Wulfe Untamed

by Wulfe Untamed

  He hadn’t. He’d thought he’d loved her, and he might have if she’d ever cared for him at all. But what Hawke described resonated inside of him. Because of Natalie.

  “Did something happen?” Kougar asked. “Did you kiss her?”

  Wulfe hesitated, then decided he might as well come clean. “She kissed me.”

  Hawke smiled. “That must have been a hell of a kiss.”

  “It was as chaste as they come.”

  Kougar plucked at his beard. “It may have been chaste, but the emotion behind it was powerful indeed.”

  “You think my feelings for her did this?”

  “And her feelings for you.”

  Wulfe blinked, confusion colliding with joy. She liked him, he knew that. But Kougar had used the word powerful. “I have no idea what she feels for me.”

  Hawke clasped him on the shoulder. “Whatever the reason for your woody, it’s a blessing. Go find her and kiss her back.”

  As if he hadn’t already done that and much, much more.

  Wulfe nodded. His friend was right. With his body stirring like a summer storm, he could finally share the intimacy with Natalie they both wanted.

  The question was . . . should he, when everything was so screwed up?

  Wulfe was halfway up the second flight of stairs, his blood on fire with dreams of pulling Natalie into his arms and stripping both of them bare, when the sound of pounding footsteps had him glancing back. Lyon and Tighe were running up the stairs, taking the steps two at a time.

  “Wulfe,” Tighe called.

  “What’s going on?”

  Lyon’s mouth compressed. “Natalie. Melisande found me.”

  Hell. Natalie was in pain and the women had sent for Lyon, not him. Turning, he ran up the remaining stairs and started down the hall.

  “Don’t touch her!” Lyon called from behind.

  Wulfe strode into his chief’s bedroom to find Natalie hunched over on the bed beside Kara, her hands clenched against her knees, tears glistening on her cheeks.

  The women looked up as he entered the room, Delaney and Falkyn scooting aside to give him access. But as he reached Natalie, as he pulled her into his arms, she threw up her hands, blocking her face.

  “Don’t. Please. It’ll stop.” She grabbed his hand. “Just hold me.”

  “Always.” But it flayed him alive to see her in such pain and not do what he could to end it.

  Lyon and Tighe rushed into the room, coming to a standstill halfway to the bed. Lyon began issuing orders. “Melisande, move Kara to the Radiant’s room. All non-Ferals out of here. Now.”

  Olivia stood her ground. “Let me help, Lyon. I can weaken him if you need me to, and he can’t hurt me. I’m still immortal.”

  Wulfe felt like a fucking wild animal on the verge of going rabid.

  Lyon nodded, then turned to Melisande. “I could use you, too, once you have Kara settled.”

  One Ilina couldn’t mist an unwilling Feral Warrior, but one Ilina could call half a dozen more in two seconds. And half a dozen Ilinas could mist him to the North Pole, if they wanted to. Or the Crystal Realm, for that matter.

  “I’ll be right back.” A moment later, Melisande and Kara disappeared.

  Wulfe’s jaw worked as he swallowed the need to yell at them all that he wasn’t going berserk, dammit! Because, hell, he didn’t know what he might do. Even if he managed to keep from easing Natalie’s pain, for all any of them knew, he might still go crazed. Because none of them really knew what the fuck was going on with him.

  In his arms, Natalie’s shaking grew worse, the tears a steady flow down her cheeks, now. How much more of this could she take? How much more could he take?

  He pulled her tighter, his big hand stroking her hair, her back. “Natalie, sweetheart . . .”

  “Don’t, Wulfe. I’ll get better.”

  But he wasn’t so sure. “Roar, what if each time Satanan tries to set up a steady flow of the primal energies through us, I disconnect it by closing the loop and stealing Natalie’s pain? If I don’t do that this time, her suffering might never end. Satanan might just get stronger and stronger.”

  Lyon frowned. “We don’t know that’s how it works.”

  How the fuck were they supposed to tell?

  His hand shook with the need to cover that wound and end her suffering. And she was suffering. Goddess, she was in pain. He could feel the tension in her muscles, the trembling. Her skin was damp with perspiration, her cheeks wet with tears.

