“I’ve found you to be a better teammate than I ever expected,” I reply. “When the Headmistress gave me this mission, I honestly expected that you and Lance would just be a couple of mercs, out for your own skins and a paycheck. I figured that you’d ditch me the first sign that the economics of risk versus reward got too high.”
Tym nods. “I could tell. And to be honest . . . that first night, after the bar, I was expecting it to be like that. I certainly did not plan on pissing off the most powerful werewolf Alpha by stealing a truck, running over people, and wrecking the whole machine.”
I laugh. “You enjoyed it, didn’t you?”
“I won’t say I didn’t.”
I nod and put a hand on his arm. His skin’s warm, his muscles feel good under my fingertips, and as I trace the vein that squiggles down his left bicep, I feel a warmth tickle my body. “So . . . you didn’t ditch after the bar fight. What all did they promise you?”
“I’d get money, of course . . . but I’d get to set up a shop inside Solace, with a special daytime visa. I told you that though.”
I nod, feeling calm as I turn Tym’s face to look at me, looking into those soulful light brown eyes. “You know, it’s not really a reward worth all the risks you’ve taken. Maybe I should . . . sweeten the pot a little more.”
I pull him to me, letting Tym push me back onto the wooden floorboards of the barn as his lips find mine. Again, he’s rough but tender, his few days’ worth of beard scratching at my skin as I run my hands over his skin. Somehow, even after a night and a day of near-constant hiking, his skin is buttery to my touch, and he doesn’t smell like a sweaty man. He smells musky, almost spicy and exotic.
His right hand finds my breast, and I moan, arching my back to fill his powerful fingers as he kisses along my neck, tugging at my earlobe with his teeth. “You’re wearing the bra again.”
“What can I say? I like the way you look at me in it,” I reply. Too bad it’s the only one I have left, since the rest of my old pack’s in Bane. Tym growls, his hips pushing between my legs, and I gasp. He’s already rock hard, pressing between our pants on my pussy, sending tremors through my belly and up my spine. “You like it too.”
“Fucking right, I do,” Tym says, pushing up enough to strip off his shirt. I quickly undo the zipper on the side of my traveling leathers, leaving my upper body in just my lightweight undershirt, my bra under that and my nipples clearly outlined against the fabric. “Take it off.”
His soft command sends a thrill through me, and I sit up enough to pull both items off, leaving my breasts exposed to his eyes. “I can’t get enough of how your skin changes,” he says, tracing a finger down my nose, letting me lick at it as it passes my lips, then down my throat to my chest. “Your hair is black as night, your face so sexy, lightly tanned like creme caramel, but your tits . . . cream for my tongue.”
It’s dirty and poetic at the same time, and I can’t help but cry out as he devours my left breast, his tongue tugging at my nipple and his teeth nipping my skin. It’s overwhelming, and I moan deliriously as Tym lavishes my breasts, sucking until I can feel pain stirring into the pleasure.
Tym’s hands are on my hips, fumbling with my pants, and I lift my hips, helping him as we roll away from the open loft door and deeper into the shadows, tugging and pulling at our clothes until I’m naked and Tym’s got his pants undone, my hand wrapped around his huge cock.
It’s our third time fucking in less than two weeks, but I’m still shocked at the size of the stiff, warm beast in my hand. I pump his cock while we kiss, Tym moaning as my hand slips up and down his shaft, so huge I can’t wrap my fingers all the way around it, but I don’t care. I run my thumb over the tip of his cock, smearing the precum around it and chuckling as he gasps. “This is mine now, demigod,” I growl, pushing him down onto his back as I slide down his body until my lips are near his pulsing manhood. “Your spear belongs to me.”
Tym nods, and I reward him with a long lick up his cock, teasing him with my lips as I suckle and play with his mushroom head, tracing the ridge with the tip of my tongue before sucking him just a little bit into my mouth. He’s too thick to do much more than that, but there’s a little part of me that wants to try . . . another time. For now, though, I bob my head up and down, getting him wet as I slide a hand between my legs, massaging my own lips.
