“He’s dead.” Her hair hung over her face in damp hanks that had begun to freeze into extremely messy dreads.
Ah, hell, Julian thought. Who had she killed now?
He used his free hand to cup her chin, to tilt her face so that her hair slid out of the way. “Who’s dead?”
Her eyes wide and unfocused, she murmured “Charlie” in a voice that, despite his attempts to steel himself against it, tore at his heart.
Julian let his forehead meet hers, and his hair cast over her cheeks, creating a golden curtain between them and the night. “Who’s Charlie?” he asked.
He knew, but he wanted her to talk, to come back from the dream, the memory, whatever had caught her in a grip so deep she seemed frozen by it.
A bank of clouds slid over the moon, painting them in darkness. He could smell her, that scent of sun-ripened lemons that was completely hers. For the rest of his very long life he would be able to pick her out of a crowd by that scent alone.
“Alex?” he murmured. “What’s wrong?”
She moved beneath him, and her nipples, hard and cold as marbles left out in the snow, rolled along his chest. He grit his teeth and waited for an answer. But he didn’t get the one that he expected.
Instead she arched her neck and let her scalding tongue—startling amid so much cold—lick the line of his mouth.
He gasped, jerked back, and she nipped, catching his lip between her teeth and holding on.
The damnable cloud stayed over the moon. He could only see the outline of her face, which served to make every other sense he possessed stronger.
Her scent mixed with the ice and the snow and the smell of the moon—sweet like blue snow cones. The bones of her wrists beneath his palm shifted like sticks trapped in a bag of the most delicate material ever made. Her skin, so cold, refreshed his, which felt like a blistering fever had broken free when he’d viciously put a stop to his change. Her mouth, soft as rain in the precious spring, opened and welcomed him within.
He shouldn’t. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t.
He did.
That taste—both familiar yet still so new—called. The sex they’d already had, forbidden, dangerous, half remembered with the mind, was fully remembered by the body.
With her wrists trapped above her head, she lay open to him, like the sacrificial maidens of long ago. She could do nothing but accept—his kiss, his touch, him—and the idea made him so hard he wondered momentarily if his dick had frozen solid.
Except his dick wasn’t cold but fiery hot, and she was rubbing her chilled belly against it as if the friction alone would warm her, the murmurs in her throat rolling along her lips and his like a low-level earthquake across the land.
His free hand cupped her hip, his thumb sliding across the bone, his fingernail scraping just a little because when he did that she arched, pressing her breasts with those fantastic marble nipples into his chest and shifting—back and forth, back and forth—until the rasp nearly made him insane.
He waited as long as he could to touch, palm itching, fingers twitching, and when he could wait no longer he swept his hand up, from hip to breast, sliding along the still-cool length of her waist until he could cup the glorious weight and roll that nipple beneath his thumb.
She cried out, and he drank the sound with his mouth, desperate to remain undetected, uninterrupted. Except…
Beneath the moon, they were the only souls left in town.
God. He thought he might explode before he even buried himself inside her.
Then he tasted her tears, salt and heat amid the cool and sweet, reminding him of the first blood he’d ever known.
It had been so damn good.
Julian released her and backed away. She was right. There would always be a beast inside him, one step from escaping and crushing everything.
The moon sprang free, cascading from the sky like a waterfall of ice, turning the tracks of her tears molten silver. Julian lifted a hand—shaking, he saw—and ran a thumb across her cheek.
Her eyes snapped open, seeped of color in the night, their brilliant green now a shade identical to the moon. She looked like a painting, an ice goddess, sparkling white and pewter, her hair tumbling like tousled midnight across her pearly breasts. He ached to lick those tears from her face as he plunged into her over and over again.
“Faet,” he muttered, and began to withdraw his hand.
Her fingers closed around his wrist. “No,” she said, the rumble of her beast rippling near, calling wildly to his own.
“Sorry.” He tugged on his hand, trying again to get away. “I—”
She growled, low, vicious, and his skin rippled. She let go of his hand, then reached forward with blurring speed to tangle her fingers in his hair. He had no choice but to come where she led, or lose big chunks from his scalp.
She pulled him back where he’d been, hip-to-hip, chest-to-chest, holding him still inches from her face; then she leaned her forehead against his, her silvery green eyes so close, the sheen of the tear tracks nearly blinding him.
“When you touch me,” she whispered, “I forget. I need, Julian”—her fingers clenched on his name, drawing him ever closer, giving him just a hint of pleasurable pain—“to forget.”
Had she ever called him Julian? He couldn’t recall, but considering the way his name sounded in that voice—part woman, part wolf—the way it made him harden and pulse, he didn’t think so.
Yet still he hesitated. The first time had been a dream, or so they’d thought, easily passed off as a mistake. This would be a choice, and there would be no denying it.
For either one of them.
She closed her eyes, perhaps to get herself under control, or let him do the same, and as she did a single, silver droplet fell.
Time slowed. Julian could see the tear plummeting, could hear the whoosh of it through the air; he caught the scent of the sea, could almost taste again the flavorful brine.
The tear splashed against his chest, and he hissed in a breath. How could it be so cold?
