by Michele Hauf
Constantine ripped off his leather glove, wet with wolf blood, and tossed it in the fire. He strode toward the stairs, snarling at his men as he passed, “Kill him.”
Three spears pierced the werewolf in heart, groin and throat. The wolf’s head jerked up in agony. Its yellow eyes flashed open and met Constantine’s dark, steady gaze.
The beast’s head dropped and death came with a brilliant explosion of blood from its every vein.
Constantine stepped back and wiped the blood from his face. He did not dash out his tongue. The enemy’s blood held no favor.
The Council must not learn of his duplicity, which meant Rhys Hawkes must be silenced. And if anyone could command a werewolf, it was Ian Grim.
HE IS HALF WEREWOLF.
The man she desired was not the man she thought him to be. And yet, Viviane was not frightened. She was only slightly offended he’d not told her. What had been Monsieur Hawkes when she had kissed him and touched him so intimately at his home? Vampire or werewolf? Should it matter?
It did matter. As Constantine had intimated, for a vampire to be intimate with a wolf would forever mark her against her own kind.
A man who was not what she thought him to be. She’d known that first night they’d spoken that he was not right.
“I wonder what it would be like to be kissed by a wolf?”
You already know.
Indeed. Rhys could be the very man she needed in her life. He desired her. And he was not interested in her because of her bloodborn status. He simply wanted to be her lover.
Why refuse him?
Viviane’s heart quested for noise, commotion, excitement. The thrill of being pursued. The intensity of pursuit.
“Portia!”
The maid appeared immediately, as if she had been lingering outside the bedchamber door.
“I wish to write a letter,” she said. “Or rather, a short missive. Gather the pen and ink and some paper. I’ll need help to spell the words.”
“Of course, ma chérie.”
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
FROM A DISTANCE, RHYS COULD not discern if the rider were male, female, or fanged. She sat on the gelding like a bandit.
His anticipation lifted.
He’d received the note this morning just before the sun rose on the horizon. Delivered by Portia. It was an invitation to meet Viviane in the Bois de Boulogne at midnight for a jaunt.
She was aware what he needed tonight. Surely, she had not forgotten. His idea of a midnight jaunt involved shedding their clothes and breathing in her skin. Pray, let hers be the same.
The horse, a fine mount, slowed as it approached, stepping in a high trot as if trained to march. Sitting sidesaddle, her deep crimson skirts swept the barrel of the horse. One small foot secured in the stirrup was all that kept her from sliding off. Stars sat in her eyes, which narrowed as she drew rein. High, pale cheekbones soaked up the moonlight.
That same moonlight teased Rhys’s werewolf. It wanted release, to mate and be sated. But he must sate it in vampire form to keep his werewolf from raging.
“Mademoiselle, the forest is empty of human souls,” he confirmed.
She nodded approvingly. “As I’d hoped.”
“You’ve had time to consider all I’ve revealed to you?”
“I have.” She walked the horse beyond him, around and in a circle that took her off the path beaten to dirt by carriage wheels.
Rhys stood patiently, taking in her essence. Traces of desire wafted from her skin, intense and sweet. His vampire scented her blood.
The moire ribbon at her neck was a new purchase for he could hear the rub of the raised weft against her skin. The leather gloves gripping the reins must be an old and favored pair for they hugged her flesh as if a second skin and smelled of beeswax polish.
“I won’t ask what you concluded,” he said.
“Isn’t it obvious?”
“It is. I want you, Viviane.”
“You need me,” she boldly challenged, staring down at him. She favored the position of authority. It tickled him to grant it to her.
“Yes,” he confirmed. “I need you.”
“Show me what you are, wolf,” she challenged. “And that I can trust you.”
“Right now?” His wolf shape was neutral; neither his vampire nor werewolf mind really controlled it. He was most like an animal in that form, yet still retained the human knowledge of a mortal.
“Yes. The forest is a fine place to reveal one’s truths,” she prompted.
“And then what?”