“That’s it, Cerena . . . nice and wet,” Tym growls. “I’m going to fuck you hard and deep, just like you like it.”
I moan around the head of his cock, his dirty words and the tension inside me demanding more than teasing. Instead, I pull off, lying on my back and spreading my legs for him. “Just how I need it.”
Tym grabs me by my ankles, pushing them back until I’m almost folded in half as he teases my aching slot with the length of his cock. We both groan as he rubs over my clit, my pussy pulsing with need as I grab his neck and pull him down into another hard but tender kiss. Tym adjusts his hips, and his thrust fills me in one long, heart-stopping thrill that has me moaning into his mouth, both of us sharing the breath and the exhilaration.
I let go of Tym’s neck as he pulls back, thrusting again and filling me balls deep, my pussy already squeezing and clenching around his cock. God, he’s so big, my body’s nearly overloaded just from two strokes, but he knows how to grind his hips inside me, his cock stretching me open so that nothing hurts and everything’s white-hot pleasure, with my fingers digging into the floor of the loft.
“That’s it, fuck me harder,” I moan as Tym lets go of my ankles to grab my thighs, pumping his cock in and out of me. “Oh, fuck, you’re gonna make me come.”
“Good. Come all over my fucking cock,” Tym growls as he speeds up. “Take it all.”
He thrusts hard, slamming into my pussy and sending me hurtling into a jolting climax that shocks me. I’m not one to ever come this quickly, but Tym’s got me moaning, my legs wrapped around him and pulling him in tighter while my body’s rocked by a huge orgasm that shakes me from head to toe.
Tym’s hips never tire, and as he looks into my eyes, I recognize again what he’s doing. The knowledge warms me and lifts me, and I clench my pussy around his cock, giving back to him what he’s giving to me.
In this instant, I know Tym’s heart. He’s hard, nearly savage as he fucks me with his massive cock, but he’s only hard because I want him to be hard and savage. If I told him I wanted wine and candlelight, soft kisses and long cuddles, he’d do that too. But I need him as this, and he gives it to me, strength contained and controlled for my benefit.
And with each stroke, each swirl of his hips electrifies my body in ways that nobody ever has. I clutch at him, needing his strength and the reassurance that somehow, I’m making the right decisions in this clusterfuck of a mess we’re in. With each stroke comes just what I need, soothing my raging worries while thrilling my body and filling me with light.
I feel myself start to tighten around him again, and I pour myself into this, giving Tym what he needs and encouraging him. Tym’s cock swells, and I pull him down into a deep kiss just as I come a second time, crying out around his lips as my body’s overwhelmed. An instant later, Tym joins me, his hot cock filling my pulsating pussy with his thick, delicious cream and filling me with happiness.
I hold him, brushing his long locks back over his shoulder and away from his face as I study him, watching as his face clears and I can see the man he is all the way inside.
“You know,” I say as he starts to soften, “you don’t have to wear a mask with me.”
Tym chuckles and strokes my cheek. “Yes, I do. Even if you see past it right now, I can’t let anyone else see. Sometimes, not even myself.”
He withdraws, and I take a moment to relish the aching emptiness of my now gaping pussy slowly closing before sitting up and finding my panties. “Tym, about this—”
“I know,” he says quietly, pulling his pants up and fastening them. He smiles, but it’s a fake smile, and I know he’s put his mask back on. “Y
ou needed it.”
I nod, but before I can reach for my shirt and bra to start finishing getting dressed, there’s footsteps on the stairs to the loft. “Hey, we found—”
Brandon’s head comes into view, his face clouding with anger as he sees my state of undress. “Well, some of us have been working for the past hour,” he growls, not averting his gaze at all as I finish putting on my shirts and pull my leathers back on. “Good thing I found you two, too. Bad news.”
“What?” I ask, ignoring the way his eyes greedily drink in my legs as I put on my pants. I’ve just come twice, but the way Brandon’s looking at me . . . I wonder if Lance might be up for something?
