Not really.
With the length of her body clutched against him, save for the arm that held on to her claymore, she could feel every muscled ridge of his chest, the heavy weight of his hips pressing against her, and more importantly, the thick, hard length between his legs. To onlookers, Sierra assumed they both looked as if they were struggling to catch their breath from the heat of their battle, but she knew better.
Even through his worn ranch jeans, she felt the deep, throbbing pulse of his erection against the heat of her core as he held her. A wave of delicious moisture flooded between her legs. All she needed to do to stop him from winning was to take one good swing at the side of his head. Then, he’d be forced to release her as he guarded his temple. It would allow her the opening she needed to gain her victory.
But she couldn’t.
At the start of the fight, she’d wanted to best the pompous, arrogant packmaster, but now that the opportunity stared her straight in the face, she found that her singular path to victory wasn’t so singular. His eyes flashed to the gold of his wolf beneath the brim of his Stetson. Sierra would have given anything not to move from that position, to fulfill the heady tension and desire that electrified the air between them.
Dakota had been right. She could have her victory. Every delectable bit of it. Even if that meant giving up on the original path she’d intended. She didn’t owe anyone an explanation. This was her victory, and hers alone, and she intended to claim all her spoils and then some…
“Yes.” She breathed all the desire she felt into that one word before she could stop herself. It was barely more than a whisper. Loud enough for Maverick’s ears alone.
He seemed to immediately catch her meaning, because for a moment, his impenetrable gaze faltered, and what she saw there both frightened and thrilled her more than the threat of his blade at her neck ever could.
Desire. Pure and raw.
She saw it in the eyes of his wolf clear as day.
Which meant she could claim her victory, perhaps in every way she intended. Perhaps she would make him fall in love with her, even if it meant risking everything.
With the tension between them clouding her head, she didn’t recognize the initial fault in her logic, because as quickly as the moment came, it passed, and any fanciful notion she had of love was gone with it. In an instant, the mask he wore was back again, the flicker of passion she’d seen replaced by the same gruff, impenetrable leader she’d come to expect over the years. As it did, the true extent of her mistake hit her full force. Love was something that would never be between them. Of that, she was certain, because it was at that moment, the packmaster swept her leg, causing her to land flat on her ass and defeated in the mountain dirt.
As turned on and full of desire as she was furious.
Chapter 7
She’d said yes. Maverick wasn’t certain he’d ever actually expected her to say yes. The weight of that single word refused to escape him as leaned against the paddock gate outside the stables. Dean, one of their elite warriors and the head of the Grey Wolf front-of-house, stood at the gate of one of the horse trailers they’d backed up to the open paddock. Though he was the friendly face of their ranch to the human world, their enemies had learned the hard way to fear him.
“You ready?” Dean asked.
Maverick nodded.
In response, Dean released the latch on the ramped trailer gate.
The gate burst open with a loud metal thwack as one bucking brute of an untamed mustang barreled out into the paddock. Maverick crouched low, rope in hand, on the far side near the gate, prepared to dive out of the way if necessary. He’d give the beast a moment to settle, to get used to the pen and the fact that he was in it. He wasn’t about to try to put a rope around the horse’s neck when it was still fresh out of the gate and reeling from transport.
The horse kicked and bucked, thrashing about the pen in a display that was equal parts impressive strength and intimidating fury. Wolf shifter or not, no cowboy wanted to be on the wrong end of one of those hooves.
Dean wrenched the trailer gate closed, whistling for Malcolm to pull the truck forward before he slammed the paddock shut and hopped over the fence to safety.
Leaving Maverick alone in the pen with the wild mustang.
Maverick crouched in quiet stillness, his eyes only occasionally darting away from the magnificent, powerful horse before him and toward Dean. Dean removed his Stetson momentarily, readjusting the dreads tied back at the base of his neck as he rounded the paddock on the outside of the gate to where Maverick stood. “This one’s feisty. You’ve got your work cut out for you.” Dean kicked a buildup of cold mountain slush from his boots.
They’d had plenty of snow flurries, rain, and hail this fall, but so far none of it had stuck to the ground other than as a persistent, damp coldness.
Maverick grunted in agreement. This bucking, spirited beast was intended to be Trigger’s young successor, as soon as Mav managed to break him in, at least.
It’d take more than a few days with this one.
The Grey Wolves had plenty of horses, between the regular working horses they kept in the stable and the wild-horse contract they managed out in the far sections of their lands. Enough that, at times, during a particularly hard calving season where they lost a lot more heads than they birthed, if they had subsisted as a normal human operation, they would have occasionally risked becoming horse poor. But the pack’s private monetary reserves, built up over the centuries of their existence, always kept them on the right side of wrong, and this particular horse was coming out of Maverick’s own private funds. Sure, he could have used one of the spare work horses as his own after retiring Trigger, but that would have robbed him of this.
Maverick never shied away from the thrill of a challenge.
