by Aliya DalRae
“Okay.”
“So what do I do with her?”
What Butch wanted him to say was, “Leave her here with me, Butch. I’m the Alpha. I’ll take care of it, Butch,” but it was like pulling teeth.
“She’s not staying here.”
Damn it. “Why not?”
“She’s not my problem.” Patrick strode to his desk and sat firmly in the leather chair, as if the subject were closed.
“You’re the Alpha,” Butch said, not giving up. “We’re all your problem.”
“And you are the person I trust with my problems. Figure it out.”
“Well, I can’t let her go. It’s obvious she’s not capable of taking care of herself.”
“You said she took down a deer all on her own. I’d say she’ll figure it out.”
When Butch didn’t say anything, Patrick softened. “You want me to tell you what to do? Fine. And this is an order. Take her back to your place. Feed her until she’s fat and happy. Wait on her hand and foot. Do a dance. Sing a song. Whatever it takes, you get her to shift, and when she does, you get her story. Until then, I don’t want to hear another word about it.”
Butch sputtered and waved his hands in front of his face, as if he could erase the Alpha’s mandate. “What about work?” was the best he could come up with.
“This is work. Until she shifts, she’s your job. I suggest you get to it.”
Chapter Six
T he man-wolf left her in a clearing outside the most incredible log cabin Marcela had ever seen. Not that she’d seen many, her experience largely based on stolen glimpses of “Little House on the Prairie.” Fifteen years in captivity, however, provided a person with a lot of time to mull over everything they’d ever experienced in their short life, so she knew. This huge cabin made Laura Ingalls’ place look like a shack. It was two stories high with a wraparound porch, the logs so shiny they actually glowed in the yellow light of the moon.
She’d been startled awake when he put her down, and she’d come to fighting. Once she realized where she was, she felt bad about the new bite marks that stood out on his arm. Mostly. They weren’t deep—had barely drawn blood—but they hadn’t helped his attitude toward her in the slightest. He’d simply pulled down the sleeves of his flannel shirt, and proceeded to attack her with a garden hose.
He’d been a little enthusiastic in rinsing the mud from her coat, leaving Marcela irritated and looking like a drowned rat. He then tried to make up for it by offering her food. Soaking wet and shivering from tip to tail, the idea of accepting anything from this man had her hackles up, big time. Besides, the deer meat she’d eaten was still playing leapfrog in her belly, so she turned her nose up and looked away.
All the while the man-wolf talked. Change, he said over and over again. Talk to me, damn it! As if she would put herself in a more vulnerable position than already existed. She may be short on formal education, but she was no idiot. Changing meant giving up the one advantage she had—her wolf. True, even she would be no match for the man-wolf, but Marcela knew for a fact her human form would be dead meat at this male’s hand.
Finally, when his frustration had him huffing and puffing like there was a house made of twigs nearby, he threw his hands up and left her under the watchful eye of two of his cohorts. Marcela thought about running, but she had the distinct impression that if she tried, they would stop her. Still, it was curiosity more than fear that kept her where she sat.
When the man-wolf came stomping down the cabin’s steps some time later, Marcela knew that his previous temper had not been improved upon by this visit with his Alpha.
“I’ve got her,” he mumbled to her two guards, and they wisely left him to it.
“Now, what the hell am I going to do with you?” Marcela sat back on her haunches, tilted her head and sneezed. “And don’t pull that harmless routine on me. I know better.” He lifted a meaty paw to his face, and looked to the sky, for guidance she supposed.
“Alright, let’s go.” He bent down and picked her up again—not gently, but neither was he unnecessarily rough—and carried her to an old pickup truck. It might have been red at one time, but it was hard to tell through all the rust.
He deposited her in the passenger seat, pushed the locking pin down and shut the door in her face. Without another word, he climbed into the driver’s side and cranked the key. The engine was being churlish, but it eventually turned over, and they headed off down a bumpy lane lined on either side by towering trees.
Marcela would like to have seen where they were going, but one particularly deep rut landed her on the truck’s floor, where rusty cracks let in more light than she thought there should have been down there. Afraid of falling through, she scrambled back onto the seat, but maintained a low profile, digging her claws into the torn cushion for safe measure.
Once they were on a smooth surface, she sat up again, and studied her new captor’s profile. Despite the scowl, she found him attractive in a “rugged but right” sort of way. She wondered who he was, if he was married. He seemed quite a bit older than her, but then who could tell, really?
Maybe he had kids her age, someone she could talk to, relate to. The idea of changing into her human form, though? She started shaking at the mere thought of it. A small whimper escaped her and the man turned toward the sound. Marcela curled into herself, tried to escape his notice, but it was too late.
Then the strangest thing happened. His features relaxed and he put his hand out on the seat between them. “It’s okay, girl. We’ll figure it out.”
Marcela rolled her eyes up and caught his gaze. He nodded once, then returned his attention to the road, but he left his hand where it lay. When she rested her chin on his knuckles he shifted a quick glance her way, but said nothing more. He just kept his other hand on the steering wheel, and his eyes on the road, carrying her off into a future that both thrilled and terrified her.
