The Wolf's Cub (The Wolf's Peak Saga Book 3)

by Patricia Blackmoor

  Adam pulled me off the path and through the brush.

  “Where are we going?” I asked.

  “Just wait. It’s worth it, I promise.” His arm had slipped from mine, and he now held my hand in his, his warm, rough hand grasping my small, soft one. He broke into a run, tugging me along behind him.

  “Why are we running?” I asked.

  “I’ll show you,” he said as he pushed a few branches away. “Look.”

  I stepped up behind him to look at what he was trying to show me. In front of us was a circular clearing bathed in moonlight, a long–abandoned well centered in the middle.

  “Oh, it’s beautiful,” I said as Adam pulled me through so we were standing inside. From here, I could see millions of stars all twinkling above us and here the lake lapping along the shoreline.

  “I come here sometimes when I want a little bit of peace,” Adam said. “It’s so serene.”

  I crossed to the moss–covered well and ran my fingers along the wood. “It’s like something out of a fairytale.”

  Of course, I lived in a world where werewolves were more than just legend, so who was I to talk about fairy tales?

  Adam followed behind me, and my heart raced as he came so close he was almost touching me.

  “I wanted you here tonight,” he said.

  “What?”

  “At the party. I invited you because I wanted you to come.”

  I turned around to look at him, unable to escape the gaze of his emerald eyes. “Oh.”

  Adam cleared his throat. “I’ve wanted to tell you for a long time that I love having you in my life. Hazel, I think I’m in love with you.”

  I blushed furiously as I began to tremble. “That’s just the alcohol talking.”

  “No,” he insisted. “I’ve felt this way for years but have never been able to express how I feel.”

  We were quiet for several long, suffocating seconds. “How do you feel?” he finally asked.

  “I think I love you too.” My voice was hoarse, and I couldn’t stop shaking.

  Adam leaned in and kissed me, one hand sliding around my waist to pull me close. His lips were soft but firm, asking permission with passion. I reached up and wrapped my arms around his neck, lifting myself up on my tiptoes to get as close to him as possible. As we drew together, our kiss became more heated, warmth blossoming in my stomach. I never wanted to let him go.

  We broke for a moment, both breathing heavily, foreheads resting against each other. I swallowed, trying to regain control of my faculties. Was this a dream? If so, I never wanted to wake up. I couldn’t even remember when I’d realized I was in love with Adam. My feelings for him had grown as natural as the flowers in spring. I had found myself longing for his presence every summer when he and my brother were home from school. Now that we were older I saw him less and less, but that only seemed to make me ache for him more.

  Without quite realizing what I was doing, I tilted my chin to meet his lips again. My hands slipped from around his neck to the collar of his shirt. Somehow, despite my quivering hands, I managed to unbutton the first few buttons and expose his solid chest.

  He broke the kiss for a moment. “Are you sure?” His voice was husky.

  I looked up from the buttons and nodded, my eyes wide. I couldn’t speak.

  Adam pulled the blanket from my shoulders and laid it down over the dew–speckled grass. He reached out and took my hand, and together we kneeled onto the ground. Gently, Adam took my face in his hands and pulled me in for a soft kiss. His fingers began to work at the buttons on the front of my dress, and if I wasn’t mistaken, he was trembling as much as I was.

  My buttons were undone, but his weren’t. I reached over, his body heat comforting me as I finished off the last of the buttons. I ran my hands over the smooth muscle of his chest up to his shoulders, before gently pushing the sleeves back. He shrugged out of his shirt.

  I had seen Adam shirtless before, when he and my brother would go swimming or play outside, but it had never been in this sort of situation. The moon glinted off his chiseled muscle as if he was made of marble.

  Once again, I swallowed hard as I reached over to push my sleeved down my shoulders, exposing myself to a man for the first time. I hated how white my skin looked in the moonlight, or the freckles that splashed against my chest, but Adam didn’t seem to mind. He pulled me against him, skin against skin as our lips met with more pressure, more heat.

