by Anne Marsh
He grunts (I’m shocked) and turns the bike on. The engine’s vibrations flood my body with sensation everywhere, but particularly between my legs. Or maybe that’s because I’m sandwiched against Ware, my pussy all but glued to his butt. My legs hug his hips.
He adjusts something on the bike. “Hold on.”
To what? The only option is him, so I carefully slide my arms around his waist. He’s hard, his body without an inch of give. My fingers brush the buckle of his belt and my stomach comes into close contact with what is unmistakably the handle of a gun. Guess he’s not worried about my shooting him in the back.
My heart slams into my chest, reminding me that my ride isn’t my safest option. Behind us, the flames crackle as they devour Big Dog’s cabin.
“Where are we going?” Honestly, I’m not sure I want to hear the answer. Going home tops my wish list, but I disappeared into the bayou five months ago. My landlord likely cleaned out my place and tossed or sold my stuff. I’m starting over and I’m all but naked.
“My place.” Ware guides the bike away from the cabin and onto the road. Or what passes for a road. The way to Big Dog’s is definitely off the beaten path—and it’s more dirt and rocks (a track?) than anything formalized in asphalt.
This is a bad idea. I know it, and I should put the brakes on his high-handed decision-making. But the thing is? I don’t know where else to go. I’m likely jobless, homeless, and pant-less—and that’s a trifecta of problems I’m not prepared to deal with right now.
Instead, the throb of the engine vibrating through my body makes me feel alive in a way I haven’t for months. There’s a beat and a rhythm to it, the roar of the pipes almost enough to drown out the panicked thoughts in my head. When Ware shifts to take a curve in the road, my body instinctively matches his, and I like the ease with which his body guides mine, too. I’ve always loved Harleys.
“What you’d do before?” He asks his question casually, as if he’s not also announcing that my life is over. Changed. Forcibly rerouted in a new direction. I try reminding myself that I like new experiences, but this isn’t so much new or an experience as it is flat-out catastrophe.
I rest my head against his shoulder, both hating and loving my weakness. No more bikers, I remind myself. He guides the bike down the road effortlessly, left, right, straight. Each decision is followed by a powerful flex of muscles. I’m wearing both his shirt and his jacket, so his shoulders are bare beneath the leather cut. His skin smells like that leather and something warmer, wilder, and more alive. I’d like to say I hate how out of control he makes me feel, but somehow this feels…right.
“I was a librarian,” I tell him. Because we’re on the bike and the noise of the pipes bounces off the trees and the bayou’s still, dark waters, I have to put my mouth almost on his ear. I’ve got my legs wrapped around his and my hands tucked against his stomach, but somehow that new proximity feels almost too intimate.
He nods. “Books.”
“And magazines and ebooks and DVDs. All sorts of stuff.” I have no idea why I’m discussing collection development with him. It’s not like he cares, and I have a hard time imagining that he’s much of a reader. This is a man who rides a Harley and who just beat the crap out of another man. Who most likely killed that other guy, since Big Dog wouldn’t have let me just walk away without some powerful persuasion. Plus, B.D. deserved to die. I’m just sorry he didn’t invite me to help the way he did with our arson.
I realize that I’m less concerned about his possible penchant for violence than I am about his knowing Big Dog. I mean, I doubt there’s a rule that says he has to be a wolf, too, but if he knew Big Dog and they rode together in the same MC… what are the odds?
“Are you a wolf?” Shit shit shit. I’ve blurted the question out. Apparently, I left my sense of self-preservation behind in the bayou.
“Fuck.” Ware doesn’t toss me off the bike, although I’m not sure how to interpret his four-letter response. Fuck, as in let’s stop and get it on by the side of the road (he’s hot, but I’ve officially sworn off men). Fuck, as in “you have outed a secret wolfish conspiracy and now I must take steps”? Or just fuck, he doesn’t know what to say to me because my question is so outlandish that now he fears for my sanity?
“Big Dog could change into a wolf.” I know I sound crazy, and I’m sure I look even crazier. I mean, Ware just untied me from the bed where I was spread-eagled and naked, so clearly my judgment is questionable. But I can’t help noticing that his body stays loose and relaxed. He doesn’t tense or edge away or give any sign of distress—which means one thing.