Chapter Seven
B utch pulled the old truck into his driveway and cut the engine, but made no move to exit. The little wolf still had her chin resting on his hand, and for whatever reason he didn’t want to break the contact. They couldn’t stay here forever, though, and he knew that. At some point he was going to have to take her into his home.
And this was a problem. His cabin was new, built about the same time as the Alpha’s home was restored, and to this day Patrick had been the only person other than the builders to enter. After decades living in a forced group setting, Butch had grabbed onto the solitude with both hands. He enjoyed his privacy, protected it fiercely, and was loath to let another wolf invade his territory.
Now, at his Alpha’s orders, he would be required not only to let this little wolf in, but to live with her, take care of her, make her comfortable enough to change for him. Christ on a cracker.
Butch blew out a long breath of air, and reluctantly withdrew his hand from beneath the soft fur that covered her jaw. She lifted her head and thumped her tail against the door, her ears pricked forward, waiting.
“Let’s go, girl.” He forced himself out of the vehicle and around to the other side where he opened the door for her. “Here, girl,” he said, patting his leg. And didn’t that make him feel like an idiot? She wasn’t a dog, for chrissakes.
And yet, she leaped from the truck and stood beside him, just as a faithful pet would do. Seemed she was much more excited about what lay ahead of them than he was.
“You’ve got to change soon,” he muttered as he walked toward the cabin’s door. “I can’t keep calling you ‘Here Girl.’”
It took more strength than he thought he could muster to open the door and wave the little wolf into his personal fortress of solitude.
She hesitated at the threshold, probably picking up on his own reluctance. “Go on, girl.” He gave her a little nudge to get her moving, even as he fought every cell in his body that begged him to carry her back to the truck. She glanced over her shoulder before edging in, and Butch followed her through. He pulled the door
closed and the snick of the latch sounded like a prison door slamming behind him.
That was it, then. There was no turning back.
Chapter Eight
M arcela went slowly, taking in her new surroundings with her eyes first, then with her nose. The cabin was small compared to the one they’d just come from, but it was clean and homey. The large room they’d entered was decorated sparsely and definitely with a male’s touch, the furniture all straight lines and hardwoods, suited to a man of his large stature.
When he didn’t admonish her for looking around, she ventured into the next room, a bedroom decorated much the same as the main room, only with a delicious looking bed taking up the majority of its space. Oh, how she would love to climb up on that mattress and sleep for a year! She still remembered the canopy bed she’d slept in as a child, how wonderful it had been. After fifteen years on a hard floor with nothing but straw to soften her slumber, well, the temptation was too much.
Without thinking twice, she jumped onto the mattress and curled up into a ball near the pillow. It was absolute heaven to be surrounded by so much luxury, and the spicy scent of the man-wolf was oddly comforting. There would be no sleeping, however. No sooner had she settled into all of that soft cushiness than the man-wolf, himself, came bellowing through the door, scolding her with, “Bad girl! Bad!” and other things of a more colorful nature.
She laid there as long as she thought she could get away with it, basically until his face turned purple and he made to forcibly remove her. Before he could get his hands on her and do bodily harm, she jumped to the ground and sauntered back into the main room. A glance behind revealed the man-wolf brushing frantically at the covers, presumably to remove any hair she might have left behind. Any mud would have been his own fault. He was the guy with the hose, after all.
Feeling frisky, and a little irked at having to leave the bed before she was ready, Marcela shook herself from nose to tail, scattering loose hairs on the floor around her. Then she wandered to the back of the cabin, where the scent of meat emanated from a tall counter. She hadn’t gotten to eat nearly as much of that deer as she had hoped or wanted, and had been unwilling to take the food he’d offered on general purposes. Now, however, she was feeling more relaxed and her stomach grumbled at the tantalizing aroma.
While her captor’s attention remained focused on his bedspread, she stood to place her front paws on the counter’s edge. This put her face to face with the largest slab of meat she’d ever seen off the hoof. Another look revealed she still had time, and she wasted none of it. With a snap of her jaws, she grabbed the steak and retreated behind the heaviest piece of furniture she could find.
There would be no savoring this meal, however, not with the man-wolf on the prowl, so she gulped it down as quickly as she could. No sooner was the last morsel in her belly than the man-wolf exploded.
“Where the fuck is my steak?” Much growling and snarling ensued, but Marcela remained in her hiding place, licking the delicious blood from her nose, and listening to the show as the man-wolf stomped and swore his way through the room in search of her.
Again, the place wasn’t that big, and he did have a wolf’s sense of smell, so it didn’t take him long to find her. Once discovered, she backed herself further in, assuming he would leave her be when he couldn’t retrieve her.
No such luck.
The man-wolf picked up the sofa like it was made of Tinker Toys, and tossed it aside, leaving her exposed to his fury. She’d seen this kind of anger before from her father, but she hadn’t felt this level of shame since she was a child.
Slowly, she rolled onto her back in submission and offered the man-wolf the best “I’m sorry,” face her wolf could muster.
“Son of a bitch,” he muttered, but it had worked. Sort of.
