Poisonous Desires

by Selena Illyria

  “Nothing to report, sir. Nothing that screams foul play. Victim seems to have choked on his scallop and mushroom soup. Doc will know when he cuts him open. We’ll know more when we get the report back. The wife was at a spa in Draven’s proper for a girls’ night out. Nothing else to report.” The tech bowed his head and moved off.

  Nadia crouched down next to the victim and studied him. He was a pale man for a werewolf, a thick crop of auburn hair with pieces of mushroom soup threaded through his tresses. He was dressed in pajama bottoms and a worn Vikings jersey. A night in, she figured. She wafted a bit of air toward her and inhaled deeply. Nothing amiss that she could smell. Everything smelled like mushrooms and subtle spices. She stood up and took in the place setting; beside his glass of beer was a basket of chunks of bread. A magazine that showed river and fishing scenes sat on the table next to his place. Like the tech said, nothing amiss. And yet she couldn’t shake the sensation of something crawling on the back of her neck. Her senses took in everything; the air smelled of stale remnants of his meal and beer. He hadn’t truly started to decompose yet; there was only a whiff of body odor in the air and the softest touch of Irish Spring body soap.

  She walked around the room, softening her focus, imprinting the scene onto her memory to review later. Nadia ducked into the kitchen to find a pot of soup still on the stove, not much, but enough for two servings. “Urban,” she called out.

  “What?” Urban stomped into the room, looking annoyed.

  “Can the attitude, and take a sample of the soup.” She tilted her head to the pot. A werewolf alpha dying by choking on a piece of mushroom or scallop seemed too good to be true, not when there were so many possibilities, among them another alpha here trying to make a move for more territory.

  He didn’t argue and ordered a tech to take a sample. “Seen enough?” he asked.

  She decided to take a look in the other rooms. The cabin had three bedrooms including one with a full bathroom, two half baths, the living and dining room area, and the kitchen. When she rifled through their clothes, she found an interesting contrast. He had brought well-worn jeans, T-shirts with holes in them, sneakers, and various pajama bottoms and tops, but nothing that matched, with only one serviceable suit that had seen better days.

  With his wife, it was like she had to be on call the whole time: simple cardigans, blouses, knee and ankle-length skirts, and low heels with pantyhose. Her underwear was a study in prim and proper, nothing that screamed sexy. There were no push-up bras or thongs; everything was serviceable white cotton, bikini-style panties and simple bras that reminded Nadia of the style of training bras her mother used to sneak to her when her father wasn’t looking so she’d have at least something to help when Nadia had begun to develop breasts. There was also no evening wear to speak of, not unless she was hiding it, but nothing that screamed a night on the town. Curious. The clothing reminded her of what the blonde from the bake sale table wore.

  The woman’s clothing was simple and drab in soft feminine colors like white, pink, or robin’s-egg blue. No blacks, dark rich blues, vibrant reds, bright oranges, or sensual greens. She wondered if all the pack wives dressed like this. Her mind flashed back to the werewolf she’d met at the baking table. She was the only woman manning the station. Her clothing, though flawless and expensive, also lacked a flair for personality. She needed to talk to her while she picked up her order. But she doubted the woman would talk. This wasn’t feline country, where women were allowed to lay out their business in the open and air their grievances with their husbands and families.

  “Ready to go? Or are you not done rifling through their belongings?” Urban leaned against the doorway, all casual sexiness and confidence.

  For a moment she had a flashback to another time when he’d leaned in another doorway, naked and aroused, ready for another round. A roll of desire caught her off-guard as it washed over her.

  All she could do was stare at Urban and impose upon his clothed form the beauty of when he was naked, tanned skin glistening with sweat in the dull light, hair tousled and cock thick and standing up, waiting for her to mount him and fuck them both into bliss. A groan formed in her throat, but she swallowed it down.

  She opened her mouth to say something, but her world stopped when she heard a scream. Without a thought, she and Urban rushed out of the cabin toward the sound. Werewolves blocked their path but Urban shoved them aside, opening a tunnel in his wake. They came upon a scene straight out of Nadia’s nightmares and past. The woman that had been at the bake sale table was on the ground, blood flowing from her nose, a bruise on her chin, hair out of place, blue eyes wide with fear. She was trying to move away but didn’t get too far. A large, blond man that looked like he’d been a linebacker gone to seed stood over her, blood on his fists and anger etched in every bit of his craggy face.

  Nadia stilled, frozen in place. She became four years old, hiding under the table, watching yet another fight with her parents, only this time her father had struck her mother, causing her to fall and hit her head on the table where she hid. Nadia began to tremble as fear splashed her with an ice-cold sweat. Her heart pounded against her chest. She balled her hands into fists as her legs shook and strained to hold up her weight. Tears formed in her eyes as a silent scream filled her throat but refused to spill out of her mouth. She couldn’t make a sound; if she said anything, the anger would be turned on her.