He knows.
“Big Dog was a shifter,” he agrees. “You know about that?”
We’re out of the bayou now, driving through the outskirts of Baton Rouge. The surrounding area is rough, the buildings dilapidated and run-down. There’s also a singular dearth of people and escape routes, so I kind of wish I’d waited to ask my question until we were somewhere more civilized. Someplace with visible people.
“He liked to play show and tell,” I admit. The first time Big Dog shifted, I peed myself. I’m not ashamed to admit it. One minute he was holding me down, and then I blinked or closed my eyes, and a wolf was pinning me down. He scraped his teeth over my jaw and homed in on my shoulder. He bit me there, and I’ve woken up more than one night since then, screaming. “He bit.”
I can’t help but notice we’re talking about Big Dog in the past tense. And that Ware doesn’t seem to be actually headed back into the city. We’re still riding through the outskirts, where the bayou meets industrial wasteland and undervalued properties. There’s a strange kind of beauty to the way Mother Nature has reclaimed what the people had and left. It’s all warehouses and skeletons of abandoned buildings, their original purposes lost along with roofs and windows. Weeds grow up through the asphalt, emphasizing the wildness of the place.
Like Ware.
“Am I going to turn into a werewolf?” I’m not sure why this hasn’t occurred to me before—probably because my shit list was already overflowing, and my brain was smart enough not to add anything else. But now that I’m away from Big Dog’s cabin and he’s gotten what he had coming to him (I should probably feel bad about his death, but I just can’t), I have a little more bandwidth.
The corner of Ware’s mouth tugs up. Apparently, this is his version of a smile. “No,” he says. “We’re not contagious.”
“Oh. Good.” Wait. I peel back from him. He said we.
He curses again and shoves a hard arm around my waist. He’s probably just making sure I don’t fall off the bike—road rash wouldn’t improve my day any—but suddenly I can’t quite catch my breath as I mentally try to fit Ware under “W.” W for wolf. He’s a wolf. Too. Wait wait wait.
“Don’t freak out,” he growls as if it’s that simple. He orders. I obey. Is giving commands a Ware thing—or a wolf thing? He’s good at it. My stupid clit apparently still thinks dominant men could be fun in bed—it perks up—but I ignore it. From now on, I’m filing sex under T for Trouble. Or Terminal.
Ware turns sharply off the road and heads for another run-down, beat-up structure. It’s a warehouse. I think. It’s kind of hard to tell, to be honest. The building is one of those non-descript two-story industrial boxes with a small parking lot, tons of chain-link fencing topped with barbed wire, and a general sense of fuck off, you don’t belong here. Or maybe it’s trespassers will be eaten. I know one thing: letting Ware take me inside an abandoned building in the middle of nowhere is even stupider than dating Big Dog. I make a point of learning from my mistakes.
So when Ware parks the bike outside the warehouse, I’m off and sprinting for the street.
WARE
Running from a wolf is a huge mistake.
We love the hunt.
Marly bolts off the back of my bike and pounds for the street, bounding like a bunny—or prey. Her hair flies in a million different directions as she pumps her arms and legs trying to achieve maximum ve
locity. I pause to enjoy the show—it’s not as if she’s getting away from me—because it’s kinda cute. Her boots are too big, as are the jeans, so she runs and grabs at the stuff that threatens to fly off. She’s determined. I’ll give her that. I also make a mental note to get her some clothes that fit.
She deserves nice things. So I’m feeling a little possessive. A little bit as if she’s mine, and I want anyone who looks at her to know she’s valued. Expensive clothes aren’t the only way to do that, but all it takes is a black AmEx and some time. Clothes aren’t much. You know she won’t want a fucking thing from me, but when the choice is between wearing Big Dog’s used crap or something pretty and new, I’m hoping she caves. Dunno. Marly hides a backbone of steel underneath her soft surface.
I’ve got a leg that only works part-time hours, and I’m not getting any younger. Jace is our new blood and the kind of male Marly should hook up with. Even wolves wear out, and I’ve been fighting a long time. I did my service for Uncle Sam, and that was a bitch because I had to watch when and where I shifted. Took a round from an AK-47 to that leg and had to come home. Big Red, the previous pack Alpha, collected vets. We’re strong, we know how to fight, and we can take orders if we choose. It’s the choosing that matters—that, and running free. Whether it’s on the back of my bike or on four legs, I don’t do cages, rules, or bars.