He backed away from her, which was good. But then he proceeded to throw an apoplectic fit, screaming, swearing and punching at everything that couldn’t fight back.
Everything but her.
Marcela curled into her corner and made herself as small as possible. She wasn’t afraid to fight. Well her wolf wasn’t, anyway, even though she’d avoided it all of her life, in order to stay alive.
It was just…this was different. This was a man, so unlike her father, who was perfectly capable of destroying her, and yet he chose to demolish his property instead. She knew if he changed his mind and went for her, there was nothing she could do to protect herself. Her father had been bad, no doubt about it, but he was gutless and ultimately terrified of her. This man could break her into teeny tiny pieces with two fingers.
Just thinking about it had the meat in her belly revolting, and there was nothing she could do to keep it inside her where it belonged.
Chapter Nine
B utch had an old vase in his hand, something he’d picked up at the Goodwill store over in Centerville during a recent excursion with one of the newer wolves. He was about to smash it into the stone fireplace when he heard gagging and then a discernible splash that could only be one thing.
With the vase held above his head in preflight position, he made a slow pivot toward the sound, and yep. Sure enough, she’d yacked all over his hardwood floors. Butch blinked once. Then he blinked again, as the little wolf gawped at the mess she’d made and cowered further into the corner than was strictly possible.
At the sight of her contrition, his rage abated a bit. He turned away from her, unable to stomach her obvious regret a moment longer, and what he saw stunned him. This was his home, the place he worked hard to keep immaculate, where he took pride in having everything in its place. Now it was in complete and utter shambles. That, even more than the terror the little wolf displayed, completely mortified him.
His favorite lamp lay shattered in the middle of the room, the one he’d had specially made at that place in Miamisburg that sold rustic furniture. They’d used the antlers from the first buck Butch had taken down on his own. It was prideful, he knew, but it wasn’t like he let anyone inside to witness his vanity. Now it lay ruined, and by his own hand.
The sofa she had hidden behind to eat his stolen supper lay on its side against the front door, one cracked leg dangling at a bizarre angle. A deep gouge in the floorboards showed the path of its trajectory.
The plate that once held the porterhouse he’d planned to grill the next day lay shattered on the floor, it’s shards scattered amidst the detritus that had once been his treasured “stuff.”
Butch lowered his arm and dropped the vase at his feet. The crack that flowered up the side of the urn was small damage compared to that of the rest of his home, not to mention his tattered soul.
Butch fell to his knees. What the hell was wrong with him?
Unable to look at the destruction he’d caused any longer, and unwilling to look at the little wolf he blamed for it all, he simply stared at the floor.
Deep breaths, Butch. It wasn’t helping much, but it gave him something to focus on besides the fact that he was acting like a complete lunatic. He closed his eyes and concentrated. In through the nose. Out through the mouth. And once again.
An indeterminable amount of time passed—maybe a minute, maybe a year—before Butch could bring himself to open his eyes, to look once more at the full-blown destruction he’d wrought upon his home. He kept his head lowered, and took a breath. He would just start with the floor in front of him and work his way up. No need to shock his system again.
He cracked one eye open, then the other, and prepared himself with a few more lungsful of air. What he saw was the last thing he’d expected.
Right in front of him, standing in the middle of all of that broken glass and splintered wood, was a pair of bare feet. Butch scrubbed his hands over his eyes, and looked again. Yes. Feet. Human, not wolf, and they were attached to the loveliest ankles he’d ever seen.
Following that path, he continued to look upward, taking in the all-too-skinny legs that still managed to make his heart skip a beat, and then her—oh, hell.
; Butch slammed his lids closed again before lifting his head to a level where he hoped he’d be looking her in the eye rather than glimpsing any more of that bare naked beauty. His aim was true, but seeing her face, the sharp cheekbones, and the sunken eyes now full of tears, he almost wished he was still looking at her lady parts.
And yet, he couldn’t look away.
The girl sniffled, then wiped a tear from her cheek, her shoulders shuddering as she inhaled. When she spoke, Butch was completely shattered.
“Marcela,” she said.
Chapter Ten
W hat?” The man-wolf was on his knees before her, putting them at nearly the same height, though Marcela maintained a slight advantage.
“M-my name. It’s Marcela. And I’m so sorry.”
He shook his head as though he were having trouble with his ears, and when he made to stand, Marcela backed away. The sharp bits on the floor cut into the soft, human soles of her feet.
“Christ, stop,” he said, but she didn’t. When he reached his full height she realized just how very large a man he was. He towered over her, and though his manner was calm now, she couldn’t help the stab of fear that pierced her heart.
“Stop moving,” he demanded, his eyes flicking from her face to the floor and back again.
Marcela followed his gaze and it was only then that she noticed the smears of blood she was tracking through the debris. “Oh, God,” she cried, mortified that she’d added to the mess she already felt responsible for. “I’m sorry! I’ll clean it up. All of it. I swear!”
“What?” he said again. Marcela was beginning to question this man’s intelligence.
“The mess. It’s my fault. I’ll clean it up. I’m so sorry!”
“What the hell are you babbling about?”
