And Jericho Burned: Toke Lobo & The Pack

by MJ Compton

  To hell with Restin and his superior blood. Being a delta in the pack was so much better than alpha or beta. If a choice needed to be made between destroying the compound and everyone in it and his family, Lucy and her sister would win every time. Secure in the ancient ways, Stoker could promise her without hesitation or reservation. He would die before he would allow a single molecule of her luscious little body to be harmed.

  He hoped it wouldn’t come to that.

  Lucy flexed her hand, marveling at the myriad of mini-rainbows cavorting across her knuckles as she and Stoker walked through a small park near the motel. When Restin had mentioned a ring, she hadn’t pictured anything quite like the huge rock Stoker slid on her finger. The stone captured the weak sunshine and fractured it into a wondrous kaleidoscope of dancing color.

  Maybe Stoker didn’t need her money.

  Reality intruded, dampening her delight. Stoker was a member of an up-and-coming band. He probably couldn’t afford the clothes on her back, much less a diamond the size of an almond. But gosh, it was pretty.

  Then it struck her. Restin had procured the ring. That alone should have raised her suspicions sooner.

  Radios used crystals to transmit. So did psychics. Yeah, wasn’t it amazing what could be done with crystals. Stoker had given her a secret agent device. He probably hadn’t told her because he didn’t want her to be self-conscious about it. Cool!

  “Looks like a spring meadow, full of early blooming wildflowers growing on your hand,” Stoker said.

  Stoker’s naivety–real or an act–had to be an asset in his true line of work. But Lucy could play along.

  “Are you sure you don’t help Toke write lyrics?” she asked, extending her arm to get the full effect of the micro-prisms.

  “Nah.” His cheeks darkened, as if embarrassed. “I’m a keyboard player. That’s all.”

  And a government agent werewolf spy.

  Both Restin and Stoker had been adamant that she wear the ring. It had to be a secret agent toy. A transmitter.

  Having a transmitter on her finger made her feel a lot better about the possibility of returning to New Sinai, but she needed more information. She also wanted Stoker to know she wasn’t stupid, that she’d figured out the ploy.

  “So how does this work?”

  “How does what work?”

  “Do I need to yell or will you guys be able to hear me if I speak normally?”

  “Hank will be close by. He’s our ears. You might want to yell if things turn bad fast, but he’s usually pretty good.”

  The name meant nothing to her. “Which one is Hank?”

  “Bass player. Big yellow moustache,” Stoker explained.

  “Who’s the kid with all the curls?”

  Stoker grimaced. “That’s Luke Omega. He’s the drummer and a computer whiz. None of us can figure out how someone so stupid and annoying can be so good with all that electronic gizmo stuff, but he is.” Stoker reached for her free hand. “In fact, he went on line and checked Idaho’s marriage requirements.”

  Lucy squeezed his fingers. She’d lucked out last night. Instead of being abducted by a psychopath, Stoker Smith was a good guy. He’d been hot to jump her bones, but he hadn’t. He’d respected her wishes, every single one of them, when they’d probably made no sense to him. He’d listened.

  She couldn’t remember the last time a man had listened to what she wanted without trying to convince her she was wrong.

  “There’s no waiting period, no blood test, no residency requirement,” he said. “We could go downtown and get a license before I take you back to New Sinai.”

  Lucy stopped. “Do you think it will help?”

  “The only thing that will help is if we’re actually married. By your law. Your brother-in-law doesn’t believe in the rules that keep this country from anarchy, but he should respect a wedding ring on your finger.” He sounded glum.

  Marriage was Stoker’s idea, not hers, so why was he getting all grumpy on her?

  She stopped to watch three squirrels argue.

  Stoker used the opportunity to slide his arm around her waist. “I’m concerned Danby is going to try something.”

  His scent curled around her. No masking perfumes from grooming products. No fading fumes from a night spent in a bottle or rancid sweat and stale wood smoke like the men of New Sinai. Just male. Plain, honest masculinity. She liked it.

  She liked it even more when he tilted her face before bending to brush his soft lips over hers.

  Something inside her thrummed, like a butterfly beating its wings as it prepared to soar.

  She couldn’t help herself. Her arms went around his neck, and she pressed closer to his lean strength.

  He groaned against her mouth. A huge hand cupped her bottom, fingers kneading the soft flesh. His fingers would be magic on her body. He knew how to elicit emotion from a keyboard, with just the right touch. Her body would be another instrument for him to play. It would be good. She knew it in her soul. Not like with Charles-the-Fink, who’d failed so miserably with her that he’d sought solace elsewhere.

  She started.

  She had no business thinking about Charles while kissing another man, but Stoker’s kiss suggested that her problem with Charles wasn’t her fault. Maybe Charles lacked whatever it took to excite her. The fink.

  Her insides had never turned hot and mushy when Charles touched her. His kisses bored her–when they didn’t disgust her. He’d taken advantage of her, and she’d been so hungry for affection, she’d accepted less than second best.

  Every emotion, every sensation with Stoker was brand new. Exciting. Begging for exploration.

  Too bad simple lust wouldn’t satisfy him.

  His hand crept up her ribcage until his knuckles brushed the underside of her breast. Her nipples tightened, aching for his touch. He broke off the kiss and nuzzled her neck. Teeth gently nibbled on a cord. Shivers raced through her.

  “Right there,” he said. “That’s where I’ll mark you.”

  Rational thought fled. She tingled with wanting.

  “I want to drink you.” His voice was a harsh rasp against her sensitive flesh.

  What could a girl–or a butterfly–say to that?

  “I want to make love to you. I want to put my babies inside you. I want to hold your hand while they’re born. But mostly, I want to grow old with you, surrounded by our children, grandchildren, and even great-grandchildren.”

  Her throat threatened to close. Tears distorted her vision, as they clung to her lashes. She wanted to buy into his fantasy, but memories of male treachery were too close, too painful.

  Echoes of Dad’s insults, drunk again; Charles-the-Fink, trousers puddled around his ankles as he moved between his secretary’s splayed legs; Randy leeching the animation from Michelle while he drained her bank account.

  Stoker is different, her heart whispered.

  He has a good line, her brain argued.

  Dreams took money, and this devastatingly attractive werewolf knew about her inheritance. He’d given himself away so many times, with all his talk about green. He was no different than Bill, Randy, or even Charles-the-Fink.

  She couldn’t trust Stoker; not his words, his embrace, or his kisses, even if the way he held her right now almost made her believe anything was possible.

  Lucy tried to pull out of his arms, but his hand, large and hot, cupped her breast. His thumb gently rubbed her taut nipple, erasing the overhead birdsong, the chatter of the squirrels, even the whisper of the breeze.

  The physical world tilted away in a twisting force of needing to believe in him. His touch felt real, felt honest.

  But she couldn’t trust or believe in his strength. He was acting on Restin’s orders. He was acting on his own greed. His affection was a cover.
Nothing more.

  She pressed harder against his chest until he released her. There was no question that he was aroused, far more impressively than Charles-the-Fink could ever be. And far more distracting.

  If Stoker hadn’t surrendered to her gentle shove, she might have yielded to his need. And hers.

  That scared her. Not because he was a werewolf, but because wanting him was weakness. Michelle’s latest fiasco proved Lucy couldn’t afford weakness. The world didn’t need to know that the Callahan sisters were so starved for male affection that they’d fall for any man who offered attention.

  “Let me love you. Before you go back, let me mark you as mine. Please, Lucy.” Stoker’s voice trembled, husky and tight.

  Love her? No one loved Lucy Callahan except maybe Michelle. Probably not even her. Her sister depended on Lucy. Had always been as whimsical as Lucy, but without common sense. Any kind of sense. Lucy bailed Michelle out of trouble all the time. Randy Butler was just the current–and most dangerous–impulse.

  Afraid to trust her voice, she shook her head. What if she said the wrong thing?

  What if she said yes?

  Every ounce of willpower Stoker possessed forced him to release Lucy. He could have surrendered to the beast and made her his in every way, but Stoker Smith wasn’t the domineering type.

  Lucy must have sensed his weakness, the same way he knew that she was his mate. She could use it against him, the way any enemy could use a mate against any werewolf, but he didn’t believe she would do something that underhanded.

  Restin obviously hadn’t considered that possibility, which meant he believed Lucy was Stoker’s mate. Even so, she was human. Betrayal might as well be part of human DNA for all their trustworthiness.

  He turned from Lucy and struggled to control his breathing, as he fought the ache battering his insides. “Can we at least get our marriage license to justify the ring?” The question came out in a growl despite his intention.

  Lucy wrapped her arms around her torso, as if holding herself together.

  His great-grandmother’s ring, a whimsy of his great-grandfather, looked perfect on her slender finger. Werewolves usually avoided jewelry, although Tokarz wore a simple gold band when he was in public. The mark of human mating didn’t stop the honky-tonk angels from hitting on him, any more than a piece of paper or the marquis-cut diamond could prevent something from happening to Lucy in Randy Butler’s compound, but Tokarz’s ring made Delilah happy. Stoker wanted Lucy to be happy, too.

  “I’ll need my birth certificate,” Lucy said.

  “Restin already sent for it.”

  Her eyes narrowed like a bramble-lined trail. “What?”

