“They're still here?”
“No, they've returned to Montana along with some of the others. Ben, Striker, and Marianne have remained with me, along with Nick and his men. Harley and his Kiss have returned to New York.”
“How did you find Conal's pack?”
We picked up the scent from where they'd been taken and found them being held here in Louisiana. Nick and his men managed to infiltrate the group, no easy task as werewolves and shifters hate one another. They got information about where you and Conal were being held. We headed straight to Armstrong's compound and Ripley started picking up your messages.”
“He heard me?” I was dumbfounded, having believed he wouldn't hear me at all.
Lucas smiled. “Yes, he heard you. When we got within fifty miles of where you were held, he was picking you up loud and clear. It was remarkable, Ripley normally hears thoughts from a distance of perhaps a mile or two at the most, yet you managed to broadcast from a far greater distance. Thanks to you, we knew how many we were dealing with and importantly, that Conal was one of the good guys.”
I closed my eyes, relief, and weariness washing over me in equal parts. It felt as if I'd been away from Lucas for months, not just days. I breathed deeply, filling my senses with his aroma and felt secure at last. Lucas snuggled beside me and traced his lips over my cheek, kissing me softly until I drifted back to sleep.
Chapter 9: Desire
When I woke again, Lucas was gone and Marianne was sitting on the edge of the bed, flicking through a magazine. Whilst her hair remained the rich-but-relatively-mundane black, she'd gelled it into half a dozen pointy spikes. She was wearing a black t-shirt decorated with skull and crossbones, black jeans with safety pins decorating the front of each leg and her feet were encased in Doc Martins with bright orange laces. What looked like a black leather dog collar graced her slender neck. She smiled brightly when she saw my eyes open, dropping the magazine onto the bedside table, and reaching forward to give me a careful hug.
“Where's Lucas?”
“He and Striker have driven out of town to hunt.” She wrinkled her pert nose delicately. “The problems with a big city – too far away from a decent meal.”
I decided to ignore that thought and attempted to sit up in bed, instead. It was no better – the aches and pains seemed to be increasing exponentially each time I regained my senses. A quick glance revealed I was still wearing the dress I'd worn to the wedding. Even my weak human senses could discern the need for a hot shower and a change of clothes.
Dr. Harding walked into the room and smiled warmly. “Charlotte, it's good to have you back.”
“It's good to be back, Dr. Harding.”
“For God's sake, Charlotte, call me Jerome. Dr. Harding makes me sound so old,” he grumbled, limping across the carpet. He lowered himself onto the edge of the bed, his gaze flickering over my face. “You've had quite an ordeal, young lady.”
I noticed the large window was wide open and a soft breeze was blowing the curtains. “Can I shower? I think I need one.”
“You do smell of werewolf. Amongst other things. We've kept the windows open to clear the air a little,” Marianne responded cheerily. She winked. “That's what happens when you hang out with werewolves and shifters.”
“Marianne, for God's sake,” Doctor Harding chided, “subtlety is not one of your strong points.” He returned to his careful scrutiny of my expression. “How's the pain level?”
“Tolerable,” I responded quietly. “What's the damage?”
“Surprisingly, nothing broken. Lots of cuts and bruising and this,” he motioned towards my chest, “which is by far your worst injury. When I first saw it, I thought you'd need a multitude of sutures to pull it back together, but it seems to be healing on its own. Remarkably quickly, I might add.” His gray eyes were inquisitive, as if he suspected there was some reason for the rapid recovery.
“Conal's saliva has healing properties. He—” There was no easy way to admit how Conal had done the healing and I flushed red with embarrassment. “He licked the wounds.”
If Jerome was surprised by this frank admission, he was remarkably adept at keeping the sentiment from his face. I knew how it looked; the deep gouges had penetrated from my collarbone to the top of my left breast. He probed the skin near my collarbone gently, touching the jagged slashes that appeared to be sealing of their own accord. I was astounded when I glanced down and saw them – they'd been much worse when Armstrong had inflicted them, penetrating to the bone. “I'd heard that werewolves have amazing regenerative powers in their saliva. I've never seen the evidence until now. What Conal has managed to do has effectively sped up the healing process by at least a week or perhaps two.”