  “Nadia?” Urban called out.

  Urban’s voice snapped her out of her reverie. She took in a deep breath and waded into the fray, all the time telling herself, You’re not a child, damn it, you’re an adult, and you can save this woman. Don’t fuck this up.

  Chapter Five

  Poppy watched as the two cops rushed over to her. Urban stopped in front of her with his arms spread wide. She’d had to do something before they found anything that could implicate her or Caroline; she was sure that she’d left nothing behind. The ring had been melted down in her fireplace, and Caroline was at the spa. They were safe, so long as Stan had eaten all of his soup. She’d needed a distraction to lure them out of the cabin, but now she’d gone too far. Poppy held the side of her face where Michael had hit her and tried to wipe up the blood. Her nose throbbed with pain. She’d tempted fate by being late with lunch to man the bake sale table. Now she would pay for it. No one bothered to try to interfere with the situation, except for Urban and the feline-shifter woman who’d bought all those cookies and cakes and the only blueberry pie. Somehow she had to get the cookies away from her. If she was with the cops, Poppy couldn’t afford to have her eat it and fall into a coma or worse. It’s one thing to kill off husbands; it’s another to kill a police officer.

  The feline woman came over and tried to help her up. Poppy rose to her feet slowly, keeping an eye on Michael and Urban. It wouldn’t do to have Urban ruin things.

  “It’s okay,” Poppy whispered. “I’m okay; I slipped.” It was one of the many excuses she’d used over the years. She allowed herself to be helped up and wobbled, managing to slide her hand into the woman’s jacket pocket, take out the treat, and throw it to the ground. Stepping around, she mashed the cookie into the dirt. Once it had been turned into smithereens, she stepped away, although a bit disoriented.

  The feline woman snorted. “Sure you did; there’s no door out here to walk into or puddle to slip on. Come on, admit the truth,” she demanded.

  Poppy winced at the sting in her voice. Anger laced her tone. It burned Poppy to the point where she felt she had to do something, anything, to explain. “He doesn’t mean to—” she mumbled.

  “No, they never do,” the feline woman replied.

  “Poppy, get your ass over here; you need to make my lunch,” Michael ordered.

  Poppy started to go without thinking about it. The feline woman stepped in front of her. “Don’t go to him.”

  “I have to go to him. Excuse me,” Poppy whispered. Fear propelled her forward; she was afraid of what would happen once she stepped into that ca
bin.

  “Yeah, go back to him so he can fuck up your face again. Maybe the next time we’ll see you will be in the morgue,” the woman threatened before she stomped off.

  Urban sighed. “Don’t make us come out here again.”

  Michael shrugged. “Not your business, is it, feline fucker?”

  Urban gritted his teeth but said nothing. He turned and chased after the feline woman.

  Poppy breathed out a sigh of relief. You’re wrong, she told that feline woman, Michael would never kill me, he needs me, loves me. And I can always dispose of him anytime I want.

  * * * *

  Urban stalked after her, unsure of how to broach the subject. He’d heard the pain and accusation in her voice. His heart ached at the sound. Suspicions swirled in his head, but he couldn’t ask directly. He didn’t want to hear the truth. His wolf wanted to find the fucker who’d abused her and rip out his throat, but he doubted that would impress her. In fact, that would probably piss her off, although now he could see why she acted the way she did. The puzzle pieces began to slot together and a pang of jealousy over Zerik taking care of her, helping her when she was at her most vulnerable, hurt him.

  Urban hit the toggle button and went to the passenger side to open the door, but she beat him to it and slammed it on his face. With a shrug, he went to the driver’s side and got into the SUV.

  “Don’t,” she said.

  “I wasn’t gonna ask, but I will say that you have to control yourself. You could’ve started a riot. I don’t care if you interfere, but they do,” Urban pointed out, as much as he hated to say it out loud. There was a lot about being a werewolf that he didn’t like, and that point was one of them.

  “If we were in feline country, that shithead would be dead. So when do you guys interfere, after she’s dead or in a coma?” she asked with heat and acid in her voice.

  “Honey, you need to understand that this is the way the pack is,” he said, hating that he was defending this kind of shit.

  “Don’t honey me on this. Who knows what would’ve happened if you hadn’t stepped in. She could’ve been killed right there in front of all those blind witnesses. And you know that if that had happened, they would’ve buried the body or eaten her, you know, old style,” she pointed out.

  Urban’s stomach lurched. “That’s a myth. We burn the bodies and light candles for the deceased to light their path to the great hunting grounds. And someone would’ve called the police.”

  Nadia snorted and responded, “Yeah, sure. Call the werewolves to deal with the werewolves, uh-huh, I can see the logic in that.”