  Small cries began to escape her throat, tiny, strangled screams that tore at him.

  “It’s not stopping, Roar. It’s not going to stop.” And he’d taken all he could take. Lifting his hand, he pressed his palm against her cheek, closed his eyes, and willed the pain away. But like before, it fought him. Satanan fought him, struggling to keep the connection intact.

  “Get two more Ferals up here, ASAP,” Lyon barked.

  Wulfe gritted his teeth, growling low in his throat as he pulled at the pain, as he battled back the Daemon’s hold on it. On her. Finally, finally, he felt it give way. Deep inside, his animal whined with relief.

  Natalie sagged against him. “Thank you.”

  Wulfe shuddered with relief, cradling her close. She felt so good, so right, in his arms. Her sweet scent warmed the air between them, weaving through his senses, lighting tiny fires in his blood. Now that she was no longer in pain, his body sprang to life, suddenly, intensely aware of the touch of her hand where it clung to his wrist, and of the press of her soft breast against his arm. His own hand traced the contours of her slender back, her spine, her elegant neck, his fingers sliding into the spun-gold silk of her hair. It was all he could do not to bury his face in the clean, feminine scent of it.

  His hands began to shake with need. With every beat of his heart, the desire to pull her closer, to taste her again, grew more intense, more difficult to control.

  His pulse quickened, his breath becoming increasingly shallow. The last time, he’d felt her silken flesh beneath his palms and lips, he had not been moved. Never had he been physically moved in her presence.

  Until now. He throbbed with the need to slide deep inside of her.

  Natalie pulled back. Their gazes caught, locked, and he watched lovely, if tired, gray eyes light with wonder, then fill slowly with dawning passion. Her own breath hitched.

  “Oh, Wulfe.” Her words were the barest whisper.

  “Wulfe,” Lyon barked. “We need to get you out of here. Down to the gym.”

  All he wanted was to sweep Natalie into his arms and into his bed. Instead, he stroked her hair with a shaking hand. “Go. Melisande will take you back to your room.”

  Without warning, the familiar buzzing began in his ears. A split second later, the red fury swept across his mind, stealing his will.

  “Wulfe!” a male yelled.

  Enemies. He drew fangs and claws, leaping from the bed and whirling toward the ones who would attack him.

  “Watch his claws! Get Natalie away from him.”

  Two males tackled him to the floor. “Jag, Fox, give us a hand.” Two more locked his wrists against the hardwood. “Olivia, weaken him. Not too much!”

  Wulfe fought against their hold, struggling against the four who held him down, but lethargy began to steal through his limbs.

  The sound of shattering glass had him turning to find the female he’d been holding now wielding a broken wine bottle like a weapon, a wildness in her eyes that gut-punched him.

  “Natalie.” The name tore from between his lips and fangs. “Natalie, no.”

  “Hell, not her, too,” one of the males muttered. “That bastard has his claws in both of them.”

  As Wulfe fought his captors, struggling to reach her, to reach Natalie, the darkness and fury dissolved and he came back to himself in a rush.

  “Let me up,” he snapped, his fangs and claws retracting. “Let me go to her!”

  The hands holding him down disappeared, and Wulfe leaped to his feet as N
atalie struggled in Jag’s far stronger hold.

  “She tried to cut me,” Jag told him. “I think she was trying to protect you.”

  “Natalie.” Wulfe reached her, gripping her jaw carefully, forcing those wild eyes to meet his. “Natalie, come back to me.”

  She stared at him, the wildness slowly sliding from her eyes, and she blinked with confusion.

  “Wulfe?”

  He took the broken wine bottle from unresisting fingers and handed it to Jag before pulling her into his arms. “It’s okay.” But as he said the words, his gaze rose to his chief’s, and he knew the words for the lie they were. Because it wasn’t okay. Nothing was.

  “Is it the primal energies or Satanan that’s affecting them?” Tighe asked, his gaze meeting Wulfe’s. “Do you know?”

  “No.” This connection needed to end, and soon. Goddess help them. He curled his arm around Natalie’s shoulders and ushered her toward the door. “We’ll be in my room.” Not only did he need time to think, but he needed to get away from the wary, worried eyes of his brothers.

