She raises to her knees to glare at me, eye to eye. “Me? I’m not the one who jumped like the bed was on fire.” Nose a mere inch from mine, her eyes sparkle. The feisty witch is back.
I grin.
“I fail to see what’s so amusing,” she says.
With the tip of an index finger, I wipe a drop of blood from her throat and show it to her.
“A second more of you under me and my beast would have marked you.”
I lick the finger clean. I know instantly that tasting it was a mistake. My wolf pushes to the surface, craving more of the ruby liquid.
Far from frightening her, the beast calms her. Her eyes soften. The anger dissipates. I caress her luscious throat and allow the lovestruck wolf in me to indulge in a mutual stare of adoration.
My phone rings on the bedside table, breaking the moment. I glance at the screen. Detective LaFontaine. I tuck away the beast and pick up the phone.
“To be clear,” I say to her as I swipe the screen to answer the call. “The bed wasn’t on fire, Shavone. You were.” I raise the phone to my ear, and speak into it. “Detective.”
Who is on the phone registers with Shavone. Her entire demeanor changes. Poker face in place and showing no emotion at all, she gets off the bed.
“I’m going to take a shower.”
“Shall I come wash your back, mi dulce?” I joke.
In panties and a tank top, she glides across the room, moving with regal grace. The bathroom door closes gently behind her.
There’s silence on the phone. “Hello? Can you hear me?” I pull the phone away to see the screen. Perhaps the call was dropped.
“Yeah, dulce. I hear you loud and clear,” LaFontaine growls. “Sorry if I interrupted anything,” he snarls, the jealous tone belies his apology.
“No, not at all. The little witch and I just finished.” I smirk, aware that those words would rile him further. He caused Shavone to suffer, so he shall suffer, immensely.
Again, the line is silent for a long moment. The toilet flushes and, then, the water turns on in the shower. The thought of Shavone soaping her naked body distracts me.
“What do you want, detective?”
“I need to speak to Shavone. I’ve been calling her cell for hours.”
“She doesn’t have her phone. I presume it’s still in her purse at the Dollhouse.”
“Fine. I’ll come talk to her in person.”
“That’s not” — the line goes dead.
Fucking French alpha. Perhaps, the opportunity to rip his lungs out will yet present itself.
Setting the phone on the dresser, I notice Shavone’s pink overnight bag just to the right of it. She’ll need her other toiletries. What an excellent excuse to barge into the bathroom.
I sling the bag over my shoulder and open the door. She has the water very hot. Steam rolls through the room.
Glancing at me, she does not cover herself or shy away. Her confidence could be the sexiest thing about her. Or maybe it’s her beautiful ass. Then again, the sight of her round breasts and berry colored nipples fill my mouth with lustful drool. Every part of her calls to my wolf.
I set the bag on the counter, consciously reminding myself not to pant. “You’re not bashful.”
Eyes closed. She stands stock still directly under the rain shower head. “It’s just a body. Everyone has one.”
I laugh, apparently more nervous than her. “Yours is particularly” — I study soft tits that compliment a trim waist curving into feminine hips and ass in perfect proportion — “fascinating.”
Female perfection.
“While you’re staring, you can hand me my body wash and cloth.” She points her chin at the bag.
“My pleasure.” Not taking my eyes off her, I dig in the bag. I grip the first bottle I come to and lift it.
“Shampoo.” She holds her hand out for it. “Thank you.”
“My pleasure.” I hand it to her, mesmerized by a drop of water clinging to a nipple. I dig in the bag again. The next bottle is similar to the first.
“Conditioner.” She accepts that bottle with a sly grin.
“My pleasure,” I murmur to her belly, doing all I can to keep my wolf under control.
The final bottle is larger with a soft cloth wrapped around it.
“Perfect.” Once she has it, she turns to wet the cloth, giving me a close-up view of her derrière.
“You were more demure during your interview.” Not trusting myself to behave, I move to the other side of the large bath, sit on the stool in the corner.