  Urban felt his temper snap. “It’s not like the feline-shifters don’t have assholes among them. Whoever abused you was one; so did you kill the motherfucker, or is he still walking around? Maybe you should get off your damn high horse to see that not everything in the feline community is so damn perfect.” As soon as the words left his mouth, he knew he was in trouble. “Shit, Nadia—”

  “Pull the car over, I’ll walk from here,” she murmured so low that if he’d been human he wouldn’t have heard her.

  “Nadia—” Urban tried again.

  “No, clearly you don’t think domestic violence is a big deal. No worries, I can take care of myself, and besides, if I stay here any longer, I’ll say something I’ll regret.” Nadia unbuckled her belt.

  Urban sighed and pulled over; the argument was finished. She’d put up her walls and wasn’t going to listen to him. He turned toward her and said, “Call me when you get home, okay? I don’t like—”

  She opened the door and slammed it shut. He watched, with his heart breaking, as she walked toward Draven’s Crossing alone and still in werewolf territory.

  * * * *

  As Nadia walked along, her mind turned over her mini-argument with Urban. That had been their first disagreement. Again, he’d seen through her, but then again, she hadn’t been blocking her emotions. She’d forgotten all about some of the archaic practices that went on in the werewolf community. Urban had been right, as much as she didn’t want to admit it, but that practice had been weeded out. Feline-shifter women didn’t take threats and violence very well; it always ended in blood and both parties in the hospital. Very few feline-shifter males would ever think of laying a hand on their mates with the intention of harm; claiming games, sure, but not to put them in their place, like her father had.

  Tears formed in her eyes. Echoes of her father chasing her around the house, yelling at her or her sister or mother, rolled around her head. Phantom bursts of pain in her sides, back, arms, head, stomach, and legs came back to life, almost taking her breath away. She stopped for a moment and bent over, trying to catch her breath. Every second that went by was one more time she wanted to curl into a ball and hide. Maybe it would stop if she did that, but it didn’t matter; the shadows would always be in her head and heart. Urban couldn’t make her past better, no matter how many kisses he gave her or hugs he enveloped her in.

  She was a grown woman, but there was a small child on the inside that hurt and was constantly scared that someone would inflict the type of pain her father had. Urban was a good man; he and his brother Torger were in fact excellent men, but there was always the ghost of her father lingering in the back of her mind waiting to hurt her all over again. Zerik hadn’t killed him; he’d wanted to, though. Nadia had wanted to pull the trigger, but she found that she couldn’t. Until her death, her mother had always defended him, said it wasn’t his fault, that they’d all done something to him, and little Nadia had believed her. She hadn’t known that it wasn’t her fault, any of their faults. It had always been him with the issues and problems, but it had hurt all the same.

  Nadia dashed away the hot tears that slid down her cheeks. Her father was still alive because, as Zerik put it, “You will your boogie man to exist so you don’t have to get close to him. Put your personal devil in the ground and be done with it.”

  It wasn’t that easy, no matter how angry she was with him, how hurt, she couldn’t play God, not in that way, and to force him to live in his empty house with only himself for company should’ve been punishment enough. Milly thought so. Sometimes she did wonder if she should’ve shot him in the head and put him into the ground like Zerik had suggested. But would that make her as bad as her father? She wasn’t sure. It hurt hearing Urban defend that bastard’s actions. For her, it was like listening to her mother all over again. Her heart ached as she remembered how frail she’d been in the end. Cancer had stripped her beauty and her strength, but in her eyes, there was defiance against her eldest daughter, demanding that she call her the addict she was, only her drug of choice was fear and violence. Nadia’s lungs ached as she tried to stop the sobs that wracked her body. A scream scratched its way up her throat, but she refused to let it out. Don’t break down, not here, not with him out there.

  She refused to risk Urban seeing her like this. To push away the pain, she started to run. With each step her heels were driven into the concrete, sending shockwaves up her legs. Pain pierced her calves and thighs, but she kept running. Her cat got into the act, lending her some healing power and speed until she found herself close to home. Once in her yard she stopped, bent over, placed her hands on her knees, and panted. Her heart pounded a rapid tattoo against her ribcage. Energy depleted, she limped to the door, slid her key out of her boot, and let herself in. Rather than call Urban and face him again, she stripped off her clothing and headed to the shower. Once the hot water poured over her, she curled up in a ball in the basin and cried. Whether for the little girl she had been or the woman she was, she poured the pain out in tears, allowing them to slip down the drain, hopefully never to rise again.

  * * * *

  Caro paced in her hotel room. The other women were in the spa, but she couldn’t join them. Not until she heard the update from Poppy. As the minutes slipped by like sand in a sieve, she reached for her phone, only to throw it back on the bed. Poppy would call her with info. The police had already come by and tol
d her the “sad” news. It had hurt more than she’d thought it would. Her marriage to Stan had been over for years, but he’d been her alpha, husband, and lover. They didn’t have any children, Stan had gotten a vasectomy to ensure that, though she’d wanted to be a mother. As he’d put it, “The pack is your family.”

  Now that he was dead, she was a widow and would be free. