by MJ Compton
“Watch me,” someone else replied, someone whose voice calmed her.
Yet another someone else stripped the towel from her head. She tried to crawl away from hands touching her body, but her strength was gone.
“Let him go, Stoker.” The commanding voice was harsh. “She’s an unmarked female.”
“By human law, she’s mine.”
“Wrong.”
The fog and graphics clouding her mind slowly melted, and she recognized Restin’s voice.
“Until the union is consummated, the marriage can be annulled. In case you don’t know what that means—”
“I know what it means.”
Angry. Stoker sounded so very angry.
Lucy opened her eyes. Toke Lobo and the Pack, minus their instruments, filled her motel room. Stoker’s room.
Stoker had someone pinned to the floor.
Bill Danby.
Bill’s eyes were closed, but his desert-camouflage-covered chest moved as he breathed. Stoker hadn’t killed him yet.
“Stay still,” Hank said to her, as he placed a restraining hand on her shoulder.
Stoker slowly turned his head until his dark, fathomless eyes met hers. She knew then that he would snap Bill’s neck in a heartbeat if she asked him to. She held the power of Bill’s life and death in her own frail, incompetent hands.
She wasn’t a killer. She didn’t want anyone to die because of her. She shook her head.
Stoker waited several more heartbeats before releasing his prey. “If I find you near Lucy again, I will kill you,” he said. “Consider your life a wedding present from me to my bride.”
Tokarz scooped the unconscious Bill from the floor and tossed him out the open door. Ethan closed it.
“Do you think he heard a word you said?” Restin asked.
“If his God is a loving one, he did,” Stoker said as he climbed to his feet.
Lucy feared looking away from him, as if their visual link could control his feral instincts.
He crossed the room and squatted next to her. “Are you okay?”
She nodded.
“It’s not too late to kill him.”
Oh, God. He was serious.
Lucy clutched his shirt with shaking hands to keep him from leaving the room and carrying out his threat.
Stoker brushed a thumb against her neck. She flinched, and his scowl darkened. “I have to kill him.”
The expression in his eyes chilled her. Even her teeth chattered. She wouldn’t, she couldn’t release her grip on his shirt. She clung so tightly, her fingers cramped.
“Let’s give them some privacy,” Tokarz said.
No one argued, and in seconds, she was alone with Stoker. Her husband. Her safety.
The first hot tear on her cheek startled her.
Stoker muttered an oath she didn’t understand and roughly pulled her to him.
Sobs wracked her body as she wept against his chest. His strong arms clasped her close, warm hand rubbing her back.
“I should have been here,” he said.
Just as soon as she could speak coherently, she’d remind him he had no way of knowing Bill had been lurking in their bathroom. Stoker was a werewolf, not a psychic.
Coherency was a few moments off, though. She wallowed in Stoker’s heat. Being in his arms felt so right. His wonderful masculine scent enveloped her. He massaged her back and crooned comforting clichés, as if she were a child. She’d cried . . . and Stoker had heard her.
Lemonade.
It had taken Bill Danby nearly crushing Lucy’s windpipe to make her turn to him.
Stoker loved the way she clung to him, as if she were trying to crawl inside his skin and curl up in the safety she found there, but he couldn’t get past the fact that she considered him nothing more than damned lemonade.
The bruises already darkening on her throat infuriated him. Not exacting his revenge on Danby didn’t suit his disposition. He so wasn’t in the mood to be a well-behaved werewolf.
Ancient Ones, everything frustrated him today. He couldn’t catch a break. It seemed as if the world conspired against him.
Now, the longer he held his bride, the more Danby’s stink on her flesh mocked him. He should have killed the scat eater. He knew he’d regret Lucy’s tender heart dictating what he did.
Her shoulders slumped, her breathing calmed, and he felt as if he’d finally done something right, even if it was only comforting his wife. If he were a better mate, she wouldn’t need consoling. She never would have been in danger.
“Thank you,” she said, her voice hoarse.
Fury flashed again. Danby had to pay for hurting her. “Don’t try to talk. Not if it hurts.”
She nodded, confirming that speaking was uncomfortable.
“I’m sorry he attacked you.”
“Not your fault,” she rasped.
“Don’t try to make me feel better.” He struggled not to snap at her. “I promised Danby would never touch you. I failed.”
She shuddered. “It could have been worse. If you hadn’t–”
“Don’t. Just don’t say anything.”
“I feel so dirty.”
“He touched you. His stench is all over you.” Stoker didn’t loosen his embrace. She needed to know that reeking of Danby didn’t change the way he felt about her or affect his obligation to protect her.
