Soft As Moonlight

by J. A. Saare

  “Do you want him that badly?” he wheezed despite himself, pockets of air seeping blood into his thin button down shirt and staining the white material crimson.

  She didn’t hesitate. “I wouldn’t be facing off against something like you if I weren’t.”

  Wolfe recognized the look because it was one he’d seen displayed many times by his brethren. She wanted blood—Taylor’s blood—and she’d die to get it. Even if it meant tangling with a Lycae three times her size.

  He felt a pang of shame at what he was about to do, but there was only one way to ensure she didn’t skin Taylor’s worthless hide along with his.

  He lowered his eyes, shifted to the side, and murmured, “Then, by all means.”

  Blue irises flickered brightly before going dark. Her full, rosy-hued lips parted slightly, and her mahogany brows furrowed suspiciously. As if to clarify, she said, “I hold no grudge against your kind.”

  He considered smiling at her newly projected nervousness and thought better of it, shuffling his feet and giving gave her room. “Glad to hear it.”

  Slowly, she edged around him until she was closer to Taylor. When the vampyren slave was within her reach, she snagged his shirt in her hand, forcing him from the door and into the building. For a moment, her indigo eyes flashed in Wolfe’s direction, sizing him up. Wolfe remained where he was, as insubstantial and nonthreatening as a fly on the wall, waiting patiently for her to accept his false truce and lower her guard.

  “All right, you sorry piece of shit,” she snarled at Taylor and turned away from Wolfe while holstering her sidearm and then pilfering in her back pocket. She produced a small pair of pliers and shoved the metal into Taylor’s face, pressing against him. “You’re going to tell me everything I want to know, or so help me—”

  Wolfe rushed her, and she attempted to go for the gun, hindered by the pliers that snagged in her leather holster and the distance he crossed so quickly.

  “You’re going to have to forgive me for this,” he murmured hoarsely and clocked her in the chin.

  His knuckles collided with the delicate line of her jaw, and he pulled back just enough to rend her unconscious without risking serious damage. The hat came off her head, and long, thick strands of silvery white fell free, hanging in loose waves along her shoulders and down her back. Her blue eyes mirrored her betrayal just before they slid closed and her body went slack. He caught her before she collapsed, wrapped an arm beneath her legs and back, and brought her against his bloodied chest.

  The connection upon contact was asphyxiating, a wrenching in his body that had fuck all to do with bullets made of silver or years of self imposed abstinence. The wolf under his skin recognized the tiny creature cradled in his arms just as he did. A sense of belonging he’d never experienced surfaced along with the intense instinct to nurture, cherish, and defend.

  Sweet fucking Jesus.

  “Kill her,” Taylor demanded, stumbling away from the wall, unkempt and livid. He lifted a hand stained by blood and pointed at the girl. “Kill the fucking bitch before she opens her eyes.”

  Wolfe growled, embracing the protective nature that arose when a Lycae male discovered his mate. His wolf answered readily, bones aching as the beast surged beneath his flesh and stopped at the barrier of his skin.

  “Listen to me.” Taylor lowered his voice but didn’t back down. “She will kill you, Wolfe. Anyone that has come between her and her vow have been sent directly to the ever after. She doesn’t harbor a grudge, but by associating yourself with the vampyren she detests, you have just instigated one.”

  “What is she?”

  He didn’t pose it as a question, and Taylor knew it.

  “She’s a Daywalker. A Dhampir.”

  The emphasis on the last word was intentional, and the devastation upon learning the truth was nearly unbearable. Wolfe glanced down at the most beautiful female this side of heaven, unable to believe what he knew to be true.

  She was a goddamned vampire, or in the least partly one. She would require the life of others to survive, sustaining herself on blood . . .

  Christ.

  The pack would shit a goddamned brick when he brought her to New York.

  “Don’t torment yourself.” Taylor attempted to sound understanding, wheezing slightly as his broken nose forced him to breathe through his mouth. “She’s nothing to you, a half-vampire and half-human child with no past and no future. No one will miss her when she’s gone. Do the world a favor. Destroy that which was never intended to exist in the first place.”

  “You don’t have a hell of a lot of room to talk, blood slave,” he growled, infuriated and teetering on the brink. “She was born this way. You can’t destroy things simply because they are an anomaly of your kind. If you did, vampyren would have vanished long ago.”

  “The Thymeria want her gone as badly as we do.”

  Wolfe lifted his head and glowered at the man who had sold his soul to the vampyren so many years before. “Why do the leeches fear her?”

  Taylor started to speak and stopped, shaking his head. “The why of it doesn’t matter. What does is that she never draws another breath. See to this now, and you’ll never have to worry about the king or the Thymeria. You’ll be in the good graces of each for eternity, I assure you.”

  Fury arose, a maelstrom of outrage so pure and intense that he wanted to rip Taylor limb from limb and scatter the pieces about as a warning.

  No wonder Adam went ballistic.

