by Michele Hauf
Oh, man, it had been a while since his werewolf had been satiated. The ultimate sex was when he was in his shifted werewolf form, and his mate accepted his beast. Which also ruled out skittish mortals from his list of possible mates.
He scuffed a hand over his face and closed his eyes. Enough thinking. He needed to rest and clear his head if he were going to help the witch. No matter that he wasn’t sure how he felt about her now, a child was in danger, and he was no man or wolf to allow that to happen.
* * *
Abigail woke with a start in the dark bedroom. A wolf howling in the distance stirred the hairs on the back of her neck. The creature was off in the forest that surrounded the compound, she suspected. But whether natural wolf or a werewolf, she couldn’t determine. Had Ridge gone for a run?
Could be the other pack member, but she couldn’t recall his name.
No matter, she was awake, and though groggy, a glance at the clock proved she’d slept almost three hours. That gave her time to take a shower and brush her hair before scavenging for something to eat. She’d fallen asleep so quickly she hadn’t given any thought to what the plan should now be.
First and foremost was rescuing Ryan. But to do that they needed Mac York, who could have been inside the River pack’s barn. They would have learned the truth had she not been so quick to draw her magic.
Okay, new plan of attack: holster her magic and let the werewolf do the talking. No. She couldn’t possibly relinquish all her control like that. Could she? The guy did have a handle on the physical confrontations. Fine. She’d let him handle the rough stuff. But if he screwed up—
“No, you can let him be the one in control. You know you need to.”
But knowing something and actually doing that something were two very different things.
Blu Masterson’s closet offered a few dresses in wild colors that Abigail may have cooed over a decade earlier. More of a classic-slacks-and-sweater gal after her abrupt lifestyle change, she settled on a pair of gray leather pants and a white fitted sweater with three-quarter-length sleeves trimmed with pale pink satin. She borrowed toothpaste and a brush, and then combed her hair, which she hadn’t washed in the quick shower to save time.
Slipping on her ankle-high high-heeled boots, she stepped into the hallway to search for the kitchen. She didn’t have to look hard. A light led her to the large room done in bleached, knotty woods and a corny mix of gingham and roosters.
“Looks like something out of a backwoods cabin,” she commented when she noticed Ridge standing before the stove frying eggs.
“It’s man decor,” he said over his shoulder, and she could sense the tease in his voice. “Get any sleep?”
“Enough. You?”
“Same. Scrambled?”
“Sure.”
“Sausage?”
“Well, since I am now a reformed vegetarian, I say if that’s the delicious scent I’m picking up, then go for it. Oh, dear.”
“What?”
“You’re wearing plaid.” He looked like a lumberjack from one of the paper towel wrappers she bought while on grocery errands.
“That’s what it’s called. Does it offend?”
“Uh…no,” came out a little too unconvincingly.
Only recently she’d thought her perfect man would never wear plaid. Difficult not to run into the horrid print in this neck of the woods, though. Which only meant she should stick to her guns to move back to Europe where most of the men were refined, stylish and— Hell, what was she thinking? The werewolf wore the look well, and the shirt stretched around muscles so big and hard she wanted to touch them to see if they were real.
“So what’s the plan this morning?” he asked.
She poured herself a cup of coffee from a steel pot on the back burner, thankful for the rich, hot joe. The man brewed a mean cup, and she liked coffee that smacked you awake. A wobbly bar stool that looked as if a chain saw had carved it from a tree stump was much more comfortable than she expected.
“We need to get inside the River pack’s compound and gain access to the vampires.”
“If there are any left.” He turned and set a plate heaped with fluffy scrambled eggs and four sausage links before her. The smell streamed straight to the desire center of her brain, and her mouth watered. “If they held a fight last night, one or even both of the vampires could be dead.”
“Then we had best hurry,” she said. “One had to have survived. He could be our man.”
“Or he could not be our man, and he could instead be the dead longtooth.”
“Either way, I need that vamp. The man who called me didn’t specify that I bring him alive.”
Ridge winced.
“Well, if you want to get technical.” She shrugged and dug into the breakfast. “Oh, my goddess.”
“What, too hot?”
“No, these eggs are incredible. I usually don’t like eggs, having seen where they come from, but these…”
“Wait until you taste my soufflé. It’ll spoil you forever.”
“I may have to take you up on that challenge.”
Not only was the man a warrior, but he was a darn good cook. What couldn’t he do?
You know his mouth is perfect for kissing.
She’d made a mistake kissing him earlier. It had been a reaction. She’d been following instinct. But still, if he had kissed her back she would have let it happen.
You’re getting soft, Abigail.
Yeah, well, girls were supposed to be soft once in a while.
She sighed and set down her fork. A new wave of tension tightened her neck muscles. “Tell me it’s going to be all right. That we’ll find the stupid vampire and get Ryan back.”
“I don’t know if it’ll be all right. But we will find the vampire and we will get your son. I gave you my word. Now eat fast.” He tugged a cell phone from his back pocket. “I have an informant who may be able to help.”
“A wolf?”
“No, a vampire. Rev Parker. He’s with the Nava tribe. Guy’s probably lying down for shut-eye now, but he should take my call.”