Brandon licks his lips unconsciously, then blinks, the anger coming back into his expression. “Yeah . . . while you two were bumping uglies, Lance and I did the prep. Just in time, too. We’ve got wolves on the horizon.”
Chapter 27
Cerena
“What are our chances?” I ask Lance and Tym, looking out at the dust cloud approaching. “How many?”
“I put their numbers at around two dozen,” Lance says, glancing at Tym and me but shrugging off any questions. He’s probably more curious about why Brandon’s so pissed off, but right now isn’t for those kinds of discussions. “They’re going to be armed.”
“Can we take them?” I ask, more to myself than to Tym and Lance. Two dozen. It’s an overwhelming force, but it depends on our opponents.
Werewolves are a tricky lot, and in some ways, they’re the most unpredictable of the paranormals. Vampires, despite their toughness, tend to fight conservatively. Maybe it’s just that hard to make a new vampire, but they don’t sacrifice their numbers in wild attacks.
Wendigo are the opposite. Once committed to an attack, they’ll fight to the last creature, but their ferocity is also their weakness. Wendigo almost never use weapons. It’s all their strength, speed, claws, and teeth. And they fight stupidly as well. A good Hunter can take on wendigo without an issue.
Werewolves, though . . . werewolves are the worst of all worlds. With the strength of a wendigo, the cunning of a vampire, and a healing factor that means they can shrug off injuries that would cripple most other paranormal beings, even one on one, a werewolf is a handful for a Hunter. Add in the fact that they use weapons like humans will, and they’re even more dangerous.
But werewolves run in packs, and that’s where they become unpredictable. Some Alphas guard their members’ lives like precious gold, hoarding and spending them as little as possible. I’ve heard reports of battles with such clans that have literally ended bloodlessly.
Then there are the Alphas who will send their troops in waves, no quarter given or expected.
This fight’s going to come down to how much blood the wolves are willing to spill.
“I don’t know Lucian’s tactics,” I admit, looking at Tym and Lance. “How many would we need to kill?”
“All of them,” Lance says immediately. “After the scene we caused in Bane, and stealing his truck along with Brandon? Lucian’s going to be pushed against a wall.”
I nod, worried that would be the case. We’ve only got minutes to darkness as well, so there won’t be time to prepare defenses. “I can handle two or three. Tym, I figure you’re the same, maybe more if you go berserk. Brandon?”
He shrugs, surly. “I don’t know.”
“Fine, let’s say one. Lance, can you kill a dozen of them before they get here with that pistol?”
He immediately shakes his head. “I’m a deadeye, but not that good. Speed, distance, their movement . . . and I’ve only got twenty rounds. With a Gauss pistol? Not happening.”
“Can’t you use time—” Brandon says, then stops. “Never mind.”
He’s thinking, I’ll give him that. But Lance’s power affects everything he’s not in contact with, best as I can tell. He can’t fire rounds without the rounds freezing as soon as they leave his pistol.
“Come on. To the shelter,” I tell them, “and let’s hope they’re still trying to chase us without knowing where we are.”
It’s a common enough sight on farms around the Scorched Earth. I’ve seen them countless times. A storm shelter is nearly the first thing built once a farmer decides on his land, as heavy wind storms and tornadoes can come almost out of nowhere at times.
I’ve read as a student that back in the pre-war days, storm shelters were just that, a place to hide from a storm. In fact, many weren’t all that strong, because tornadoes are so sudden and move past so quickly. So while they had a sturdy door, they weren’t made to be bunkers.
Not storm shelters on the Scorched Earth. Instead, we’re in a poured concrete box in the ground, the only ventilation provided by twisting holes in the roof that don’t let any light out and barely enough fresh air for the four of us to breathe.
We can’t even make any noise. A werewolf’s hearing is too sensitive. So instead, we sit in the dimly lit shelter, a small emergency light in the corner the only thing fighting back total darkness.
Amazingly, there is one find in the shelter that reveals to me just how prosperous this farm was before the weeds took over. And right now, it’s in my hands.
Paper.