Viviane hitched a heel to the horse’s flank. It took off at a canter, and she called back, “If you can catch me, you can have me!”
A flirting challenge? His werewolf demanded the satisfaction of capturing her and pushing her to the ground, shoving up her skirts and claiming her roughly.
The vampire he was right now decided the werewolf rather wise.
But the four-legged wolf he could become wanted to run, to lope through the grasses and dash after the wind.
Twisting his foot, Rhys pushed off the ball and into a run. The heavy frockcoat slowed him, making it difficult to pump his arms. He veered toward the forest lining the path.
VIVIANE HEELED MORDAUNT and left Rhys in a wake of upended turf. While her brain was still trying to order out this new information about Rhys, her heart rushed ahead, urging her to abandon caution.
She had sent the letter, knowing he would not refuse her. Yet she had been unsure she would attend this midnight appointment until only half a turn of the clock earlier.
Vampires did not engage with werewolves.
Yet Viviane favored the idea of tossing tradition aside and gambling with risk.
The first time she glanced back, she almost lost balance. Riding sidesaddle was difficult, especially at break-neck speed. She’d not worn breeches under her skirts as she usually did when she went for a ride, yet she’d changed into a riding corset, which was cut high so as not to dig into her gut as the horse jostled.
Rhys followed closely.
She felt her breasts flush and held back a giggle at this spontaneous adventure. The second time she glanced back, the wind loosened the hair pinned at the top of her head. She tucked a long swath over her ear and searched the hazy darkness. Rhys dodged toward the thick forest, disappearing.
Did he know of a shortcut? There could be unmarked paths lovers used for liaisons, or by killers to hide their deeds. Last month two bodies had been found in this park.
She heeled Mordaunt and the horse snorted in response. Darkness and the loamy grass impeded the gelding’s footing and kept it from a full-out run.
A wolf dashed out from the woods, parallel to them and kept pace. Mordaunt may be aware of it, but would not balk for the witch’s spell.
Rhys? It had to be. How marvelous. He’d shifted to show her his animal form.
She wanted to look at the wolf, to watch it race across the long grasses, but more she needed to pay attention. A low hanging branch swept the crown of her head. The next time she looked, the wolf was gone.
Mordaunt’s front legs stiffened as the horse dug in its hooves to a stop. It reared. Viviane slid from the hot withers, crying out.
She hit the ground, hip first and rolled to her stomach. Slapping the ground, she moaned. Mordaunt reared once, and stomped the ground too close to her head. A large gray wolf growled, frightening the horse off the path to wander the edge of a field.
The wolf loped toward her. Its fur was thick and healthy. Gold eyes tracked the area. It circled, its nose dipping to sniff at her, yet it kept ten paces away at all times.
Viviane pushed to sit, and shook her head to loosen the leaves from her tousled hair. Though she had no proof this was Rhys, she was not afraid.
“So you have won,” she declared proudly. “I am pleased for your victory.” She drew her fingers across her breasts, wet from the dewy grass. Licking them, she drawled, “It is more than a mere race you have won.”
The animal sta
lked before her. It gave no indication it understood, but neither did it growl. Its eyes matched the elegant rim of gold she had noticed on Rhys’s irises.
“How am I to speak to a wolf?”
The wolf yipped once, and released a whining, shrill tone, which reminded Viviane of the submissive dogs the king kept at Versailles for the hunt.
Mordaunt bristled its withers and trotted off, clearly offended by the beast, yet not willing to get too far from his mistress.
Apprehension doubled her heartbeats. The man favored her, but would such admiration manifest while in wolf form?
Maybe this was not Rhys. There were wolves in abundance at the periphery of Paris, though rarely were they sighted in the park. She reasoned now perhaps that was because they entered the park after all humans had left.
Did it sense she was not human? Or did one human-shaped being appear as tasty—or threatening—as the next?
She had killed one wolf; she could kill another.
Exhaling, she shook her head. No, she would not again kill a wolf. Not now, knowing Rhys was half wolf.