“Can I get her into the bathroom and make her human again?” Marianne asked.
Jerome nodded. “I'll remove the cast.”
“Isn't it too early?”
“Oh, I believe we can give you a little leeway. I had a glance at the cast before we brought you back to the hotel – after the kick you gave the shape shifter, the plaster isn't looking too stable.” He winked, amusement clear in his expression.
“For future reference, Charlotte, as much as it was probably very satisfying to kick that creep, shape shifters are nearly as impenetrable as vampires.” Marianne grinned wickedly. “But I did think it was very courageous of you.”
“Thank you.”
“I'll take the plaster off. Marianne, make yourself useful, run a bath, and get out of my way.”
“Can't I have a shower?” I said, and there was just the tiniest note of a whine involved. I wanted to wash my hair, stand under a soaking hot spray, and get a week's worth of grime off my skin.
“No, you most certainly can't have a shower. You'd struggle to stand for long enough,” Jerome grumbled. “You'll be weak and shaky for a few days yet, young lady.”
“A bath it is, then.” Marianne disappeared whilst I lay on the bed and Jerome cut the cast from my ankle. I wrinkled my nose at the revolting smell when he removed it – a bath was definitely a necessity, even if I would have preferred a shower.
“I'll leave you in peace,” Jerome murmured gruffly. “I'm sure you don't need my assistance for a bath.”
Marianne helped me up from the bed, supporting me as I walked slowly towards the bathroom. I was delighted to discover a roomy spa in the centre of the room, filled to the brim with fragrant smelling bubbles and steaming hot water.
Marianne pulled the zipper of the ruined dress down and I stepped out of it. “I'm so sorry, Marianne. I ruined your wedding day and the beautiful dress Acenith bought is destroyed.”
Marianne glanced up at me from where she was crouching on the floor. “Don't worry about it, Charlotte. Striker and I have lived together for nearly forty years, missing our wedding night wasn't a crisis, I can assure you. That and the dress are the least of our problems. We can replace a dress; our honeymoon can be taken later. We couldn't replace you.” She paused, her gaze roaming across my skin and she frowned sadly. “Oh, Charlotte, what a mess you are.” I followed her line of sight and saw what she was seeing, the massive amount of bruising all over my body.
“Could have been worse,” I suggested quietly. “He could have killed me.”
Marianne inhaled deeply and recovered her composure. She deftly unclasped the bra I'd been wearing and dropped it on top of the ruined dress, followed quickly by the panties I'd been so embarrassed about a week ago. She helped me into the deep water and I lay back, relishing the warmth.
“Do you want the spa jets turned on?” Marianne asked, in the process of scooping up the ruined clothes.
I nodded, closing my eyes and resting my head against the edge of the tub. “I think I'd like that.”
Pulsating jets of water began to blow the water around me, gently massaging my bruised and aching body and it felt wonderful.
“I'll be back shortly; I'm going to bag up all this stuff and get rid of it. You really do smell remarkably like a wet dog, C
harlotte. Hanging around with werewolves will do that for you.”
“Thanks, Marianne. You know how to make a girl feel good.”
She laughed, the sound like a tinkle of bells in the room and I smiled to myself as she left. I began to scrub my skin (not vigorously, as it seemed the majority of me was bruised) and Marianne came back in and carefully washed my hair, which I was grateful for. I'd pulled the bobby pins holding my hair in the smooth chignon out days ago, but with the amount of hair products Gwynn had used, combined with not washing it for over a week, it was a real mess. After massaging shampoo through my scalp three times, then conditioning it twice, Marianne was satisfied and used a water jug to rinse the suds away. She sat on the edge of the spa and watched avidly as I began to shave all the areas that needed shaving after seven days of growth, particularly happy to shave the leg that had been encased in a cast.