The sound caused Alex’s eyes to flare open, and they traced the track of the tear across his nipple, then she leaned forward and did the same with her tongue.
How could he have been so wrong? Choice had nothing to do with it.
She suckled him hard and he cursed—Norwegian. English. A little Inuit thrown in—but when she would have lifted her head, he cupped his hand around her neck and pulled her back.
Her lips curved against his skin; then her tongue curled around his nipple, laving, tickling before her teeth grazed the flat disk until he pearled as hard as she had.
She slid downward, mouth busy on his ribs, his belly, his—
“Whoa!” He tried to lift her—if she got busy there, this would be over before it began—but she grabbed his penis in her ice-cold hand and he jerked. Maybe he could last a while longer.
Her breath was warm, her mouth even warmer. It had been so damn long. He’d had sex, sure, but this to him had always been the height of intimacy. You had to trust someone to put your “jewels” in a place where they kept all those teeth.
Julian stiffened. He had a lot of feelings about Alex, but trust wasn’t one of them.
Struggling for control, at first Julian didn’t realize that Alex had gone to her knees. He looked down just as she leaned forward and licked him, quick as a cat, along his tip.
He cursed, reaching for her, but she struck away his hands, then with agonizing slowness she rose.
Her breath drifted over his belly, and the muscles beneath the skin fluttered. Moist heat curled across his chest, his neck and mouth. She lifted her gaze to his, tilting her chin just enough so their lips brushed.
“What kind of man are you?” she asked.
“Not a man,” he said, and pushed her once more against the wall.
He could only take so much and he’d already taken it. Hell, he’d refused a blow job. He deserved a fucking medal. Instead, he’d take this.
He cupped her butt
ocks, sliding his fingers across the soft, virgin skin where thighs became ass. His biceps flexed to lift her, but she already had her arms around his neck, using the house to brace herself so she could hook her knees over his hips, cross her ankles at the small of his back, and pull him home.
He thrust, sliding within, relishing her heat—that soft, tight, moist heat. He’d meant to finish quick—he didn’t have much finesse left—but instead, the instant she surrounded him, he stilled, then lowered his forehead to hers.
She wanted to forget; he could understand that. Some nights he would have given the soul she didn’t think he had for just an hour’s sweet peace.
“Barlow,” she muttered, and wriggled, trying to arch but he had her pinned too tightly.
“Don’t move,” he managed. If she moved right now, if he did, this would be over far too soon; then they would both remember all that they wished to forget. He wanted to avoid that for as long as he could.
She said something that sound a lot like Knull mæ i øret, but in English, and he smiled, closing his eyes, reaching for the strength on which he prided himself.
“Be still,” he murmured, and placed his palm on her belly, letting his thumb slide lower, delving into her tight curls. She was slick, swollen, perhaps as close now as he. He began to move just a little, in and out, flicking his thumb up and down.
“Yes,” she murmured. “Yes.”
And that single word, uttered in a voice he could only describe as woman, made him remember instead of forget.
His hand on another woman’s stomach as they lay in their bed, all tangled in the sheets and each other. Her dreams, his hopes, the argument that had torn them apart, then sent her away.
To her death.
Julian yanked his hand back, and the chill night air burned across his fingers. Yet he could still feel her skin against his palm, and her body drawing from him his seed.
“I can’t,” he croaked.
“You are,” she responded, “and so—” She thrust against him, hard and sure. “—am I.”
Fury flashed, like lightning through the sky above, and in the distance he thought there was thunder. Why wouldn’t the earth shake; why wouldn’t the skies open up and rain down fire? He was fucking another woman, and not just any woman, but the woman.
The one who had killed his wife.
Of course if it hadn’t been for him, Alana would never have been out there alone.
He threw back his head, roaring his fury to the heavens, and she clenched around him, the pulse of her orgasm fueling his own. But in that instant before he spilled everything, a memory sparked.
A boy with his golden hair. A girl with her green eyes. A dream that had become a nightmare through a bizarre combination of love and lies and impossibility.
The thoughts were agony, and Julian snarled again, his beast rumbling so close.
Alex drew his mouth to hers, and right before their lips met, she whispered, “Julian.”
He came in a rush so strong, if he hadn’t had the wall for support he would have fallen. As it was, he lost his grip on sanity, plunging into her, the thud of her spine against the house only fueling the violence within him.
She didn’t seem to mind, clasping him to her, arms wrapped around his back as she took all that he gave, gave all that he took, gasping in his ear, “Again. Again. Again,” to the rhythm of his thrusts.
When he was spent, when she was, he pulled out of her body without meeting her eyes. His hands and feet became paws a mere instant before they hit the ground running as some of the last words his wife had ever said to him rang in his shaggy wolf’s ears requesting the one thing he could never, ever give her.
A child.
“Just like a man,” Alex murmured as Julian’s bushy golden tail disappeared into the darkness. “Get what you want, then shift into a wolf and run away.”
She shook her head as she went inside. Talk about irrational, but then she was. What on earth had possessed her to let Julian Barlow do her against the side of the house?