I plan on extending Marly the same courtesy.
With a stifled groan, I swing my leg over the bike and go after her. Willpower can’t force the stupid knee to work right, although I give it a shot daily—something just north of my kneecap shrieks an internal protest when I hit the pavement. I ignore it. Doesn’t matter. My legs are longer than hers, and I haven’t spent the last few months tied to a bed in the bayou. Even with my game leg, I catch her in six strides, and it only takes that long because I’m pacing myself. She doesn’t stand a chance.
She shrieks when I scoop her up and tries to nail me in the balls with her elbow. I should probably take offense at that, but I’m cutting her some slack. She’s had a shitty encounter with wolves so far, so she doesn’t understand that I don’t plan on hurting her. She flails again, so I toss her over my shoulder, anchoring her in place with my forearm. She’s just a little thing. Doesn’t weigh much at all.
“I’m leaving,” she bellows into my back.
Uh-huh. I can see that.
“Not yet,” I warn, and she slaps her palm against my ass, punctuating her demand with some one-on-one contact. That’s what I get for trying to be a nice guy. You don’t challenge a wolf, not unless you want a fight—and Marly’s just fired the opening shot. I flip her around so quickly she doesn’t have a chance to scream. Fist her hair with one hand and tug her head back until she meets my gaze.
She freezes like any smart woman would do when confronted by a pissed off werewolf. When she pulls at my grip, I feed her silky hair through my fingers, milking the moment. I’m not gonna hurt her, but I sure don’t want to let go, either.
“I could tie you up.” I growl the threat, certain it’ll do the trick. She’ll stop fighting, will let me get her inside where we can figure out this whole fucked up situation. She knows about the pack and she’s seen a male shift—so now I have to come up with a way to keep her quiet that doesn’t involve hurting or killing her.
Her breath hitches. Fuck. I freeze like a goddamned juvenile right there on the pavement. Wolves have an excellent sense of smell, and one thing becomes perfectly clear.
Marly likes the idea of me tying her up. The sweet, creamy scent of her arousal teases me, and I breathe in again. Maybe I should tell her how her body’s betrayed her? Nah. Besides, I’m enjoying the moment. I’m also making a list of every dirty, filthy thing I want to do to her.
“Nothing to say?” I bounce her gently on my shoulder and stride toward the entrance to my place. There are advantages to being the big, bad wolf and this is definitely one of them. I’m a dominant by nature, and I’m starting to suspect that she’s a submissive.
And my mate. Kinda. Temporarily. I claimed her out there in the bayou because it was the only way Jace would let me ride off with her. Partly, I did it to show I had his back—he’s got mating woes, trying to deal with the former Alpha’s daughter. Or he’s got the worst case of blue balls ever. Either way, he doesn’t need the added challenge of Marly. And she interests me.
When she doesn’t answer, I tap her on the ass—way more gently than she handled me, but just sharp enough to make a sound—and she freezes.
“You can’t do this,” she blusters, and it’s cute, the way she still believes words can make a thing true. I’ve been a wolf a long time now, and I can tell her with absolute surety that being bigger and stronger means I can.
“Give me any more trouble, and you’ve earned yourself a spanking.”
I believe in warning—once. After that, I act.
My front door’s got about a dozen locks on it, because you can’t be too careful. Some of the wolves crash at the clubhouse, but others of us have our own lairs scattered around the bayou’s edges. I like having my space. Sure, I’ll ride when and where Jace needs me, but sometimes I prefer being on my own. Probably where the term lone wolf comes from.
“Ware—” Marly says my name, but she doesn’t move. See? She’s learning.
Good girl.
I carry her inside and lock up behind me. The warehouse was redone as a loft and spans a couple of stories. It’s not so fancy, but there’s open space and the sunlight pours in through the skylights. I’m not big on furniture, but the bottom floor holds a leather couch and the biggest TV I could fit through the door, which pretty much covers the basics. My kitchen’s even got a table, although it’s not as if I use it for much besides holding beer. Kinda like knowing it’s there, though. If I want to host a four-fucking-course dinner, I can.