  “We have contacts–this guy Mitchell Jasper in New York. He works with us. He’s the detail guy.”

  Lucy looked furious. “And just like that, he can get my birth certificate?”

  “He can get anything.”

  Stoker didn’t want to tell her about the dossier Restin had requested. Her background didn’t matter to him, so he hadn’t asked to see the document Jasper had e-mailed. The only thing Stoker cared about was Lucy. And right now, judging by the green sparks aimed at him, she wasn’t happy. Maybe he shouldn’t have told her about Jasper.

  “I’m not helpless,” she said. “And maybe I need to take care of some things before I go back to New Sinai. If I go.”

  “Jasper can handle them for you.”

  Her lush lips thinned into a grim line.

  “Or Tokarz,” he added. “He takes care of pack business.”

  “My business isn’t pack business.”

  “Yes, it is.”

  Her slender shoulders squared. At any moment, he expected her to sprout gossamer wings and flutter away. “No, it’s not. Our engagement is a cover story so I’ll go back.”

  “You’re going back for your sister,” he reminded her.

  “I ought to let you guys firebomb the place,” she muttered, but he knew she was bluffing. Hadn’t he already told her they had no intention of hurting anyone, not even Randy Butler.

  With the exception of Bill Danby.

  Stoker wanted to taste the blood of the man who dared think he could steal Lucy from him.

  Lucy turned and stalked away from Stoker. She’d gone several yards before he realized she was abandoning him. He was quicker than she was, and he caught her within seconds.

  His hand closed on her shoulder. “Where are you going?”

  She shrugged off his grasp. “I have things to do.”

  “What?”

  Lucy kept walking. “None of your business.”

  A pock-marked blue pick-up truck, minus most of its exhaust system passed them. The racket muted her squeal of anger as Stoker lifted her from the ground.

  “I guess I didn’t make myself clear,” he said. “Your business is my business, and by extension, pack business. Tokarz or Restin will handle anything you need.”

  Lucy thrust a sneaker-clad foot at him, coming dangerously close to a vulnerable spot. “Wrong.”

  He didn’t understand why she was so upset. Why bother with the minutiae of life when the pack leaders could handle those things? He liked not having to worry about the mundane. Life was too fine to be trapped by details.

  “Put me down!” She swung her foot again.

  “Don’t ever walk away from me,” he told her in his most menacing tone, as he gently returned her to the path.

  “You sound like Randy,” she said. Her shoulders were hunched, and she refused to meet his gaze.

  He stiffened at the insult. “Look.”

  He reached for her again, but halted before he touched her. His brain fumbled through memories of the first weeks Delilah had been with the pack and the concessions Tokarz had made while she’d adjusted to their culture. Lucy deserved the same grace period. He swallowed his hurt and anger. “What do you need?

  “Privacy and a telephone,” she replied, sounding sullen.

  “All right.”

  He’d ask Hank, who had the best hearing of anyone on the team, to stand guard outside their motel room.

  He needed to find Tokarz for a long-overdue talk.

  Chapter 4

  “What?” Tokarz de Lobo Garnier sounded irritated. Of course, being away from his mate irritated him, so the nasty tone wasn’t that unusual.

  “I need to talk to you,” Stoker said, quietly closing the motel room door behind him.

  “Talk to Restin. He’s the team alpha,” Tokarz snapped.

  “Not about the mission. About Lucy.”

  Tokarz arched one reddish gold eyebrow.

  Stoker’s face heated. “A mating issue.”

  Tokarz rolled his eyes at the ceiling. “Be careful the first time. You don’t want to hurt her.”

  Stoker was delta, not stupid. “I know that,” he snarled.

  Tokarz shoved his laptop computer to the center of the desk. “Well, what then?”

  Stoker cleared his throat. “How do you keep your hands off her when the only thing you can think about is touching her? How do you keep from killing anyone who even looks at her?”

  He hadn’t meant to ask those questions, but the words spilled out of him on their own.

  “You bothered me about that?” Tokarz asked. “She’s your mate. Everything you’re feeling is natural.”

  Stoker heaved a sigh of relief. He wasn’t going crazy. “How do you deal with the cultural differences? I’m trying to understand some of the things she does, but I have to admit, I’m stumped. Like business. What business could she have? I tried to tell her to let you or Restin handle whatever needs to be done, but she got angry.”

  Tokarz pursed his lips. “Human women tend to be more independent than our females. Delilah and I still struggle with thi
s. Have you explained the pack to her?”

  Stoker nodded. “I don’t understand her at all.” He knew he sounded like a whiny omega, but he could trust Tokarz.

  Tokarz made a noise that sounded suspiciously like a laugh. “She’s female.”

  As if that explained anything.