She shuddered again. “I want to take a shower.”
“That’s a good idea.” He should have thought of it.
“I don’t have any clean clothes.”
He hadn’t even bought her a new dress for her wedding. She still wore the tight jeans and short-sleeved, silky yellow shirt she’d worn to the bar. On the other hand, they were newly mated. She shouldn’t need clothes, clean or otherwise.
But between being called lemonade and failing to protect her from Danby, something had happened. His delta brain twisted again.
He picked Lucy up, cradling her against his chest as befitting a precious possession. She released his shirt and looped her arms around his neck, resting her head on his shoulder as he carried her to the bathroom.
“Do you think you can shower okay alone?” he asked. He didn’t need to see her naked, not in the state of mind he was in.
“Yes,” she said, her breath warming his skin through his shirt.
He kissed the top of her head as he sat her on the edge of the tub. “I’ll find you something to wear for now.”
He closed the door. She needed her privacy, and he needed . . . he didn’t know what. This emotion stuff was way too much for him.
“What is your problem?” Hank asked, stretching his long legs as he sat in the room’s only chair.
Stoker scowled. “What if I do it wrong?”
“Do what wrong?”
Face warm, Stoker stared at his cousin for a moment before answering. “It.”
“It? You mean the Big It?” Hank sounded amused. “Your mate won’t be happy if you do it wrong.”
“No kidding. So how do I do it right?”
“By making your mate happy.”
Stoker was ready to go for Hank’s throat, and Hank seemed to realize it.
“It’s not the way that counts, it’s the outcome. The outcome needs to be a happy mate. She has to like it. If she doesn’t like it, you did it wrong.” Hank exaggerated his explanation as if Stoker were as stupid as an omega. “And don’t force her if she says no or stop.”
“You’re a big help,” Stoker muttered. He’d asked Hank because they were cousins, and Hank had once been mated.
“You stink like Danby,” Hank said. “If you plan to mark Lucy tonight, you should be in the shower with her.” He paused, as if listening. “She’s crying,” he sof
tly added.
Stoker slammed his fist on the bureau. The mirror rattled in its frame. “I can’t leave her alone, not even long enough for me to shower.”
“I said you should be in there with her,” Hank repeated. “Unless you’re not going to mark her, which I suppose, will make Restin happy.”
“Shut up,” Stoker replied. He didn’t call Hank to talk about Restin. “Will you guard Lucy while I shower?”
Hank shrugged. “Sure. I guess.”
“I need to take all these stinking clothes to the Laundromat, too.” Just how he wanted to spend his wedding night.
“Send Luke,” Hank suggested. “It’ll give him something to do besides look at garbage on the Internet.”
That made sense. He could even send Luke to find Lucy something to wear. He opened a window to air out the room.
“Restin is really happy that you and Lucy made arrangements to go to New Sinai tomorrow. He says he couldn’t have concocted a better cover story if he tried.” Hank’s grin was slow and lazy. “Except, why bother to get married today if you’re planning to do it again tomorrow?”
Stoker’s eyes narrowed. “There’s no one in New Sinai who is legally entitled to perform a ceremony, and I wanted it to be a done deal before I risked exposing Lucy to Butler again.”
“You don’t need to explain anything to me.” Hank laughed.
“I don’t need to explain anything to anyone,” Stoker snapped in reply. “Especially not Restin.”
“By our law, you’re not mated, so yeah, you do have to explain to Restin,” Hank reminded him.
Damn it. Why did every thing have to circle back to the fact that he hadn’t marked Lucy yet?
“She just turned off the shower,” Hank said, his head cocked toward the bathroom door. “You might want to warn her I’m here. I don’t think she can handle many more surprises.”
“I don’t need you to tell me how to deal with my wife.”
“You’re right,” Hank softly replied. “But Lucy isn’t really your wife yet, and let’s face it, you’re a complete innocent when it comes to women. I thought that was why you called me. If you needed someone to stand guard so you can take a lonely shower, you should have sent for Luke. I don’t do omega work.” Hank climbed to his feet.
Damn it to human hell. Now he’d gone and alienated his only real friend in the band. He had to stop Hank from leaving.
“How do I make her happy?” Stoker asked. “I can’t even make myself happy.”
Lucy stared at her reflection in the mildew-speckled mirror and sighed. The fluorescent orange T-shirt she’d found hanging on the doorknob wasn’t the most flattering color in the world, but it was clean, it covered her from shoulder to knee, and, best of all, it smelled of Stoker.