  “Do you think that’s a good idea?” Lyon asked evenly.

  “I’ll call you if anything happens.” His head was beginning to pound, his body about to implode.

  He needed Natalie Cash in his arms.

  Natalie followed Wulfe out the door of Lyon’s room and the few steps to her own. What in the heck had happened? One minute she’d been watching, terrified that Wulfe would attack his friends with those deadly claws. The next thing, Wulfe was holding her, taking a broken wine bottle out of her hand, and everyone was staring at her as if she’d grown a second head.

  Wulfe ushered her into her room, then closed the door and pulled her around to face him. His hands caressed her shoulders as he studied her with soft, worried eyes. “Are you okay?”

  “I don’t know.” Her pulse was pounding. Her hand slid up to cover her chest. “My heart’s racing.”

  “You’re no longer in pain?”

  “No, not at all. Thank you for that. But, Wulfe . . .” She shook her head. “We can’t let that happen again.” Her brows drew together. “What if, next time, you knock me out?”

  His brows lifted, his expression turning thoughtful. “I don’t know. It’s possible that would disconnect you. We can try it.”

  “Okay. Good.” The tension began to ease from her shoulders. “We have a plan.” For now. Until that didn’t work, either. And then what? She’d heard Strome as well as Wulfe had. The only way to break this connection was through the death of one of the three of them. And while it might be heroic to offer to give up her life, Wulfe would never go for that. He’d blame himself for it, hate himself for it. Besides, she liked her life, thank you very much, even as strange as it had become. No, Inir was the one who had to die. For both their sakes.

  Wulfe lifted a hand and stroked her cheek. “Let me hold you.” Something in his expression crumbled for the barest second. “I need to hold you,” he said quietly.

  She wasn’t the only one shaken, she realized. Sliding into his arms, she pressed her body against the hard, muscular planes of his and knew that nothing had ever felt so right. Wulfe pulled her closer still, locking his arms around her, brushing his chin against her hair on a deep, heartfelt sigh.

  As her arms went around his waist, she pressed her cheek to his T-shirt. “It’s all going to be okay,” she said quietly. “It’s all going to work out.”

  He kissed her hair. “Do you know something I don’t?” His voice almost teased. Almost.

  “No, but it’s the only acceptable outcome.” Slowly, she pulled back and gazed up into his beautiful, beloved face. “We’re going to beat Satanan and Inir, Wulfe. We’re going to win because I know you. Your soul is too honorable, too filled with light for darkness to ever cling there for long. Satanan will never control you. You’re going to beat him.”

  The look he gave her was at once filled with wonder and doubt. “I wish I could be so sure.”

  “I wish you could be, too. But I’m certain. No matter what happens, you won’t hurt me. Evil won’t take you. It won’t win.”

  The wonder flared in his eyes. “You’re a miracle.” Tenderness drenched his liquid gaze. His lashes swept down, his hands falling from her shoulders to her hips. Strong fingers encircled her waist, gripping her flesh, kneading her hips with what, from another man, would indicate rising passion. He pulled her closer, tight against his hips and the thick protrusion in his jeans.

  “Wulfe?” She stared at him, remembering the desire she’d imagined seeing in his eyes just before he lost it.

  His lashes swept up, revealing dark eyes ablaze with a wondrous heat. Her heart began to pound, her body melting in response.

  “What happened?” she breathed.

  His hand rose, his warm palm cupping her throat and sliding slowly downward until it rested firmly against her upper chest. His pulse, quick and unsteady, pounded so hard in that hand that she could feel it.

  He wanted her. And her own body flushed with answering desire.

  “You,” he breathed, sliding his hand up to her jaw. “You happened.” His head dipped, and he kissed her with all the fierce need, all the tender passion she could have dreamed of. His lips brushed hers, warm and firm, his tongue traced her lower lip. She opened for him and he dove inside, his tongue stroking hers, twining with hers, sending a fireball of heat exploding in her chest and rushing lower, a storm of need and sensation, chaos and wonder. He tasted like summer rain and winter forests, clean and fresh and wholly, wonderfully male.

  One of his hands slid into her hair, the other down her back to pull her hips tight against his and she felt, again, the very massive evidence of his desire.

  As her breath trembled out, she found herself smiling.

  He pulled back, looking down at her with passion-drugged eyes and a gleam that made her chest ache with tenderness. “What’s so funny?”

  “Not funny. Wonderful. You really do want me.”

  His lips brushed her cheek, trailing down to her neck, licking, nipping, making her shiver with delightful longing. Her breasts tingled, her knees weakening as, deep within, her body began to pulse and contract, begging to be filled.

  “I want you,” he groaned against her neck. “I want you so badly . . .”

  Slowly, he rose again, pulling back, his breath ragged, his gaze hot and troubled.

  “Wulfe . . .”

  His gaze roamed her face, his eyes incandescent with heat and tenderness. “You are so lovely.” Unsteady fingers slid into her hair, his thumbs stroking her cheekbones.

  With her own hands, she stroked his chest, then began yanking his T-shirt out of his jeans, the need to feel his flesh against hers a monstrous thing.

  “Make love to me, Wulfe.” Her hands slid under his shirt, against his warm, solid flesh. Electricity arced between them, making her gasp. Between her legs, she began to throb. “I need you.”

  His big hands rose to her breasts, making her cry out with pleasure and frantic desire. “I’m afraid I’m going to hurt you.”

  “You won’t. You won’t ever hurt me.” Her fingers moved to his waistband, and she began to unfasten his jeans.

  His hands stopped her. “I’m big, Natalie. And you’re human.” His voice shook. His forehead tipped to hers, his breathing ragged. “I’m afraid I’m going to lose control.”

  She reached up, gripped his face, and kissed him hard. “I want you to do that, Wulfe. I want that.”

  He resisted for all of a second and a half, then he was hauling her tight, kissing her madly, doing precisely what she’d asked him to, at last. In the same fierce, tender manner that Wulfe did everything, he lost control.

  Chapter Eighteen

  Wulfe was going to die if he didn’t soon slide inside the woman in his arms, his Natalie, his heart. Fire and beauty and laughter, she was everything to him. Everything.

  He tore at her clothes as she tugged at his jeans and T-shirt until they were both breathing hard, both wild with n
eed. They came together in the middle of the room, mouths fusing, her sweet breasts tight against his chest, the skin of her back, her rear, like warm silk beneath his shaking fingertips.

  Her nails dug into his shoulders as he kissed her, inhaled her, her tongue rubbing against his with as much desperation as her hips rocked against his thick erection. Never had he known such a violent need to join his body with another’s.

  His hands roamed her back, her flesh, her hair. He couldn’t get enough. He would never get enough of her. Swinging her into his arms, he carried her to the bed and tossed her into the middle, tearing a husky laugh from her throat. As she grinned at him, watching him with eyes that gleamed like polished silver, his heart contracted tight and hard. When had he known such exhilaration, such pure joy?

  With a low laugh, he followed her down, his mouth finding her neck, her breast, sucking hard as his hand burrowed between her legs. The moment he touched her in that sensitive spot, she cried out and rocked against him as if desperate for his touch. She was open, wet, ready.

  Wonder barreled through him that this woman, this beautiful, marvelous, brilliant woman wanted him. Him.

  He lifted his head from her breast and looked at her, meeting her incandescent gaze.

  “You take my breath away.”

  “As you take mine.”

  His hand fisted gently in her hair, and he kissed her with an urgency that bordered on madness even as he shoved a finger deep inside of her. She moaned into his mouth, then began to whimper with need, rocking against him, kissing him like a wildcat, shattering with the sexiest, throatiest of cries.

  She pulled back, desperate, her fingers clawing at his shoulders. “Come inside me. Please. Now.”

  His body tensed, terrified he’d be too much for her. But she wasn’t a small woman, and maybe, maybe it would be all right. His cock found her moist welcome, and she surged up, swallowing the tip of him with a moan of pure pleasure. Wulfe held back, holding on to his last thread of control, but Natalie was having none of that.