When I was finally clean, fresh and smooth, I stepped out of the spa and Marianne wrapped me in a fluffy white towel. She slipped out of the room when I assured her I could dress myself, coming back with fresh underwear, jeans, and a pale blue t-shirt. Then she left me alone, closing the door quietly behind her.
I finished drying, standing in front of the mirror and frowning at the person staring back at me. Thanks to Conal's efforts, the cuts on my face were healing nicely, but most of my face was marred by bruising, some dark, some yellowing. There were massive plum-colored bruises over most of my body and a particularly large one on my stomach were Armstrong had punched me. I looked a mess and I was glad Conal had killed him, hoping he'd felt every minute of his death throes. It was a shock to find myself having such a thought, but I couldn't feel sorry about Armstrong being dead – not when I could see the evidence of his cruelty all over my body.
I dressed slowly, trying to ease the clothes over everything that hurt. The clothes were new, undoubtedly purchased by Marianne since they arrived in New Orleans. The jeans fit snugly and the t-shirt closely followed the contours of my chest and waist. It had a scooped neckline and the injuries were visible on my neck and chest. I couldn't believe how quickly they were healing – although I was positive, they were going to leave scars. The wounds were sealed now, angry red welts raised across my pale skin. I dried off my hair and ran my fingers through the curls, pulling them into some semblance of order.
There was a quiet knock at the bathroom door. “May I come in?”
“Sure. I'm decent.”
Lucas stood in the doorway and I experienced a tug on my heart when I looked at him. He stepped into the bathroom and walked across to where I stood in front of the mirror, his skin showing the hint of color which confirmed he'd fed. I breathed in deeply, enjoying the aroma which made my heart soar. He was stunning, casually dressed in a grey V-neck t-shirt which skimmed his chest and blue jeans which accentuated his lean hips. “You look much better,” he said approvingly.
“Being clean helps,” I agreed.
“How is your ankle? Jerome tells me he's removed the plaster.”
“Better than the rest of me.” I glanced at my foot, where the mark from the incision was clearly visible against my ankle. “It feels stiff, otherwise it's okay.”
When I glanced up, he was behind me, gazing at my eyes in the reflection of the mirror and I marveled again that this man, this vampire, loved me. I turned around slowly and he captured my waist between his hands, pulling me tenderly into his arms and taking infinite care not to hold too tightly. He lowered his head and caught my mouth with his own, the pressure of his lips cool against mine. I savored it, wrapping my arms around him and holding him close, losing myself in his kisses. The ropes of muscle in his back flexed beneath my fingers and he trailed a row of kisses down from my lips and over my neck, working his way across my shoulder. “Mmmm,” he whispered huskily. “You smell glorious, love.”
He scooped me up, depositing me on the top of the vanity and slipping between my legs. He captured my face in his hands and I slipped my own hands beneath his t-shirt, brushing my fingertips across the taut muscle in his stomach. I tugged at his t-shirt and he helped by ripping it off, throwing it to the floor. I marveled at the perfection of his physique. For a long moment we gazed at one another, Lucas breathing heavily and his eyes darkened to a blue which was almost black. He leaned towards me, capturing my mouth with his and I ran my fingers lightly across his skin, hard muscle contracting as I worked my way slowly lower over his chest. I rubbed my fingertips over his stomach and he inhaled sharply as I kissed my way down his neck, over his chest until I could capture one nipple against my lips. I'd never done this before and experimented, tentatively licking the tip of my tongue across the hard nub before I suckled at it gently. Lucas cried out, a tremor rippling through his muscles.
I heard a quiet snick and Lucas growled huskily. “Stop.” I glanced up, dismayed to see his fangs extending down over his lower lip. “Charlotte, as much as this is… wonderful, I need you to stop.”
I leaned back against the mirror obediently, aware he was struggling. I could see him wrestling with his desires and I waited silently, giving him time to regain control. Lucas ran his fingers through his hair, tousling the dark locks and then bent to pick up his t-shirt, pulling it roughly over his head and down over his chest. “Give me a minute,” he commanded. He turned and leaned against the vanity, crossing his arms over his chest and I waited patiently, my own heart rate beginning to settle back to a more normal pace.