  “You need to leave.” He shifted the fragile body in his arms, turned, and walked toward the back alley that led to the long-forgotten apartment Lycae used while visiting the area for business.

  “Listen—”

  “No.” Wolfe spun around and flashed fang, knowing his eyes answered the call and shone brightly. “You listen. Don’t come back here, don’t threaten me or any other Lycae with your propaganda, and sure as fuck don’t come near this female if you know what’s good for you. Having a Dhampir for an enemy is bad. Adding a pack that detests your kind into the mix won’t be beneficial.”

  Taylor’s face went lax in understanding, his eyes wide and mouth gaping. “Oh, shit.”

  “That’s right. You’ve just unwittingly introduced me to my mate. Now, do your race a favor. Warn your king what he’s just pitted himself against.”

  Desperate now, Taylor tried to argue. “She won’t let this go—”

  “Piss off.” He turned, shifting the female in his arms and drowning in the most erotic fragrance of honeysuckle and linen. Molten blood surged through his veins, going directly to his suddenly straining cock, and dots speckled his vision. Everything male in him screamed to mark and claim, to bring himself into the tiny body in his arms until they were barbed together and bound as a mated couple.

  Fucking hell. Nothing had ever affected him like this.

  Nothing.

  The sound of the limo driving away allowed him to relax as he climbed the stairs. Then he cursed softly. Of all the questions he asked, he hadn’t bothered to ask the most basic and fundamental one—her name.

  He dug the key from his pocket despite the protests of his wounds, opening the door with a quick flick of his hand and closing it with the heel of his foot. The tiny apartment wasn’t suited for any sort of long-term occupancy, but it sufficed for a short business trip. Even still, as he lay his mate on the large mattress without a head board, he felt incredibly lacking as a male. She deserved to rest among the fresh linens she smelled of, on a bed large enough to allow them to play properly.

  She didn’t rouse when he situated her on the pillow, breathing deep and steady, the darkened bruise along her jaw fading. Gently, he brushed the back of his hand against the softness of her cheek, repeating the motion against her temple. His tanned skin was stark against her fair complexion and pale hair, his hand larger than her head.

  He exhaled softly and allowed his fingers to drift to his side.

  Leaving her wasn’t an option. She’d flee the instant she woke.
He had to explain the situation, allow her to understand just how important she was to him and why he’d interfered in her private dealings with Taylor. Hopefully, when the facts were laid out and the truth was on the table, she’d understand.

  He tugged at the shirt thick with blood and walked to the phone by the bed, lifting the receiver from the cradle and pushing the pound key. The line clicked and then rang. After several chimes, the other end came to life, and Greyson’s deep timbre echoed through the line.

  “Calling already?”

  Wolfe chuckled when he realized the bastard knew what his strange interest in the female meant before he did.

  “We need to talk.”

  “Is she all right? I heard the gunfire outside but figured it was best to lay low until it went quiet.”

  “She’s fine,” Wolfe answered and stared down at the ragged holes in his chest. “But you need to bring the kit. She shot my ass full of silver.”

  Voices in the background nearly drowned Greyson out. “I’ll be up shortly.”

  “Wait,” Wolfe thundered before the other end of the line went dead. “Tell me her name before you go. In case she wakes disoriented and confused.”

  “She’s asleep?”

  He studied her peaceful heart-shaped face. The bruise marring her chin was stark against her porcelain skin, deepening it to a mottled purple along her jaw.

  Clearing his throat, he answered evasively, “You could say that.”

  “Did you remove her weapons?”

  “No.” Wolfe glanced at the guns beneath each arm. “Why?”

  “Because when she wakes up, it won’t be disoriented or confused. That girl will empty a chamber in your hide for coming between her and those vampyren, and after she’s decorated your blood with the floor, she’ll kick you while you’re down to remind you not to fuck with her in the future.”

  He peered down at the face so angelic in sleep and said, “You’re joking.”

  “The hell I am. She’ll own your ass, sure as shit.”

  “Goddamn it.”

  Trapping the phone between his shoulder and ear, he bent at the waist and began stripping her of the daggers and guns, snapping the buttons over the top to keep them in place before unwinding the leather holsters.

  “Arden Moran.”

  “What?” he mumbled, lifting her torso to pull the thick leather away from her delicate shoulders.

  “Her name is Arden Moran,” Greyson repeated and added tersely, “I’ll be up when I can. The Friday night crowd just arrived, and we’re short a server.”

  The line went dead, and Wolfe plopped the phone back onto the cradle, lowering her to the bed before carrying the daggers and guns to the small kitchen and placing them in the top cabinet. Then, he went to the sink, tossed the ruined shirt onto the counter, and removed a clean dish rag from the drawer beneath.

  He swiped at the blistering wounds on his chest, dreading the removal of the shells placed in his flesh by the very female that fate intended for him and him alone. Nothing ever went as planned. Things always seemed to occur when he least expected it, catching him totally unaware.

  Including this.

  He turned around, braced his arms on the counter, and gazed at the small form resting peacefully across the way. The moonlight shone from the window, casing her in a soft white glow.