  Adam lowered me onto my back, our bodies never separating. His hardness pressed against me as I reached down and unbuckled his pants. Adam sat up, sliding my dress over my legs followed by my crinoline. Goosebumps prickled my skin as I watched him shuck off his pants and saw him completely. For the first time, fear tightened in my chest. How on earth was I going to be able to fit him inside of me? He was huge.

  Adam kissed my lips, then kissed down my neck to my chest. One hand cupped my left breast while his mouth enveloped my other nipple. My back arched off the ground at the new, extraordinary sensations, and I let out a low moan.

  Embarrassed, I looked at Adam, but he had only taken my vocalization as a cue to continue. One of his hands slipped between my legs, and when he found the small pearl in my folds, I moaned even louder. I could almost feel him smiling as he moved his mouth to my other breast, not wanting it to be left out.

  My hands clutched his shoulders. “Adam,” I panted.

  He paused. “Yes?”

  “Are you—are you ready?”

  He looked at me with wide eyes. “Are you?”

  I nodded. Carefully, he aligned himself at my entrance.

  “Just be gentle,” I begged.

  “Of course.”

  Slowly he pushed into me. A stinging pain exploded between my legs, but after a moment it faded to be replaced by a certain pleasure. I had feared he wouldn’t fit, but instead he filled me, my body stretching to accommodate.

  “All right?” Adam asked.

  “Yes,” I whispered.

  He began to thrust, slowly at first, then picking up speed. In my twenty–two years on earth, I had never experienced anything like this. Tension built in my chest as he his a spot inside of me that cause the stars to tumble from the sky and into my vision. My nails dug into his back as he continued, harder, deeper, until I couldn’t take it any more. I plunged into ecstasy, and Adam was right behind me.

  Spent, we collapsed together, and Adam kissed me on the forehead. We slept, tangled together naked, wrapped in the blanket.

  When I woke up the next morning, I was alone.

  …but first, Patricia returns with the standalone Ghosts of Glendrie Isle in March!

  .

  SNEAK PEEK #2

  Chapter One

  I pulled up to the massive iron gates and turned off the car. Reaching into the cup holder beside me, I rummaged until I found the overfull keyring and the key labeled Main Gate in a thin scripted lettering. I pushed the door open, my feet hitting the ground, and I slipped the key into the lock. The doors were heavier than I expected. One of the first things I was going to have to do was put a new electric lock on the gate. Maybe something bluetooth or wifi–enabled.

  I left the gate unlocked as I drove through onto Glendrie Isle. It was a bit of a misnomer, but Glendrie Peninsula just didn’t have the same ring to it. The island was connected to the mainland by a thin strip of road, with Lake Superior lapping at both sides. Sometimes, if the snow melted too fast or if it rained too much, the road would flood, and then it really was an island.

  I guided the car down the curved driveway and pulled to a stop at the front door of the mansion. Even the 38–room house wasn’t big enough to fill the nearly four–acre property. The surrounding grounds included multiple gardens, a carriage house, a beachfront, forests with hiking trails, and a cemetery. All of them needed work, but I’d be starting with the mansion.

  I searched the crowded ring for the Front Door key. Once the door was unlocked I pushed it open, the smell of dust and mildew hitting me. I
t had been a long time since anyone had been in here. I looked around at the plastic–covered furniture and used a chair to prop the door open. I’d have to be careful. The chair was just as old as the house.

  With the door now open, I began unloading the back of my SUV. Because the house came furnished, I hadn’t had to pack much. Many of the smaller pieces, like dishes and towels and luggage, had been sold when the city was trying to raise money for the upkeep of the mansion, so in addition to my clothes and toiletries, I had brought my own kitchen and bathroom accessories. In all, I had maybe a dozen boxes as well as my mattress. I had rented out my house in Minneapolis to a friend on a month–to–month basis. I didn’t know exactly how long I was going to be here. It depended on how long it took to fix this place up and sell it.