Abigail had information on most vampires in the area, but she didn’t keep a running tally of them in her head. The Council kept track of everyone, but she usually paid closest attention to those of the Light. Because though the Protection Spell had long been broken, most witches over five decades old still harbored some unspoken animosity toward the vampires.
Unless his name was Truvin Stone and she had been obsessively in love with him. Okay, so she’d learned her lesson. No need to bring that mistake back to memory right now.
She listened as Ridge explained to Rev that he was tracking a vampire who may have been taken for blood sport. She knew Rev had once been captured for the sport, and had escaped thanks to a faerie. If anyone would be willing to help, it should be him.
“Thanks, Rev. Give me a call soon as you learn anything.” He hung up and shoveled down a few forkfuls of egg. “He’s going to put out feelers and call back. Should know something within the hour.”
“I don’t want to wait that long.”
“I figured not. Which is why I’m calling Dean Maverick as soon as I finish breakfast.”
“The leader of the Western pack? He’s so far from the cities, like a four- or five-hour drive.”
“Yeah, but he knows a lot about the various packs. More so than I do because he’s had wolves from packs all over the state join his pack.”
The information the Council had on Dean Maverick said he was an easygoing werewolf who got along with most and never started a fight. “Isn’t his wife a familiar?”
“Yes, a pretty little kitty cat.”
Familiars were born in human form with the ability to shape-shift to cat form. They served witches as conductors of demons, and tended to live nine lives. “Funny how opposites seem to attract.”
“What’s the opposite of a witch?”
“Not sure.” She sipped her coffee. “Anyone who tries to tell us no?”
<
br /> “Then that puts me on the list.”
Just as they shared a smile, a man entered the kitchen dressed in sweatpants and—go figure—a plaid shirt. He slapped Ridge across the back, then noticed Abigail and swept her with a look that ultimately landed on her breasts. “Well, hello. I’m Jason.”
“Ridge mentioned you.” Abigail extended her hand to shake his. “I’m Abigail Rowan.”
“Ah.” Jason rubbed his hand down the front of his shirt, the gesture not overtly insulting, but still somewhat offensive. “The Council witch. I’ve heard of you. So…you two…work things out?”
“We’ll talk later, Jason,” Ridge said, obviously not wanting to get into the topic. He slid more eggs onto Abigail’s plate. “There you go, sweetie.”
“Sweetie, eh?” Jason shot his pack leader a look only two men could share when a lone woman was in the room. “So you two have a thing now.”
“We don’t have a thing.”
With a fork, Jason snagged the last fluffy cloud of egg from the frying pan and then grabbed the carton of milk. “Whatever you say, man.” He walked out of the kitchen with stolen breakfast in hand.
Ridge ate a sausage and downed his orange juice. He set the glass down with a clunk. “We don’t have a thing.”
“Of course not,” Abigail replied quickly. “A thing would imply we like each other.”
He swung a look at her, his frown slipping quickly. “You don’t like me?”
That question startled her. She could feel his need and at the same time knew he’d expected to hear different. Treading emotional territory was so difficult right now. She didn’t want to divide her attention between a man and her son—but she had little choice.
“I do like you, Ridge, but not that way. You know, the like way. You’re one of the finest wolves in the areas. Warrior wolf, remember. It would be hard for anyone not to like and respect you.”
“After last night the River pack would have something to say about that.”
“They’re mindless idiots. They don’t count.”
His easy smile relaxed her, and she realized she wasn’t confessing exactly how much she liked the whole man. She did respect him. But she wasn’t immune to a sexy man, either, as her straying thoughts had thus far proved. She really wished she could recall their hot-and-heavy night in Vegas, because she suspected he must have been an awesome lover—when he hadn’t been wolfed out.
“I do the same thing every once in a while,” he said.
“Do what?”
“Think about what I can’t remember. Between us.”
How had he…? Abigail’s heart pattered. She wouldn’t bring it up, because that would confirm what she’d been thinking.
“It was a wild and crazy night,” Ridge said. “But sometimes I believe that I saw the fire burning half a mile off the road for a reason, and that I was meant to find you. And maybe we were meant to do the crazy Vegas-wedding thing, too.”
“You have strange beliefs.”
“Maybe sometimes I wanted it to work out.”
“This coming from a man who insists I divorce him?”
He shrugged and tilted back on the kitchen stool. “I’m a family man. I like the idea of falling in love and making it real and forever.”
“It’s in your nature.”
“Maybe. But you must have an idea about family. You do have a son. Why not the husband?”
“Well, I do have a husband, in case you forgot.”
“Not one who has ever given a shit.”
“That’s not my fault.”
“You’re blaming me for us never giving it a go? It takes two to tango, Miss Witch, and I didn’t hear you knocking on my door all these years.”
“Because we both knew we’d made a mistake. So let’s leave past mistakes in the past, shall we? What’s important is not what we did then, but what we do now, and the intention with which we do it.”
Wow, Abigail, you go with the feel-good new age stuff! Not.
“I agree.” He stood and leaned over her.