  A debilitating longing enraptured him.

  He wanted to go to her, hold her closely, and lose himself inside the moist and inviting heat of her body. He wanted what every mated Lycae did—a future with his female, a lifetime shared together.

  A family, home, children . . .

  She’s a Dhampir.

  He forced aside what he wasn’t ready to deal with and wrestled instead with the uncertainty that awaited the two of them. When a Lycae found his mate, the claim wasn’t long in the coming. It was natural and necessary to ensure a lifelong bond. But this female would probably sever his dick off at the hilt with one of those silvered daggers before she willingly submitted to him.

  “Arden.” He tested her name on his lips, found that it suited her perfectly, and knew his life just got a hell of a lot more complicated.

  Chapter Four

  Something incredibly soft brushed against the tip of Arden’s nose. She shifted on the warm, lumpy padding beneath her head in an attempt to avoid the caress, lifting her hand and swatting the offending object with her fingers. When she felt the contact once more, she slid off the hard pillow, shifting away from the disturbance keeping her from sleep.

  A delectable woodsy scent lined her nostrils, the fragrance so heady and alluring it burned the back of her throat. Her hunger emerged, enflaming the miserable fire churning in the pit of her belly and extending the cotton dryness in her mouth.

  How long had it been since she’d fed?

  She struggled to remember, logic and time evading her, unable to think coherently. Nothing mattered but the delicious ambrosia that sang to her—taunting the canines that extended and throbbed, yearning for appeasement. A decent feeding would keep her sated for days. And the blood calling to her was unlike any she’d tasted before.

  Potent, masculine . . .

  Powerful.

  Her tongue darted out, lapping sultry bare skin. The hot and incredibly smooth flesh quivered at the first salty taste, pressing closer to her eager lips, and she detected the strong, steady drumming of a heartbeat just beneath.

  Eyes closed, she moved upward, following the promise of the richest blood imaginable. The silky skin beneath her lips changed, growing softer as she found the vulnerable hollow of the throat. A rhythmic throbbing met her mouth, the pulse increasing as she bathed the area with her tongue. She pressed her palms against the sinewy chest beneath her hands, sliding her body up and over.

  A throaty groan of encouragement rumbled against her ear, husky and deep. Large hands grasped her waist firmly, guiding her closer, and she straddled the hips that flattened beneath her. The pounding of the heartbeat against her lips thrummed in her ears, growing louder, until the pain in her fangs became unbearable.

  Sharp incisors scored the flesh cleanly, delving past the giving softness of skin and the thin veil of muscle, piercing the large vein beneath. The blood that coated her tongue was everything it promised to be—delicious, rich, and unbelievably addictive—and riding behind the intense fulfillment of that first encompassing swallow was something most unexpected.

  She ground against the pelvis beneath her, craving more than the blood offered. The lust was tangible, existing in the hands that groped the hard muscle beneath her fingers. Her body burned with the need for release, her breasts heavy, and her nipples sensitive. Her suddenly damp sex clenched spastically, the very center of her being empty and aching.

  “Christ,” a hoarse voice croaked, and the fingers along her hips squeezed roughly, raking across the fleshy portion of her ass.

  Arden swallowed once, then twice, a third time. Each swallow provided the strength she didn’t realize she lacked. The rush was consuming, overwhelming reason.

  Have to stop.

  Her greedy tongue and lips refused to obey and followed the lead of the practiced hands that now trailed along her torso. Her breasts were cupped and palmed, nipples brushed so softly she wanted to scream. She pressed her aching core against the hot skin beneath her, undulating as she drank deeply.

  Erotic images of being taken from behind on hands and knees until she screamed from pleasure flashed in her mind. Her skin flushed in excitement and anticipation, lips crowding the wound that continued to gush and pour. The liquid was so hot and thick, so entirely male. It incensed her, causing a sultry purr of arousal to echo inside her skull.

  I will give myself over to the lust completely, drink until the hunger is no more and the need in my body is sated. For once, I will experience the forbidden.

  Dear God, no.

  Stories of bloodlust vanquished those of pleasure, and she tore her teeth away from the throat flush to her lips, lurching away from the body
beneath her as she opened her eyes and came to awareness. The light that greeted her was blinding and her retinas burned painfully. Wincing, she rushed to a shaded corner and crouched, covering her eyes with her hand and focusing with her ears and nose. She couldn’t see danger. She could only hear and smell it.

  The fresh blood inside her stomach assisted her senses, each sound crisp and distinct, but the scent baffled her.

  The entire space smelled of Greyson, that fresh scent of tree, wood, grass, and earth. But the person she’d fed from, while most definitely Lycae, was not the one she trusted. His smell was headier, positively provocative.

  The shifting of a mattress and the rustle of sheets arrived first. Then, she heard the slow approach of footsteps. She felt for her daggers, and her heart sank when she learned she was defenseless. Her muscles rippled as she tensed and braced herself, prepared to fight blind.