  I piled up the boxes in the main hall, but I’d need help with the heavy mattress. The entrance to Glendrie Mansion gave just a taste of the elegance the manor held. The walls were covered in intricate wood paneling, and the hardwood floors were covered with crimson rugs. Just inside the door to the right was a small room. The paper map in my hand labeled it the Receiving Room. The hallway to the left led to the kitchen, dining rooms, and servants rooms. The hallway to the right led to the library, living room, and study. In front of me, a staircase stretched up to the second floor, accented with an ornately carved banister and stained glass windows on the landing. Under the stairs was a door with the same stained glass that lead out to the balcony. All the furniture here was covered with a layer of plastic, but I could tell they were chairs, loveseats, and tables.

  The box on top of the stack was marked with green tape, which meant it was for the kitchen. I pulled the map out of my pocket and used the light from the stained glass to figure out how to get to the kitchen. Where were the light switches in this place? My eyes finally landed on the panel at the bottom of the stairs and I flicked it on. The small wall sconces lit up behind the flower shaped glass casings. Now I could read the map a little better.

  There was no easy way to the kitchen. I could to through the formal dining room or through the servant dining room. I started down the hallway, past the covered seating, my feet leaving footprints in the dust.

  Once I found my way into the kitchen, I set the box down on the island. This room would need to be the first one to be fixed. While most of the house had preserved its Jacobian architecture and Edwardian decor, the kitchen had been redone in the ‘70s just before the city had taken possession. The small table under the windows was original, and so was the thankfully timeless subway tile. However, the clunky electric stove and pebbled linoleum certainly was not. I shook my head. Why would anyone cover this gorgeous hardwood with linoleum?

  I went out and collected the other kitchen boxes and began unpacking. My dishes and silverware went on the counter of the butler’s pantry that connected the kitchen to both the breakfast room and the dining room. I set my stand mixer on the island and filed away the baking utensils and pots and pans in the drawers underneath. Baking was a therapy for me, however I didn’t know how much of a chance I would get to bake while I was here. The oven had a suspicious look that made it easy to imagine that it could burst into flames or smoke me out of the house. I gave it a once–over as I set my microwave on the counter next to it. Yes, this kitchen would be the first thing I tore apart, and I’d be ordering take–out for a while. Hopefully, it would be the only room I would have to completely gut. I prayed the rest of the house would be mainly cosmetic, just needing the repairs that came with age and decay.

  A new stove, new cabinets, new countertops, new sink, new flooring. I would be so mad if the linoleum had ruined the hardwood underneath. If it had, maybe I could replace it with new hardwood, or if I wanted to really spruce it up, travertine or marble. My concern was that anything other than wood would make it feel separate from the rest of the house, as it did now.

  Once everything in the kitchen was put away, I went back to the main hall and grabbed the next box, marked in red. This needed to go to the study. I turned down the right hallway and set the box on the desk. This box was mostly papers, everything from the closing of the house as well as some other documents, like permits and floorplans. The study needed to be redone too; the wallpaper was peeling, and even if it hadn’t been, I would have changed it anyway, because it a strange texture, like straw. In the meantime, the study would be my center of operations while I redid this house.

  I sat down in the green armchair beside the desk to take a quick break. This was going to be the first flip I had ever done on my own. I was ready to prove my worth.

  My parents had been real estate agents in the Twin Cities metro when I was growing up, but times got hard when the housing market crashed. I was in college when they switched gears and began flipping houses, and I began working for them for extra money. I started by assisting my mom with the interior design, and found I liked it. I switched majors, and eventually both my sister Kristy and I were allowed to work on our own projects under our parents’ company.

  I loved what I did. I worked hard. Under my parents’ guidance, I was allowed to choose the houses, create the design, and sell. I was good at it, too. My parents let Kristy and I keep half the profits we made, and they would foot the bill for the purchases. The strategy had paid off well for them, and they were making more money than they ever had when I was a kid.

  But I was left wondering. I was privileged, to be sure. I had gotten lucky, getting a job with my parents, and I happened to be good at what they did. My houses sold because of the Daniels’ Real Estate name. What would happen to me if I branched out on my own?

  It was an idea that had festered for over a year. I had it made, working for my parents. While most of my friends were working two jobs trying to pay off their student loans, I had been able to buy my own little house in the city. Most people would call me insane for wanting to branch out, but I needed to know if it was possible for me to replicate my success away from home. Was I really as good as I thought I was, or was I relying too much on my parents’ name?