“I didn’t ‘let’ him do anything.” She sighed as she turned the shower to a temperature just short of scalding. “I begged him to.”
Alex sat on the edge of the tub and took inventory. Bruised ass? Check. Scraped back? Check. Burning, slightly blue feet? Check. Self-esteem at an all-time low?
“Double check.”
She’d never begged for sex in her life; she hadn’t begged for anything except—
“Hell,” Alex muttered, and let her chin fall down to her chest. She was right back where she’d started. Not wanting to remember, but unable to forget that night in Alabama.
The werewolf had come right at her. How she had missed killing it, Alex would never know. The whole night had been a disaster from the instant the beast first appeared. Charlie hesitating, when Charlie never did, and because he did, Alex had done the same.
She’d never made that mistake again.
The water was hot; so Alex climbed in and let the beat of it on her face wash away the grainy tracks of her tears. But the memories would never wash away.
The wolf had rushed forward; Alex had fired. But she thought maybe—probably—her hands had begun to shake, and the bullet went wide, catching something—an ear perhaps—because flames shot into the night. However, she hadn’t hit anything vital since the beast kept coming. She’d known she was dead and—
“That was all right,” Alex whispered, as the steam rose all around her.
But instead of slashing her to shreds, the werewolf had knocked her aside, too, and disappeared into the hills. She should have followed; she should have finished him off. Instead she’d dropped to her knees at her father’s side, and as his blood seeped into her jeans, she’d begged him not to die.
Unfortunately, he was already dead.
When the sun rose, so did she. Leaving Charlie’s body behind, she’d gathered his weapons with hers; then she’d called Edward.
He’d arrived within twenty-four hours, and he’d taken care of everything, including her. Alex had become a Jäger-Sucher in more than name that night. She’d been fifteen years old.
Alex gasped, realizing she’d nearly fallen asleep standing up, with the shower still beating on her face, and she felt a little sick. She shut off the water, ignoring the jitter in her stomach, and went in search of clothes.
She settled on another pair of black slacks and a bulky cable-knit sweater, also black. She didn’t bother with a colorful scarf this time. She just didn’t care.
Alex really needed to get to a store and find something that was more “her.” Not that she had any money. Or that there was a Walmart anywhere nearby.
The idea of a Walmart in the middle of the Arctic, servicing werewolves and the occasional Inuit, made her laugh. Which felt really good until she started to cry. What was wrong with her?
She did not cry. What was the point? Crying wouldn’t bring Charlie back any more than begging had. The only thing crying was good for was making her feel weak, alone, and sadder than she’d been before she started.
Her body languid—great sex appeared to have that effect—she decided to just lie down for a minute. The next thing she knew, she awoke—ears straining for…something.
Then, from the depths of the darkness, the scrape of claws across ice echoed. Alex was drawn to the window at the front of the silent house where she peered out upon an equally silent town.
Except for that click, click, click. It was going to drive her mad.
She shoved her bare feet into the horrible boots, which smelled like the burning remains of an old tire factory, and stepped outside.
The moon fell toward the horizon, throwing strange, elongated shadows across the snow. The village looked like a geometrically challenged children’s game—one where colorful plastic squares, rectangles, and the like needed to be shoved into their matching holes before the timer went off and popped them all back out.
The sound of those claws was like the tick of that clock, creating a sen
se of urgency that caused Alex to head down the steps and into the street.
Alex had thought herself the only one left in Barlowsville after Julian loped off. Just like the previous night, all the werewolves were running beneath the moon.
Alex reached the end of the street that spilled into the town square and caught sight of a tail disappearing around an ATV parked at the edge. She hurried after, wincing as her boots crunched in the snow like newspaper crushed in her hands.
She paused in case she had to duck around the side of the ice cream shop—who ate ice cream in the Arctic?—to avoid being seen. Why she wanted to avoid that, she wasn’t sure, but she did.
However, the animal kept going. With his super-duper ears he had to have heard her, but he didn’t even glance back.
Who was this wolf? Why was it here? What did it want?
Alex had already rushed through the common and followed the four-legged shadow across the street before her brain caught up to her questions.
“Rogue,” she whispered, then she cursed.
Why hadn’t she brought a gun?
Oh, right. She no longer had a gun.
For an instant, Alex could barely think past the thunder of her heart in her head. Then she realized she had a better weapon within.
She’d just begun to slide Ella’s slacks from her hips when she caught sight of the wolf again. Though the moon leached the color from everything, it couldn’t change the shape of the body, the particular shagginess of the coat, the size of the paws, or the arrogant tilt of the head.
“Barlow,” she muttered.
She nearly turned away and went back to Ella’s. But then the wolf trotted right past Barlow’s house and headed for the white monstrosity to the rear.
Alex followed. She couldn’t help it. She wanted to know what that place was, and now seemed like a very good time.
She reached Julian’s backyard just as the wolf turned into a man. Then she stood there frowning as the man opened the door and went inside.
She knew Barlow’s backside better than she knew her own.
That hadn’t been it.
Chapter 15
Julian ran through the night, attempting to make the memories fade. Not surprisingly, running didn’t help any more than fucking had.
Marked by the Moon Page 15