I bypass the couch and the kitchen, though, and take the stairs two at a time. The bedroom’s on the middle level, where I can see any enemies coming. It’s also where the tub is. I’ve never brought a woman back here. In fact, I never bring anyone here. This is my place, my space, and usually I prefer my solitude.
Marly makes another squeaking sound when I step inside the bedroom. Right. I don’t need a PhD in communications to interpret that sound. I’m the big, bad wolf, I’m part of Big Dog’s pack, and now she expects me to fall on her like some kind of ravaging beast. And honestly? If that was what she really needed, I’d be happy to oblige.
The fact is, though, that I’m ten years too old and my knee’s fucked six ways to Sunday. Someday, a younger, faster wolf will take me down in a dominance fight, so I have no business claiming her for real. Not when I can’t protect her. Not when I’d make her even more vulnerable than she already is. So I set her on her feet, sliding my hand down her arm until my fingers loosely bracelet her wrist. She ducks her head, staring at my boots like they’re the most interesting things she’s ever seen.
She’s the sweetest little liar.
And I can still smell her arousal, which pisses me off.
“Sex is off the menu tonight,” I tell her.
She sorta freezes, her breath hitching. Bet she didn’t see that one coming. Turns out I have a chivalrous side after all. She doesn’t need a too-old, beat up wolf in her bed, and I don’t need her brand of trouble. While she’s still trying to frame an answer, I tow her into my bathroom and turn the water on. Maybe I don’t get to have her, maybe I can’t fix her sex life, but I can do something for her.
“Sit.” I point to the closed toilet seat. Yeah. That’s just more proof that I’m no closet romantic. She hesitates but then sinks down. My wolf growls happily at the little act of submission. It wants to think that Marly recognizes her own personal Alpha, that there’s a chance for an old wolf after all.
I need to stop thinking about her. Need to get her out of my place, out of my life. The fact that’s gonna happen tomorrow doesn’t make me—or my wolf—happy, but life’s full of shit. I’ve got her here now, though, so I st
art the water. I don’t have any of that bubble bath shit girls like, and that’s an oversight on my part. I add it to my mental shopping list. I’ve got a well-used bar of Irish Spring and not much more to offer, but I do find a clean towel.
“I’ll be right outside the door,” I tell her and then I close the door and retreat.
MARLY
Knowing Ware’s on the other side of that closed door makes me feel better. The sense of security is stupid, or at least painfully thin. One thing’s true, though. He’s all that’s standing between me and Big Dog’s wolf pack. The problem is, all I can think about is those stories. You know the ones I mean. Where the big, bad wolf threatens to eat you up.
Don’t go all Stockholm. I think that’s what they call it when you start lusting after your kidnapper, start thinking the sun rises and sets around him and that he’s really a good guy. Or at the very least, entirely misunderstood.
I’d like to pretend I argue with myself about getting into the tub. Or that I at least lock the door. But the thing is? I’m filthy and the door doesn’t have a lock. Beggars. Choosers. When the tub finishes filling, I strip off my borrowed clothes, drop them on the floor, and get in. He doesn’t even have to order me—he just leaves me here and I do it.
Bliss.
I float in the water, letting the heat soak into my bones and wash the grime of cabin-living and Big Dog away. When the water starts to cool, I add more because it’s not my water bill. Unfortunately, while the water’s plentiful, Ware’s choice of bathroom toiletries is sadly lacking. I make use of his Irish Spring, and then I slip out of the tub to ransack his vanity. He’s got spare toilet paper, a few cleaning supplies, a razor blade, and nothing else. I briefly consider arming myself, but one blade seems like poor odds against six-feet-two-inches of werewolf. Plus… I trust him.
For absolutely no good reason.
See? Stockholm Syndrome.
Dutifully, I get back in the tub and mentally review my options. Besides the door into the bedroom, the only exit from the bathroom appears to be through the skylights in the roof—twenty feet above me. Not only does the bathroom lack movable furniture, but I’m flat out too short to reach. Even if I got out, then I’d be on the roof. Naked.