“Show yourself,” she demanded. “Or I shall mount and ride off, and never speak to you again. Rhys?”
The wolf pranced about her, jumping to land its fore-paws, and dashing about in a circle. Playful in its motions. Or perhaps teasing the prey before the attack?
“You’re frightening me,” she admitted. Did the wolf understand? “Do not tease me, please.”
Skipping out before her, the wolf growled and yipped, yet the vocalizations were abruptly cut off. The beast flipped to its back, its legs kicking out at odd angles, as if an invisible force had pressed it down and pinned it with a hand to the stomach.
Viviane leaned forward, fingers curling into the wet grass. No longer could she sense her heartbeats. Perhaps her heart had stopped to witness such a sight. To know what was happening, and to also know it could not happen unless he trusted her.
She heard the crack of bone, the leathery tear as flesh and fur stretched and elongated. Whiny snarls amplified, and she wondered would the whole city not hear. Quickly the whines grew low and tortured. The wolf, gyrating in the darkness, kicked up leaves and pawed the grass.
The voice of a man emerged as the legs lengthened and she watched the broad, bold, back stretch. The spine curved as muscles banded beneath mortal flesh.
Not at all horrified, Viviane clutched her chest. There, her heart raced. Her wondrous sigh underlined the creature’s agonizing moans.
Never had she witnessed a Dark One change. Not even after she’d killed the wolf, for it had changed to a man while she had not been aware. Fascinating. And so personal.
When he was completely man, Rhys knelt before her, one hand on the ground, and squatting on his hind legs. Naked. Long hair tousled about his shoulders. The gray streak gleamed in the moonlight, as did the sweat on his muscles. Muscles she wanted to touch, to press her palms to and draw in his sensual heat.
Gold animal eyes held her. They had yet to change.
He stretched back his head, twisting it as if to draw out a kink in his neck. Easing back his shoulders, he worked them up, one, then the other. Standing, he worked through his entire body, stretching and tensing the muscles until he shook one foot loosely and then the other.
“Shifting shape is always difficult,” he finally remarked.
Viviane released her held breath. Laughter felt wrong so she aborted it with an effusive smile. Yet inside she giddily celebrated what she had just witnessed and was relieved she’d the courage to invite him tonight.
“One disadvantage of the change is clothing does not come along during the process.” Rhys flexed a biceps and inhaled deeply, which lifted his broad chest. “But I’ll wager a naked man does not offend your experienced disposition, eh, LaMourette?”
“Not at all.”
Viviane drew her eyes over his tight stomach, row after row of hard muscle emphasized his strength, his wild virility. Moonlight glistened silver on his sweat-beaded flesh, plating him as if a statue. Gluttony was not one of his vices.
Nor was humility. As her eyes traveled lower, she fixed upon the gorgeous weapon at the apex of his thighs, so boldly erect. Defiant. Ready.
“You keep staring at my private bits, I’ll begin to wonder if that’s all you’re interested in, chérie.”
“I wouldn’t call them bits.” Pushing to stand, Viviane approached. “They’ve changed,” she said of his eyes. “I like them gold.”
“Then you favor my wolf. Ahh…”
She clutched his erection. So thick and hard, her fingers did not completely span the width. It was a prize she would take in reward for the race—win or not.
“It is a most spectacular thing.” She stroked it, keeping a firm grasp. The skin was smooth, silken, the thick head of it hot and wet with dew.
He moved in and nuzzled his cheek aside hers. A throaty sigh signaled his pleasure.
“You said your werewolf needs to be sated?”
“Yes, if I am not sexually fulfilled by midnight on the night preceding the full moon the werewolf takes over.”
“And your vampire?”
“Will take over the werewolf’s mind. It will not be so playful as I was in simple wolf form.”
Viviane paused her astute ministrations. She stroked his cheek, bristled with beard stubble. A smudge of dirt cut a line across his skin. “You don’t like your werewolf,” she stated.
“It’s not a matter of liking. It’s a matter of not wishing to murder anyone.”
