’t move. As the crowd dispersed, Isabelle fought her way to the front. Disgust wormed its way through her. Watch the fight, scream and make bets, and when someone falls to the ground dead, walk away.

  They weren’t barbarians. They were cowards.

  “Jack,” she said, kneeling at his side. “Can you hear me?”

  He was covered in gunk—blood, sweat, and drool, probably—so she didn’t want to touch him. Ghosting her hand over his neck, she could’ve sworn her heart hiccuped in her chest.

  He’d heal if he shifted back. But if he was knocked out cold…he could die lying here in a pool of his own blood.

  “Someone help him,” she called out. But everyone was filing out. Not a care in the world if one of their packmates suffered a lethal blow. “Please, someone help!”

  He was losing too much blood.

  Heart thumping out of her chest, Isabelle did the only thing she could think to do. She covered his wound with her hand. Put as much pressure as she could to stop the bleeding. His fur was soft—not coarse, as she would’ve imagined it to be—and wet, sliding between her fingers. He had large brown eyes, though they’d closed, and long lashes resting against his furry face. And he was larger up close. Not small, as she’d thought from her vantage point at the back of the room. He was muscular, but lean. Undeniably strong.

  Although he was a jerk for leaving her—twice—and really freaking stupid to put himself in this position, he was striking in wolf form. Not that she’d ever tell him that.

  “You can’t die, MacGrath,” she said, adding more pressure to the wound. “I’m not finished bothering you yet.”

  At her words, Jack coughed and hacked up a bunch of blood on the concrete.

  Thank God, he was alive.

  With a sigh, she cradled his big head in her hands. “You’re going to be all right.” She swore. “Can you hear me? Just find the energy to shift back.”

  He opened his eyes and blinked up at her. There was a tenderness in his wide wolf eyes that tugged at her heart. A vulnerability that weaseled its way into her chest and squeezed.

  “You’re a git,” she said, going warm and tingly all over. “I just want you to know that before I save your life.”

  And then his head went limp in her hands.

  Chapter Eight

  Jack clawed his way out of the darkness. Barely. It was Isabelle’s scent that finally pulled him through. All through the night, she surrounded him. He tried to rouse enough to talk and ask her to stay, but couldn’t muster the strength.

  It wasn’t until sunlight pierced his eyelids that he finally awoke.

  Feeling like he’d been beaten with a baseball bat, Jack used all his strength to move his head around over the pillow. The curtains to his room were wide open, letting in the full glare of the morning sun. Isabelle had curled up in the chair beside his bed, her head dropped forward and her eyes closed. She’d changed into a bulky black sweater, black leggings, and hot-pink slippers that looked like mops.

  Where the hell did she find slippers like that? Nineteen ninety-five?

  A black duffel bag slouched against the side of her chair, and a sketchbook rested in her lap, flipped to a page with a pencil image on it. Reaching over, Jack slid the book off her lap and propped it up on his knees. He’d just started flipping when she snatched the sketchbook out of his hand and closed it.

  “Aren’t you a nosy one,” she said with a yawn. “You must be feeling better.”

  “I didn’t know you sketched.”

  “It’s a hobby.” Her eyes shifted to the sketchpad, and then back to him. “A way to keep my hands busy when I’m bored.”

  Sighing, he rested his head back against the pillows. “You’re bored, yet you’re still here.”

  “I am.”

  Chills scattered over his skin at her words.

  “I couldn’t leave until I knew you were going to come out of this.” She ran her fingers through her hair, and then let the silky-soft layers fall around her face. Sunlight hit her from behind, creating a soft halo of gold around her head. “Despite what you may think, I’m not totally heartless.”

  Rising off the chair, she leaned over the bed and touched his forehead. He flinched at first, until he realized she was checking a bandage there. Her touch was gentle—the most soothing caress he’d ever felt in his life. It was as if the warmth in her hand bloomed through his entire body.

  “I never thought you were heartless.” He eyed her carefully as she tended to him. “A horrible driver? Yes. Absolutely.”

  Dabbing a cloth in a bowl beside the bed, Isabelle pulled back the sheet and touched it to his side. “I was driving fast, but in control. I’m not a bad driver.”

  “The fountain in my front yard begs to differ.”

  She squeaked in shock. “I was distracted by the—you know what? I’m not hashing this out again. I already told you I’ll pay to replace your Monument of Manhood.”

  Hissing, he recoiled from the cold as it dampened his skin. It struck him that she was comfortable tending to him—had she done it all night? From the recesses of his mind, the memory of her touch skated forward.

  She’d been here. All night. Caring for him when he was hurt.

  For someone who claimed to loathe him, nursing his wounds was a strange move…

  The duffel bag resting beside the chair must’ve been hers, he realized. Branson must’ve brought her things from the hotel so she’d be comfortable here. He’d have to thank Branson later for taking care of Isabelle.

  “It’s going to take a high-pressure hose to get all the dried blood off you,” she said. “And you’re going to have scars. Not on your face, but here.” She touched his abs, sending pinpricks of delight scattering down to his groin. “And here.”