Slowly, he moved one of his boots to the right. The horse watched him with weary eyes as it flitted around the paddock. It was calmer now but still skittish as hell and ready to bolt should he approach too quickly.
“Are you sure I should leave you alone?” Dean asked. “All things considered.”
All things considered being the looming threat on Maverick’s life and thus the pack. Blaze and the other elite warriors had begun gathering intel, but at this stage, it would be a game of patience. They’d confirmed that the attempted assassin had been a rogue wolf shifter, likely hired by someone to complete the task, but they couldn’t be certain who had cashed out the now-dead bastard.
In the past, Maverick’s new brother-in-law, Rogue, would have been his first suspect. It wasn’t as if he and Rogue hadn’t squared off before. Though they’d been on different sides, they’d both only been trying to protect their own. The decision Maverick had made to throw the rogue wolves to the Execution Underground had never sat well with him, but it’d been a choice between following his own moral compass or risking the lives of his pack.
And the pack always came first.
Nevertheless, he and Rogue, criminal bastard that he was, were on the same side now, despite the many problems and threats that was causing the pack, and while Maverick might not like his new brother-in-law, he knew Rogue would never do anything to jeopardize their deal for his kind—or worse, hurt someone close to his sister.
Dean had reason to worry. Whoever was out for Maverick’s life would come for him again. The packleader had little doubt of that. But this time, he anticipated them.
“I’ll be fine, Dean. I always am,” Maverick said, his eyes still thoroughly pinned to the wild horse before him. This wouldn’t be the first time someone had attempted to kill him, though admittedly, it’d been the first time they’d dared come for him here, on his own territory.
Recognizing that his attention was elsewhere, Dean tipped his Stetson. “I’ll leave you to it then. Aaliyah’s waiting,” he said, referring to his mate. The Grey Wolf front-of-house director sauntered back to the
still-heated truck, hitting the roof of the cab twice as he climbed into the driver’s side.
As Dean drove off, leaving Maverick alone with the unruly and angered horse, Maverick surveyed the scene before him. When he stood with the stables at his back like this, looking outward toward the ranchlands of Wolf Pack Run, there was nothing as far as the eye could see. Only frozen pastures, the silent sway of the mountain pines against the backdrop of the midday sun, and him, here with this horse.
He released a hefty sigh of the tension he’d been holding.
This was what he craved.
This little bit of peace. The solitude and quiet of the mountains. The sting of the fresh autumn wind on his face. This was the life he’d have chosen had he ever been given a choice. Not the paperwork. Not the desk. Not the meetings with other packmasters and diplomats, representatives from other packs around the globe. Not the settling of pack disputes or the constant push and pull with the council. That was a never-ending, always-present grind.
But all that was his life, as much as this was, and it always would be.
For years, it’d been his job to suppress his more human desires, his sense of self. That was his singular burden: to protect the pack as he bore the weight of their collective expectations. He had to be more than himself. Not Maverick Grey the man, the cowboy, but Maverick Grey, packmaster of the Grey Wolves, a mixture of man, wolf, and legend.
As packmaster, it was his duty to be reserved in everything—his emotions, his actions, his choices—in a way that lived up to the myth of his existence. But over the years, he had forced himself to remain so cold, so distant, that now it came as second nature, because his role had changed him.
He barely recognized himself anymore.
Save for rare moments like this.
Fully present in the moment, he circled the paddock. The stallion watched his every move with wary, skittish movements. Slowly, Maverick bunched the rope in his hands. He swung the lasso, drawing close enough several times only for the beast to jump just out of his reach. If he could either get the rope around the horse’s neck at the right angle or draw close enough…
This dance continued for a while, a back-and-forth push and pull. Just him, the horse, and the gray-blue sky. An hour later, he heard one of the pack’s grapple forks approaching from behind. Frustrated and tiring, he cast his rope out one last time.
The stallion released an angered whinny before it kicked its front hooves hard against the cold mountain dirt. The flash of fury in the horse’s dark eyes told Maverick all he needed to know.
The beast was about to charge him.
Maverick leaped over the paddock fence just as the weight of the mustang’s heavy front legs came down in the exact spot where he’d been standing.
Bending over, he rested his hands on his knees as he caught his breath, grumbling a few choice curses.
“I think he doesn’t like you.”
Maverick recognized the voice immediately. He straightened, rope still in hand. Sierra was staring down at him from behind the wheel of the grapple fork, that ridiculous rooster that’d been following her nestled in the seat beside her as if he were a damn cat.
“Course he doesn’t like me. There isn’t a horse in his right mind who’d trust a wolf, at least not until I show him he can,” he called back to her over the heavy winds.
Sierra gathered the rooster in her arms as she hopped down from the cab, the massive pile of crested feathers on the animal’s head flopping as she adjusted her Carhartt. She raised her voice slightly over the gusts of wind. “I’m supposed to be headed out to do my chores for the day. The cows won’t feed themselves, and Cheyenne’s supposed to meet me with the hay truck, but Colt mentioned you were out here and I…” Her voice trailed off, cut off in part by the wind but also by her own reluctance.