It’s not super-fine paper like the Elders will use for their occasional memorandums that get posted around Solace, which is thick and heavy, creamy in texture, and smoother than silk to the touch.
This is rougher paper, the sort that still has the pulp visible in the sheets and doesn’t fold very well because you’ve got a good chance of the sheet fracturing and crumbling on you . . . but it’s still paper, and a lot of it. I don’t know how many sheets, but the stack’s half an inch thick, which means this farm was more than prosperous at some point or another.
In his corner, Lance is holding one of the sheets, then he reaches over and picks something up, pressing it to the paper. A moment later, I hear a light scratching sound, and he looks up, holding aloft a pencil, of all things. At least I think it’s a pencil, but I’ve never seen one used for writing, only by women to do makeup for their eyes. It’s an interesting idea.
He finishes what he’s doing and waves us over. I shrug and slide over next to him to see what he wrote.
Kinda cool to be pissing this much money away writing, isn’t it?
I roll my eyes and gesture for the pencil.
You just want to entertain yourself. Go ahead.
Lance reads it and grins, reaching for his belt before stopping, pantomiming. I wrote again.
I said entertain yourself, not put on a comedy routine.
Brandon glowers at our flirting and waves for the pencil and paper. Is that how you keep these two working for you?
His words hurt, and Tym looks like he’s pissed off as well, but I quickly write out my reply. No. I do what I do, with whom I want, when I want.
Yeah, well, while you’re in here organizing an orgy, the wolves are out there. I can hear them. They’re going to smell us.
I read his note, my brow wrinkling as I re-read Brandon’s scribbling. Part of it, of course, is that his handwriting sucks. Not that mine’s better. Holocomputers make handwriting pretty much an archaic skill. Most of my writing before this has consisted of symbols or drawings scratched in dirt.
But then I realize something. Brandon’s scared. I can see it in his eyes. He thinks that the wolves, however many are approaching, are going to rip the door off this shelter and tear us apart.
They can’t smell us.
He raises an eyebrow, scribbling a reply. What do you mean, they can’t smell us? We’re breathing and we’re sweaty. That’s gotta be coming up through the breathing holes.
Lance’s and Tym’s expressions are near-mirror images of each other, and I’m sure they’re thinking the same thing I’m thinking. Brandon is a city boy.
It’s a weird thing about his amnesia right now. His memories are disjointed and he doesn’t remember a lot of the details, but his skills and other things are more or less intact. He’s
used the filtering bottles properly and he’s been adept at moving, but now I see the issue. On the trail as he walks, he hasn’t been moving with the same ease as everyone else. He’s chafed at the shoulders from the backpack.
You’ve never been out in the Scorched Earth before, have you?
Brandon flushes but shrugs. I get it, he doesn’t know for sure, but either way, he’s not experienced in field craft.
Listen, the dust that blows through most of the Scorched Earth is alkali. Do you know what that means?
A head shake.
It means that our scents got obliterated by the wind that’s been blowing all afternoon. Unless we’re up close and out of the wind, they can’t smell us.
Not even through the vent holes?
Lance shakes his head. I can still hear the wind. As long as we’re quiet, they won’t be able to detect us.
It seems to relax Brandon, but a new thought comes to my mind. While the werewolves might not be able to catch our scents here in the storm shelter, there’s another source of smell that isn’t directly in the wind.
The barn. Tym and I worked up quite a scent with our athletic fuck in the hayloft, and I know we left body fluids behind. I mean, he had me dripping wet, and as much as Tym came . . .
I shiver, both at the heat of the memory of our intense fucking and at the danger it poses. Sure, outside the barn, nobody would be able to smell anything, but all it’ll take is a werewolf going into the barn, and they might be able to find us.
I rack my memory, trying to think of the direction the breeze was coming from as we sat in the open loft door before I leaned over and kissed him, but my memories are obliterated by what happened afterward.
Outside, I can hear footsteps on the surface. Obviously, the wolves are here. I reach over, carefully picking up my sword to prepare for the worst while Lance slips his pistol out of its holster.
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