  That’s when I had discovered Glendrie Island. When I first saw the listing, I was sure they had forgotten a zero. The price was jaw–droppingly low for everything included, so I did a little bit of digging into the history of the house. I was still wary of the low price, but things were making more sense.

  The house had been built by Roger Chester, a lawyer and businessman who had helped with the development of iron and copper mining in the area. Building began in 1905 and was finished three years later. Six years after that, the entire family, Roger, his wife, Clara, and their children Helen and Robert, were murdered by a family servant. The house passed to several family members before being donated to the city in 1977. The city had held onto it for several decades, using it as a tourist attraction. They had kept up the house until the cost became to overwhelming, and after a series of budget cuts, the island was sold to a big hotel chain. They had begun work, fortifying the foundation and replacing sections of the roof before the chain was bought out and the island was sold to a smaller hotel company. They’d had it for only a few months before they went bankrupt. I had bought the island during a short sale.

  It didn’t take too much digging to discover why it was being sold at such a low price, or why they hadn’t had any takers. A quick Google search revealed page after page with titles like “Most Haunted Houses in the United States”, “Twelve Haunted Places in Minnesota”, and “Ghosts of Brutal Murders”. The articles included “evidence” such as almost every Chester family member dying in the home, and interviews from city employees who had worked as tour guides. It made me roll my eyes, but it was enough to scare away plenty of people.

  When I told my parents my plan to branch out, they had been supportive. When I told them I was buying Glendrie Isle, the blood drained from their faces. Even Kristy tried to talk me out of it. She claimed it was going to be too big, too much. My parents said no one would ever buy it, no matter how nice it looked. I didn’t care. That�
�s what made this exciting. Besides, I was using my own money and my own name to fix and sell it. This would have no effect on them. Despite assuring them that this wouldn’t ruin their company name, they were still concerned. They thought it was too ambitious for my first project. They showed me houses they were looking at, told me I could purchase one of them instead, but it was too late. I had fallen in love with the pictures and story of Glendrie Isle. I was in love, and there was nothing they could do about it. I’d bought it sight unseen and paid in cash. As soon as the keys were in my hands and I had someone to rent my house, I packed up the car and headed up north.

  I went back out into the main hall. The only boxes left were labeled blue, which meant they needed to go up to my bedroom. I glanced at the stack of six boxes, and glanced at the lengthy staircase. After moving and unpacking, I really wasn’t in the mood to carry everything up to the next level.

  Maybe I didn’t have to. I pushed the boxes down the left hallway, past the sewing room, and over to the box on the map marked Lift. I pushed the button and the metal grate slid to the side and the elevator doors opened. Preventing the doors from closing with my body, I loaded the boxes inside. I wondered what the weight limit was in here. I was mostly loading clothes and toiletries, but who knew when the last time was this thing had been serviced, so instead of riding up, I pressed the button for the second floor and stepped out, watching the doors close and the elevator rise.

  I took the stairs and met the elevator at the top, pushing the boxes into the bedroom I had chosen. It was just as pretty as the pictures. After that, I spent about a half hour going through the house room by room, making notes on what needed to be changed. Finally, when all that was done, I went to the kitchen and pulled one of my hard lemonades from the fridge. Since they had only been in there about an hour, they weren’t cold yet, but I had kept them in the cab of the SUV with me so the air conditioning had kept them just under room temperature. I leaned against the island as I drank, looking around the ugly room. Stupid linoleum. I’d better not find it in any of the other rooms. I was still thankful, however, for the subway tiles. Based on pictures it was not only in the kitchen but also in the bathrooms. Thank god it was becoming trendy again, although I knew that the sort of buyer who would choose this house would care less about trendy and more about history. Still, linoleum wasn’t from the right period of history, and it would have to go. It was covering the floor of the pantry and butler’s pantry as well, but it hadn’t infected any of the dining rooms. Like the rest of the house, they were covered in a hardwood that I hoped would be as stunning as the pictures once the dust was cleared away.