  And lower…

  With a visible shiver, Isabelle replaced the cloth and folded her arms over her chest. “Care to explain the mental breakdown you had last night?”

  “I don’t recall a breakdown.” But he remembered the adrenaline rush big-time. All it took was stepping into the ring with the largest werewolf in the place. One strike with the force of a hammer, one quick claw to his muzzle, and he’d gotten what he’d been looking for. How long the strength would last this time, he wasn’t certain. “If you’re talking about the fight, it was a way for me to blow off steam.”

  “No, it was more than that. It was suicide.” She plopped into the seat once more and clutched the sketchbook against her. “I nearly had a canary watching you in there.”

  “A canary?” Chuckling, he shook his head. “That must’ve been painful. On account of the beak, and all.”

  “No, a canary, a fright—you know what? It’s not about the way I talk.” She narrowed her eyes at him. “After the fight, you passed out for over an hour. The bouncer had to call Branson to come get you. He and I dragged
you to the car and brought you here. You could’ve died from your injuries.”

  She was right. “Why didn’t I?”

  “Branson gave you an epinephrine shot.” Tired lines formed around her eyes. “You woke up startled for a few seconds, long enough to shift back. You collapsed and have been out since then.”

  “Shit.”

  He rubbed his thigh where he was still tender from the needle. He’d given up epinephrine shots years ago, after he’d gotten a skin infection that landed him in the hospital. And he couldn’t get an adrenaline rush while lying in a hospital bed. So in order to avoid the impossible scenario, he’d avoided needles from that day on. He preferred more natural ways to get his high, anyway.

  Getting shot with epinephrine wasn’t always pretty. Neither was the fight. Yet she’d witnessed everything. More than that, she’d followed him to the gym, dragged him out when he was at his weakest, and remained by his bedside until he woke up.

  How could he repay her?

  “What was that?” she asked, penetrating him with those sultry green eyes. “Why would you leave before the end of our date, and hop into a fight with a werewolf ten times—”

  “Wait, did you call it a date?”

  Flustered, she batted her lids and shook her head. “What I was saying was you hopped into a fight with a werewolf ten times bigger than—”

  “No, I heard what you said.” A smile pulled at his lips. “You said before the end of our date.”

  She huffed and slouched into the chair. “Maybe I should’ve left you on the floor in that gym.”

  “I’m glad you didn’t.” Sitting upright against the headboard, he used his heightened sense of hearing to listen for her heartbeat. It was racing. Thumping loud in her rib cage. She might not have known it yet, but it called for him. “Because if you’d left me there, I wouldn’t have seen how radiant you are in the early-morning light.”

  She softened, her head lolling to her shoulder. “You can stop with the flirting. It wasn’t a date. I misspoke. And you seem to think I’ll forget about the question at hand.”

  “Which one is that?”

  “Why’d you shift from this really great guy at Jasmine’s to Muhammad Ali? You ran out like your clothes were on fire. At first I thought you might’ve been offended by something Jasmine said about your attachment to Bella Nolan’s paintings, but now I don’t think that’s it.” She stood and moved toward the windows. He had an excellent view of the city from there. “You acted like you didn’t want to leave me at the airport, but then I can’t imagine anyone wanting to get their head bashed in by a werewolf in an underground fight club, so you really didn’t want to do either of those things. Yet here you are, two inches from dead. I’m at a loss, Jack. I knew MacGraths were crazy, but I didn’t know they were masochists.”

  “I’m not a masochist.” Well, not really. Though if he thought back over the last few years, he could probably find a handful of antics to support her idea. “I simply don’t have a choice on how I live anymore. I’m ruled by something completely different.”

  “Drugs?” She spun, planting her hands on her hips. “That’s it, isn’t it?”

  “I’m not on drugs.” Checking to make sure he had something on beneath the sheets, Jack set his feet on the floor and stood. He tightened the drawstring of his black pajama pants and steadied himself on the bedpost. Branson must’ve changed him, thank goodness. His muscles were sore from the fight, but he had energy in him. A blessing in disguise. “I’m on adrenaline.”

  “I don’t understand.”

  He teetered between the urge to tell her everything—the whole, tragic truth—and the fear that she’d run. If she did take off, he’d be dead before summer, he was sure of it.

  But if there was a chance that she might complete the Luminary bond with him, and save him…

  He had to try.

  Stretching and flexing to assess the damage, he strode closer. Isabelle’s gaze homed in on his bare chest, his abs, and then his lips. Her eyes went wide, as if she thought he was coming in close to kiss her. Oh, but didn’t he wish.

  “I’m 320 years old, and have yet to find my mate.” His voice turned darker, graver than he’d meant. “Two decades ago, my health took a turn for the worse. I wasn’t expected to survive the year. A wolf pack medicine man told me the tale of unmated wolves living off of adrenaline rushes. He said the surge of the chemical in my bloodstream would elongate my life, though he couldn’t say for sure how long.”