Weird. She’d never before noticed how clothes smelled, but since Bill had . . .
Don’t think about what might have happened if Stoker hadn’t heard you scream, she admonished her reflection.
She squared her shoulders and prepared herself to face her groom. Guilt tainted every emotion as she thought about what the night might bring. According to the state of Idaho, she was now Mrs. Stoker Smith.
Maybe it was time to start acting like Mrs. Smith. After all, only Bill Danby was worse than Charles-the-Fink, and she’d slept with Charles.
She opened the bathroom door. Her bare toes curled against the musty orange and brown carpet. Cool night air flowed through the room.
“Hi, Lucy.”
She jumped, startled by Hank’s greeting. For a moment, all she could do was stare at him.
Boy, had she misread Stoker’s intentions or what. Unless having an older male relative witness marking your mate was some kind of ritual, one she needed to let Stoker know was completely unacceptable. At this point, she was desperate enough to accept the married-for-life thing without a prenuptial, but she was not doing kinky sex. She could barely tolerate missionary sex.
“Hank’s going to keep you company while I shower,” Stoker said, not looking at her.
Someone pounded on the door before she could respond.
Stoker stepped in front of her while Hank padded to the door on silent feet. He peered through the peep hole then opened the door.
Luke Omega, scowling as darkly as she’d ever seen Stoker frown, stepped into the room. “What is so important that you–?”
Hank silenced him with a cuff on the side of his head.
Stoker thrust a plastic grocery sack at the younger man. “Danby’s reek is on our clothes. Wash them.”
Luke took the bag without comment, but his displeasure was clear in his narrowed blue eyes and the set of his lips.
“I’d rather wash out my things by hand,” Lucy said. She didn’t want to get into all the special instructions of washing her delicate lingerie or the silk camp shirt.
“Luke is capable of running a washing machine,” Stoker replied, as he handed a wad of money to Luke.
Lucy opened her mouth to argue then reconsidered. Her clothes wouldn’t fall apart from being machine-washed one time, and she’d have clean underclothes. It seemed like forever since she’d had clean clothes. Since she’d felt clean, really. She’d had fresh clothes at New Sinai, but cold sponge baths were the only option when it came to personal hygiene.
Luke left, and Stoker closeted himself in the bathroom.
Do werewolves shave? Lucy wondered. She hadn’t noticed whether or not Stoker kept a razor in the bathroom. She couldn’t even remember if beard stubble roughened his face.
“You married him today,” Hank said, startling the daylights out of her. He’d been so quiet she’d forgotten he was there, leaning against the door, arms crossed.
“Uh, yeah,” she replied, tugging down her T-shirt.
Hank had been in the room when Stoker suggested the quick trip into town as well as when they’d broken the news of their marriage to Restin. So why the question?
“So, do you honor your promises?”
“Of course.” Indignation settled over her.
“Then you’ll honor your promise to be Stoker’s wife?”
Her mouth went dry.
“I realize you didn’t get your prenuptial agreement and all, but—”
“So you admit you were eavesdropping this morning?”
“In case Stoker didn’t explain, our senses are keener than those of humans. I didn’t have to eavesdrop to overhear what you said to your lawyer.” Hank sounded very matter-of-fact. “And stop trying to avoid answering my question.”
His smile was lazy, but he didn’t fool Lucy for a minute. Cousin Hank was no dummy.
“Stoker doesn’t need your precious money, and even if he did, he wouldn’t take it. Money is something your kind values.”
She didn’t believe him. Everybody wanted money. “And what’s important to you?” she asked.
“The most important things Stoker or any other husband has are his wife, his children, and his honor.”
“I didn’t ask about Stoker,” she said. “I asked about you.”
A strange expression flitted across Hank’s face. “My family,” he softly replied. “Like Stoker. Why do you care?”
She shrugged. “You seem awfully interested in my business. I wonder why.”
“Because it’s not about just you,” he said. “We’re a pack. Haven’t you heard of a pack mentality?”
A frisson of fear flittered through her. Randy often ranted about doing things for the good of all.
“Don’t worry about Stoker and your money. The pack takes care of its own, and once you two get over this weird mating ritual you’re forcing on yourselves, you’ll never have to worry again,” Hank continued.
“Excuse me if I’m worried about my future,” Lucy snapped. “You don’t know anything ab
out me, so you, Restin, and the rest of you have no right to judge me.”
“No one is judging you. We’re trying to figure you out,” Hank replied. “We’re watching out for our own.”