“That was different.” The soapy washcloth goes between her legs.
My wolf growls.
“How so?” I place my feet further apart to accommodate my engorging cock.
Her movements pause. She looks directly at me. “I didn’t know who you were then.” After a beat of gazing at one another, she goes back to bathing her creamy skin. “Enjoying the show?” She asks.
“Immensely.”
She raises an eyebrow.
“You doubt that I enjoy looking at your body? You’re gorgeous. A cast of your flawless body should be in every art museum in the world.”
She closes her eyes and tilts her head back to wet her hair. “You said you didn’t like my body type.”
I snort. “I never said anything of the sort.”
“You did. Too athletic of a physique is what you said.”
Oh. I see. “You misunderstood, mi dulce. I was speaking on behalf of my customers, not for myself. You do indeed have an athletic physique and the customers frequenting the Dollhouse prefer fuller, rounder women.”
Setting the cloth aside, she squirts shampoo in her hand and applies it to her head.
She frowns. “I don’t think so. I believe they appreciate my shape.”
“Do you?” I bark. She’s correct, of course.
Suds run down the long tresses on her back into the crack of her ass, disappearing for a moment before continuing down her legs. I shift uncomfortably on the stool.
Turning to hide a smirk, she rinses her hair. The girl is toying with me. She turns to face me. “My breasts aren’t too small for you?” She cups them, lifting them in offering.
I narrow my eyes and shake my head. “Careful, Shavone. My wolf is barely caged as it is.” On cue, he nears the surface, salivating in anticipation of suckling on the rosy nipples.
She stills, her gaze riveted on me, on my lust filled beast. For a moment, we simply stare — she at my wolf, he at the tantalizing breasts she continues to hold. My erection builds and I don’t attempt to hide it.
“Why didn’t you just bite me? Before in bed,” she asks softly.
“Because it would be tantamount to rape,” I answer just as softly.
Gray eyes widen, shocked.
“A wolf requires consent before biting a female, otherwise the mating is doomed.”
“Oh.”
That she did not know that bothers me. The French did an abominable job educating her.
“But you bit me the night you rescued me. Is that why I’m so drawn to you now?”
Quite pleased that she’s drawn to me, I don’t hide the smile that comes to my lips. “That’s not possible. I was ten. Wolves don’t begin producing mating venom until puberty.”
“Oh.”
“Didn’t the French community teach you anything about wolves?”
“Apparently not.” She releases her tits and squeezes conditioner into her hand.
“It’s inexcusable,” I say. “Your adoptive mother should have explained all this to you.”
The little witch’s entire body tenses with animosity. “Don’t talk about my mom.” Gone is the teasing vixen, replaced by a daughter defending her mother.
They did fail her, whether she’ll admit it or not — French wolves and the witches they protect. It doesn’t matter. Shavone is with me now. I’ll take care of her, make positively sure that she is ready for what is coming.
She lifts a foot to the bench and ben
ds to wash it. I groan inwardly, eyes going directly to a fine, fine ass.
“Fate, Shavone.” My cock turns titanium when she switches feet. Is she unaware of how she looks bent over like this? “We’re drawn to one another because we are fated.” Though right at this moment, my desire is purely physical.
Dropping her foot and gazing at me, she lifts an eyebrow in disbelief.
I smirk. “Certainly a witch believes in fate.”
She shrugs. “I do, to a point. I also believe that the decisions we make and actions we take can and do change fate.”
I nod in agreement.
With a deep sigh, her shoulders droop. “What if I was supposed to drown in that creek?”
I suck in oxygen. “Shavone.”
“What if I was supposed to join the ancestors. What if the hunters were supposed to have killed me?”
How can she think that?
“What if you and I changed my fate, Enrique?”
“Are you saying you didn’t want to live?” I’m aghast and shaken to my core.
She doesn’t answer at first, her eyes judging whether she should.
Talk to me, little witch.
With a deep breath, she does. “Just seconds before you bit me, I had given up to the icy water.”