Maverick couldn’t put his finger on it, but she didn’t seem her usual chaotic self. Instead of confidence, there was a hesitation about her, as if she had something to say but couldn’t find the words to say it, and after her surprise “yes” earlier, he’d be damned if he wouldn’t find out exactly what was on her mind.
The wind picked up speed, whipping through the open ranchlands with enough force that they both had to bend their knees to stay upright against it.
“Come inside.” Maverick nodded toward the stable, signaling for her to follow him.
She frowned at the authoritative tone but didn’t protest.
Inside the stables, the gray hue of the skies overhead dimmed the natural lighting, casting the long rows of stalls in the glowing orange hue of the horses’ heat lamps. With most of the packmembers out working their chores for the day, the stable was surprisingly empty, save for the horses. Maverick closed the door behind him, blocking out the sound of the wind as he turned toward Sierra.
The rooster she held let out a screeching crow, causing several of the horses to stir.
“Yes, we’re all aware the King has arrived.” She set the rooster down and waved him away, but Elvis didn’t so much as move. He simply bobbed his head several times before attempting to peck at her boots. Sierra sighed and shook her head as if he were a hindrance, but then leaned down and gingerly patted his feathers.
Maverick released a long, slow breath through his nose as he shook his head. He still remembered the summer everything had changed between them, because his wolf had suddenly noticed her. Where she’d once been all straight lines and muscle, there had been new feminine curves. Her hips had widened, better balancing the thick corded muscles of her legs, and there had suddenly been soft, full breasts bulging beneath her sports bra. Breasts he still wanted to lick, to tease, to suck until he captured the taut pink tips of her nipples between his canines and toyed with them until she screamed his name. Back then, he’d been young and practically salivating over her, and it’d taken everything in him not to bend her over and mount her like the animal he was.
But he’d kept his hands to himself, because Colt would have murdered him if he hadn’t made an honest woman of her first, and they’d been young enough that marriage and mating seemed like a far-off distant future. Pursuing her hadn’t been something Maverick had been willing to risk. It would have changed everything. Between him, her, Colt, their families.
Nevertheless, he’d always planned her for to be his eventually.
Years later, when his father died and it’d been time for him to assume his role as packmaster, it’d been her he wanted to claim as his mate, though circumstance had other plans…
But now, ten years later, life had left him a lonely widower with more regrets and guilt than any cowboy could bear. Yet still, despite the fact that she now hated him and the power he represented, and it was years too late for him to ever have her in the way he truly wanted, God help him…
He’d never stopped wanting Sierra Cavanaugh.
He’d need to tread lightly. This marriage was a necessity for them both—and for the protection of the pack. He didn’t have anything more to give. It could never be anything more than that. Even if he’d once wanted it to be.
Silently, Maverick waited for her to start. She’d come to him after all, and like her older brother, Sierra didn’t parse words. But as she stood before him now, something was off, different. Several feet away from him, she toyed with the edge of her horse’s stall gate, refusing to look at him. Where was the confident, outspoken she-wolf he was so accustomed to?
Finally, he cleared his throat. He wasn’t one for making conversation, yet one of them would need to speak eventually. “Here to talk about the flowers?” he asked, latching on to the first ludicrous question to come to mind. He sounded ridiculous. Small talk had never been his strong suit. But wasn’t that the sort of thing future brides cared about?
She stopped toying with the stall gate hinge and raised a brow. “Flowers?”
The wind outside whistled. Even inside the shelter of the stab
le, the occasional gusts against the old wood of the building roared. “Yes, the flowers,” he grumbled.
Her brow furrowed in confusion. “I’ve heard it called that before, but I think I’d prefer to use anatomically correct verbiage.”
Anatomically correct verbiage? He quirked a brow. What in the blazing hell was she talking about?
She must have realized his confusion, because suddenly, her eyes widened in horror. “Oh boy. You didn’t say deflower, did you?”
Deflower? Who the hell even used words like deflower? And what in the world was she…
“The flowers,” he corrected. “For the ceremony.”
She bit her lower lip, drawing his attention there.
He growled. Christ. Why did she have to do that? Whenever she did, his thoughts strayed in a direction that was far too forbidden for them. If they were going to marry, one night was more than enough to convince the council. Yet when she did that, considering all the scenarios that ran through his mind, he’d need far more than a single night before he was through with her. He’d claim her as his in every way she’d allow, in any place she’d allow.
On his bed. On his desk. On the mountainside. In the showers of the training gym.
Hell, in this very damn stable atop a fucking haystack if she wanted.
She stopped worrying her lower lip in favor of cupping her hand over her chin as if deep in thought. “That makes a lot more sense. I wondered how you knew what I’d come here to say to you.”
Maverick shook his head. He couldn’t even pretend that he was following this conversation, but no one had ever argued that Sierra wasn’t eccentric. Hell, she’d have to be to take on the pack’s traditions and the council with no power other than the hope and spirit she inspired in the other women.
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