“Lucas.” The complex feelings he struggled with were obvious when he turned to look at me, his fangs still clearly visible. I reached out to him and he stepped towards me reluctantly, allowing me to wrap my arms around his waist. “I love you.”
“As I do you,” he said quietly. “I'm so sorry.”
I held his gaze with mine. “There's nothing to be sorry for. We knew this would take time and you haven't seen me for a week. You have to start with my scent all over again.”
He sighed heavily and I was relieved when his fangs retracted. “I'm truly not sure what's worse,” he admitted, his voice dismal.
I grinned. “What? Fighting the desire to bite me? Or the fact that you are probably the most sexually frustrated vampire on the planet right now?”
He stared at me for a long moment before a grin spread across his lips, and I knew I'd broken the awkward moment between us. He lifted me down from the vanity and took my hand in his, catching my lips in a brief kiss. “You're a minx, my love. Let's go and get you something to eat.”
Chapter 10: The Pack
“Do you want the last slice, Charlotte?” Nick sat beside me on the couch and members of his pack – David, Toby, Rafe and Marco lounged around on the floor. Marco's arm was in a neat sling, which certainly wasn't slowing him down with regards to eating. He was younger than me, perhaps eighteen, with the long, lean look of a boy who was rapidly growing into a man. His sandy blonde hair hung in his eyes, his expression one of rapture as he devoured another slice of pepperoni pizza.
“Absolutely.” I snatched up the last slice of the four super-sized pizzas Lucas had ordered and bit into it. I was savoring the opportunity to eat, it had been at least five days since I'd had anything substantial and I was making up for lost time.
Lucas sat beside me, his leg resting against mine, his hand resting possessively on my thigh. Ben sat in one of the two large armchairs and Marianne sat in the other. Striker stood by the window, watching the lights of downtown New Orleans, his arms crossed over his substantial chest whilst Jerome had settled at the small table, sitting on one of the dining chairs.
“I think if you eat much more, you may well explode,” Lucas murmured indulgently.
“I'm thinking I could probably fit in a couple of those donuts,” I replied, eyeing the box of Dunkin' Donuts sitting on the coffee table. “You have no idea how hungry I've been for the past week.”
We were ensconced in the hotel in New Orleans, sharing three luxurious suites between us. The five members of Nick's Pack were sharing a two-room suite; Marianne
and Striker were sharing with Jerome. Ben, Rowena and Lucas had been sharing the suite we were sitting in now. It was enormous and elegant, we were currently in the living area and the bedrooms were situated on either side of the room, providing each room with a stunning view of New Orleans below us. Bourbon Street was just around the corner and in the stillness of the evening; jazz music could be heard drifting up from the many popular bars and clubs.
“Perhaps one donut, Charlotte. You'll be sick if you overeat after having so little in your stomach,” Jerome warned. “And from my count, you've already eaten eight slices of pizza.”
“That's a good effort, Lottie, but maybe you have had enough,” Rafe said with a broad grin. He was the tallest of the Lingard Pack members I'd met, a little over six feet five of powerful muscle. At twenty-four, he was generally quite serious, but had a wickedly sarcastic sense of humor. His brown eyes twinkled as he glanced at me, pulling open the lid of the donut box. “I'm getting in before you get started though, just in case.”
“Whose side are you on?” I grumbled good-naturedly. I really liked the men in Nick's group and was grateful that they'd dropped everything to come and help rescue me. There was something very humbling about knowing so many people cared about me and were willing to risk their own lives to save mine.
Rafe held up his hands in surrender and grinned as he bit into the donut. “I'm not taking sides. I'm looking after my own interests, first and foremost.”
The telephone rang and I saw everyone exchanging wary glances, before Ben picked up the receiver. I turned to look at Lucas and he returned my gaze calmly. “Nobody has the room number. We've been using cell phones,” he said cryptically.
I wanted to ask why, but before I could, Ben paused and handed me the receiver. “It's for you. Conal Tremaine.”
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