“What?” I stand.
“Just for a second or two. I was so tired and so afraid. Their hatred of me” — her voice breaks. “I felt so lost, so alone. I can’t remember everything yet, but I’m pretty sure that night was the worst of my life. I just wanted relief — from what I’m not sure.” She turns her head away from me.
I walk over to the shower. Reaching in, I grip her chin and turn her head back. Tears glisten in the corners of her eyes.
“Do you feel like that now?”
Is that why she slept for so long? For relief?
“No. Not at all.”
“Good.” I nod and caress her face. “As for your ancestors, they can wait. So too can fate. If she wanted you dead at the age of six, she’s an inane bitch and I’m pleased to have cheated her.”
She smiles, a real smile that crinkles her eyes. “Me, too.”
Panic abated, I inhale, bringing her scent into my being. Letting go of her face, I reach around her to the shelf built into the side of the shower. I push my soap and shampoo to one side. “You can put your things here.”
“Enrique,” she begins to object.
“Hush.” Her anywhere but with me is unthinkable.
I lift her bottles from the shower bench and place them next to mine — quickly, for being this close to a nude Shavone sorely tests my willpower.
“What would you like for breakfast?” I ask, drying my arms and hands on a towel.
“Coffee, please.”
“Of course. And what to eat?”
Let’s eat her.
I step farther away. As I pass the French doors to the terrace, I see an unmarked police cruiser near the gate of my property.
“Granola and yogurt, if you have it. If not, I’ll have whatever you’re having.”
“Steak and eggs?” I smirk.
“Sure.”
Jaw agape, I turn to her. “You eat meat?”
“If that’s all there is, sure. I’ll eat just about anything as long as it’s organic.”
My cock is organic.
“The only witches I’ve ever known are vegetarian.”
She waves me off. “That’s old-school.”
“And you are certainly not old-school.” My eyes go to the belly button ring and brightly painted toe nails.
“Nope.” She leans back to rinse her hair.
“Come downstairs when you’re finished.” I reach for the doorknob to the closet, allowing myself one last look.
While I pull on jeans and a clean shirt, I buzz Uncle Agustin.
“Go shopping immediately. We need yogurt, granola and coffee — all organic. Bring that back first.” I filter through my memory, recalling what I saw in her kitchen apartment the night before last. “Later, please shop for Allegro brand tea — the Queen Bee flavor, Colorado wildflower honey, and an assortment of fresh organic fruit.” I zip my pants. “In fact, from now on, purchase only organic groceries, including meats. It’s what the lady of the house prefers.”
“Good, Enrique. Detective LaFontaine is at the gate.”
“Did you tell him he isn’t welcomed here?”
“Yes. However, he promises he won’t leave until he sees Ms. Gentil. He’s threatening to get a search warrant for the house. When I open the gate to leave, he’ll likely drive in.”
I sigh. “You go to the store right now and hurry. I’ll take care of the detective.”
“Enrique.” The warning in his voice clear.
“Just go, Uncle.”
I exit the closet through the laundry room and head down the stairs.
chapter 6
Enrique’s towels are huge bath sheets. The one I wrap around me hangs to my ankles.
Taking my hair dryer from my bag, I plug it in and blow away the steam on the mirror. From a side pocket in the bag, I get my wide toothed comb. Staring at myself, I detangle my hair.
Red scratches on my chest where the pendant has always hung is the only physical sign that something is different. Otherwise, it’s the same old me reflected back. But I don’t feel like the same old me.
The dryer in hand, I bend over to dry my hair and almost lose my balance.
Shit. How long is that crap going to be in my system?
Carefully, I lean a hip against the counter to stabilize myself and point the dryer at my scalp. The warmth feels wonderful, like it’s blowing the fog from my mind as it did the mirror.
And healing. It feels healing. Wouldn’t it be nice if the hot air could mend the raw wounds left by Val, Nash and Ben, sealing up the lacerations so they don’t scar?
Maybe I’m supposed to keep the scars.