She stiffened, not sure what the man intended, but sensing an oncoming kiss. Said kiss landed on her lips with firm intention. He brushed his fingers through her hair and held her to deepen the kiss.
She surrendered, her eyes fluttering shut and her hand finding his waist. Beneath the flannel shirt his hard body tensed and she felt him straighten as if unsure, or maybe it was the proud wolf claiming his right to take from her what he would. The reaction beguiled her.
“That,” Ridge said as he stood back and collected their plates, “was done with intention. Now I’ll leave it to you to figure out exactly what that intention was.”
He set the dishes in the sink and ran the water, his back to her. His gorgeous, broad back. She suddenly wanted to cling to it and crush her face against it to smell the faint cedar scent drifting from his body, despite the plaid.
Abigail caught her chin in hand and sighed. The wolf had some crazy, dangerous magic she wasn’t capable of matching, that was for sure.
Chapter 7
“Dean Maverick is in the Cities for the weekend. I asked him to meet us at the edge of town.”
Abigail sat on the passenger seat of Ridge’s truck. They headed toward the meeting place. “You think he can gain access to the River pack’s compound?”
“Maverick gets along with everyone. I know he’s got some friends in that pack and he’s got a few strayed River pack members in his own.”
“You said he’s the one with the familiar for a wife.”
“Yep. You have a familiar?”
“I don’t subscribe to using a familiar to conjure demons. But you did meet my cat.”
If you call mutually growling at one another a meeting.
“He’s afraid of dogs,” she added.
“Hey, now.”
She gave him a sideways glance. “I wasn’t calling you a dog. It’s the canine and lupus breeds that bother Swell Cat.”
He wasn’t much for cats. Especially the black ones like Abigail’s swell beastie. Cats creeped him out. He subscribed to the “if a black cat crosses your path you get seven years of bad luck” superstition, and he was also very particular to never walk under a ladder. So he had his faults.
“Well, there you go,” Ridge said. “Yet another reason why we wouldn’t have lasted long as man and wife.”
“I agree. A relationship would never work if you hated my cat.”
The comment made him smile. The more time he spent with Abigail, the harder it became to hate her as much as he had over the years. It hadn’t been hate, really, but instead a healthy fear. Dislike for what can hurt a man isn’t stupid. But he was beginning to see she wasn’t so tough as rumor and her own self-proclaimed legend professed her to be.
He was comfortable around her, and that was a first for Richard Addison, because he’d always been a little skittish around women. They were pretty things he needed to be careful around. Only other men got the women, while he had always been happy to stand aside, waiting for scraps.
You deserve more than scraps. You deserve real love.
But could he have it from a witch? Especially one who, admittedly, made him flinch?
And if he did ever find love, what was to say he could handle it and not end up like Amandus Masterson? The bastard had abused his wife. Ridge had never witnessed a healthy relationship, so maybe expecting he could participate in one was out of the realm of possibility.
Yeah, it was a good thing he was interested in a witch. That should cool his lust, and good.
“So you only do earth and fire magic?”
“All the elements.” She tugged down the fur coat collar because the heater in the truck blasted, just how Ridge liked it. “Air, earth, fire and water. I dabbled in diabology a few decades, but learned my lesson quick.”
“Diabology is summoning demons?”
“Yes. I decided to leave that for the stupid witches. Well, I shouldn’t say that because someone has to do it. Dark magic is required
to balance light magic, and vice versa. I know some fine witches who practice the dark arts. Thoroughly and Certainly Jones, for example.”
Ridge had heard of the twin brothers who were witches. “Sounds evil to me.”
“It’s not if done with respect for the witch’s rede, an ye harm none. But I prefer to hone my mastery of fire.”
“Fire witches are uncommon,” he stated.
“Yes, well, learning to control the one thing that can be your death is tricky. A worthy challenge I took up in the nineteenth century. I still have to be cautious when I use it. Mastery will take a lifetime.”
“Ever perform magic and then regret it?” He turned the radio off since the low drone of talk radio was annoying, and he’d rather hear Abigail.
“If you’re implying I should be regretful over the blast I served you, how many times do I have to apologize?”
“I wasn’t implying anything. Just attempting to make conversation on this bright and shiny winter morning.” Though one more apology wouldn’t hurt a thing, he thought ruefully. Even better? Remove the spell, witch.
“You’re bitter about it, and I know it.” She shifted to sit sideways on the seat, one leg bent under the other. “I can see it in the muscle tensing your jaw. Yep, right there. It just pulsed again. You’re an open book, Ridge. But fine, I’ll let you have that one since it seems to serve some kind of inner need for sympathy.”
“I don’t need—”
He didn’t need sympathy, and he wasn’t going to speak it, because that would put the word out there and then it would be as if he really did need it.
The witch wielded some kind of mental magic—he knew it. Some means to burrow inside his brain and ferret out what he was thinking and feeling.
“And since you asked,” she continued, “yes, I have regretted using my magic. But there are some things a girl’s gotta take with her to the grave.”
“Lover’s spat, eh?” Her silence answered that one well enough for Ridge to offer, “I have a few regrets.”