  Squinting, Isabelle rubbed her temples. “So you’re…”

  “Dying, Isabelle.”

  She stood still as stone. “Oh,” she said.

  As if she understood. But she couldn’t possibly.

  “At first, it only took something startling to get the blood pumping through my veins. But now, I’m getting used to the adrenaline. The thrills are wearing off. It’s taking extreme measures to keep my body functioning day to day.”

  “So the helicopter—”

  “The fights—”

  “The whole drive like a bat out of hell being just what you needed—”

  “All that is a normal part of my life. I have to find new things like that every day. The only thing that can save me for good is finding and bonding with my fated mate…you.”

  Mouth gaping, her gaze shifted around the room as if she were searching for something that made sense. But there were no answers in the woodwork. He’d looked a thousand times over.

  “I’m so sorry, Jack,” she said, her voice solemn. “I wouldn’t wish that on my worst enemy. How much longer do you think you have?”

  He swallowed down the spoiled truth. “There’s no way to tell. Sometimes I feel myself slipping, but I’ve already lived twenty years past my expiration, so who knows? Could be another month, another year, or seven hundred. It all depends…”

  “Whoa, whoa, rewind.” She put her hands up in the space between them. “And you think I’m your Luminary? The one who’s going to extend your life? I told you before, you’re wrong. You should stop wasting your precious time with me and use it to find your real Luminary.”

  “No time with you is wasted.”

  “Would you stop that?” She pushed him away, though she lacked the force and the conviction in her touch. “You’re a MacGrath, I’m a Connelly. There’s no way fate would put us together, across the world from each other, from two packs that hate each other. My father doesn’t just dislike your family, Jack. He loathes every one of you for the crimes you committed when werewolves first immigrated here.”

  The sting of dishonor pinched his side. “I know what my family did in the past, but that wasn’t me. I’ve lived my life differently. With honor.”

  “Still, he resents everyone who bears the MacGrath name. There is no way we’re a perfect match.”

  “You’re it for me, Isabelle,” he said, and took her hands. They were soft and warm, molding into his perfectly. She didn’t pull away. “And I don’t think you’re my Luminary, I know you are. I can feel it here.” Slowly, he guided her hands to cover his heart. From the closeness, his heart sped, feeding electric impulses of need through his veins. “Don’t you feel anything?”

  “I…” Her eyes fluttered closed. “…I feel your heart beating against my palm, and I can sense the lust racing through you, but that’s all it is. Lust. The Luminary bond is so much more than that.”

  “We have more.”

  “You can tell me that until you’re blue in the face, but I don’t feel it.”

  “Then let me show you.”

  Tunneling his hand through her hair to the back of her neck, Jack dragged her against him. She gasped in shock, her eyes wide as his lips crushed against hers. Fire burst through him at the contact, but he kissed her slowly. A simmering burn she should’ve felt in her toes.

  Her lips were firm. Unyielding.

  As he loosened the hold on her neck and teased her hair through his fingers, he picked up the scent of her arousal. Sweet and unmistakable. She slan
ted her mouth over his—the tiniest movement—and then opened up on a soft, panting moan. Slipping his tongue past her lips, he teased her with it. Unwound her with the skill of his mouth.

  He was in complete control—where he liked to be.

  Shivers of lust rattled through him as she explored his mouth with long, luscious strokes of her tongue. She nipped at him. Sucked and drew his bottom lip into her mouth. And just like that, he surrendered.

  Jack may’ve been deceitful by blood and a liar by nature, but hot damn holy honeysuckle, he knew how to kiss. From the moment his lips touched hers, flames of desire licked through her. Her body flashed hot, melting the bitterness she’d been harboring.

  Still, her father’s voice rang in her ears.

  Never trust a MacGrath.

  Was Jack really weakening? Was all that adrenaline mumbo-jumbo the truth? She wanted to believe him, but could she?

  “Jack,” she mumbled against his lips. Her knees wobbled as the floor disappeared beneath her feet. “What are you doing to me?”

  “Showing you how good we could be together.”

  Grabbing a handful of her hair, he urged her head back and brushed his lips down her throat. She wrapped her arms around his neck, hauling herself against him as his mouth slid along her skin. Every nerve ending in her body awakened. Hunger speared through her. And as he pulled her face down to his and kissed her, passion flared deep in her belly.

  This time, when her lips met his, primal need surged through her. She wanted him hovering over her as their hips pressed together. Craved the pressure of his body as he drove deep inside her. Gripping need snaked through her until she was panting into his mouth and clawing her hands up and down his back.

  “Ahem,” a voice said from the doorway. “Mr. MacGrath?”

  Branson stood in the doorway, his hands clasped in front of him.

  Peeling her body from his, Isabelle jumped back and rubbed her tingly lips. Now that she was free from his bizarre magnetism, his words rang in her ears.

  I’m dying…

  “Branson, your timing is impeccable.” Jack snatched the pillow off the chair beside them and covered his groin. “Whatever it is, it can wait another six hours. Come back then.”