Mom said that scars are a beautiful proof of a survivor.
The dryer stills in my hand.
I survived something horrific. No doubt. I glance at the faint marks on my bicep. If these are beautiful, then the wild gash across Enrique’s back is exquisite — selfless, ethereal proof of a hero.
My breath catches every time I think of what he bore for me that night.
I was so wrong about him. And wrong about Val, Nash and Ben, even myself. I never really had the urge to dig into my early childhood. Until now. Until I realized that I knew nothing about anyone.
I snort. Some shrink I’m going to make. Maybe I should do my thesis on how patterns of behavior is a bunch of bullshit.
One other thing is crystal clear to me. I have to find that necklace. No matter what. Who I am and where I come from, I’ve wondered so many times. Doesn’t every adoptee? However, all I had to do was touch the necklace to feel grounded. Now, thanks to the dreams, I’m certain that it’s the key to my past.
Enrique said he’d help me find it, didn’t he? Yes. I was half asleep, but I recall the promise. I have no doubt he’ll live up to it. I don’t doubt him at all.
Wow.
That I’d feel gratitude toward him for saving my life — that’s a given and completely normal. This thing between us, though, is so much more than that. What I feel for him is beyond simple infatuation. What started as physical attraction to his well-maintained body and gorgeous face is quickly being eclipsed for an even stronger affection for the wolf beneath. The pull grows exponentially stronger the more time I spend with him.
I’ve never come to trust anyone so fast. Then, again, I had years to develop a deep trust for Nash that was a total sham. Does it ever hurt to have trust ripped out by its roots.
Speaking of roots, the hair nearest my scalp is dry enough. I’ll let the rest dry on its own. The last thing my body feels like doing is primping. At least my brain is attempting to work. A deep rumble rips through my abdomen. Apparently, so is my stomach.
Still light headed, I raise slowly until I’m upright. I turn off the dryer and set it
aside to cool off before I put it away. Just as I open the door to the bedroom, a massive crash — like a wall being demolished downstairs, rolls through the house.
What the hell?
The next booming thud rattles the windows and is followed by Enrique’s wolven roar.
The kidnappers? Are they here? Panic wells in my stomach.
Move, Shavone.
Tucking the bath sheet tighter around my chest, I lift the poker from the fireplace hearth on my way out. As I carefully make my way down the hall, there’s another loud crash — this time with splintering noises. Enrique’s groan tears at me. Whatever or whoever is attacking him must be huge. Anger squashes my fear.
“Elements, spirits and ancestors, charge this weapon in my hands.” I start down the stairs. “From you to me to it, forge it so that evil it withstands.”
On the landing, my vision blurs, slowing my progress. While I pause to let it pass, I hear Nash’s voice. “You can’t keep me from her,” he growls.
“If or when she’s ready to talk, LaFontaine, she will call you.” Enrique’s voice sounds far too calm. “In the meantime” —
“Fuck you, Cruz.” There’s shuffling and mingled wolf growls. A body hits the rounded wall attached to the stairs.
“Shav!” Nash bellows. “You son of a bitch. Get the fuck out of my way! Shav!”
Loosening my grip on the poker, I take the last step.
“Stop it,” I say.
Both partially shifted wolves freeze when they see me. Their shirts have burst from expanded arms and chests.
Every single wall in the entry hall is cracked or dented. The drywall ripped completely from one section reveals several broken studs. And the carpet runner on the bottom of the staircase hangs like fringe, shredded by sharp, giant fingernails.
“What do you want, Nash?” I say.
He morphs as does Enrique.
Twenty-four hours or so since my life imploded, a painful shard of it stands in front of me. I can hardly stand to look at him.
Enrique, over six feet and nothing but muscle, almost appears to be a normal sized man next to Nash’s humongous frame. Nash breaks the grip Enrique has on his arms and comes toward me. I quickly scoot to the other side of the big foyer and raise the poker like a sword.
Soft Fate (Wolven Moon Book 2) Page 2