“Nothing can be done to stop it once you have shifted?”
“I keep an iron cage at home for the full moon.”
“You poor man. Do all werewolves endure the same struggle?”
“Only me. Measures have been taken. I was enchanted by a faery decades ago. But that only keeps my werewolf away until the full moon.”
“A faery? And what did you give her in return?”
“Can we not discuss this right now? I am standing naked before you, LaMourette.”
“Yes, and displaying quite a healthy regard for me.” They both looked down to her hand clasped about his hard staff. “Shall I take this as a metaphor for your truths? All bold and out there?”
“You may.” He nuzzled aside her cheek. “You know my darkest secret now, Viviane.”
“Well, then—” she kissed his dirt-smeared shoulder “—we had best see to taming the werewolf.”
“What did you have in—”
Viviane fell to her knees and kissed his erection.
“The woman is a libertine,” he said on a strained tone.
Her fangs tingled, wanting to taste, to pierce him, but she relinquished that desire for the fascination of exploring the delicate boundary that kept him wanting and submissive at her touch.
A lash of her tongue along his hard length drew out a moan from her lover. His staff bobbed, pleading for her to take him into her mouth. And so she did because the control this position offered her was insurmountable. Drawing her hands about his thighs and up his buttocks, she held him there, a prisoner that she would make suffer as she pleased.
Salty and verdant, the taste of him belied his simple exterior, but spoke of his intricate nature. She could not take him too far, but she read his moans as evidence she served him well.
“Viviane, you will kill me.”
“You don’t like what I’m doing?”
His deep groan scurried over her flesh and prickled her every pore to a wanting receptor.
“If you continue, ah…le petit morte.”
“Come, wolf,” she cooed. “Do as I request. Surrender to me.”
“The deuce, Viviane!”
And he relented. His body shuddered. Twice now she had mastered him. The triumph emboldened her. She could trust this man, no matter his wicked darkness.
Viviane stood and tugged at him, and led him toward the trees.
Her heel stepped on a branch, upsetting her balance. Rhys caught her by the elbows and brought h
er down in a thicket of long grass. He tore at the bodice seam high on her shoulder where it was sown to the corset. It came free easily. Portia wasn’t the most exacting seamstress. Viviane would thank her later.
He ripped the bodice from her gown. “What’s this? It is half what it should be.”
“My riding corset.”
“I like it.”
He bit the ribbon securing the corset through wide grommets. Releasing the tight ribbon unloosened her voluptuous breasts. Rhys’s tongue grazed her nipple and Viviane arched her back to receive his hot lashes. A hot lick about her rigid flesh giddied. He suckled, drawing all sensation to the exquisite center of her.
Her entire body reacted, tensing, relaxing, toes curling and chest rising. Her being tingled, wanting all he could give to her and then flinching with sweet reluctance, until she moaned and set back her shoulders, opening herself to receive whatever his tongue, his fingers, his skin could offer.
He struggled at her skirts, but lifting her by the hips, he managed to locate the ribbon in the back, and tugged it loose with a rip and a tear. His hips rocked, his penis nudged at her thigh.
“You are a wicked woman.”
“What? For taking advantage of a naked man? I hardly feel any challenge was presented.”
He smiled against her mouth and kissed her deeply, roughly. She clung to his shoulders, tearing her nails into his moist skin. She would not draw blood—not yet.
Moving hard kisses over her neck, Rhys caressed her breasts, pinching the nipples, massaging her flesh, and again finding the hard peaks with his mouth. His mouth may be at her breasts, yet she felt his touch at the apex of her mons, deeply, teasing at her.
His erection thumped her stomach. Hard again so quickly?
“That was excellent,” he whispered, “but a far cry from utter satiation. We’ve much to do with la lune watching over us tonight. Are you willing?”
“Oh yes.”
He dragged the skirts from her thighs and the smooth intrusion of his fingers into her sex filled the night with a dazzle of stars Viviane could only touch in her dreams.
“So wet,” he growled. “Ripe for me. Viviane, I must…”
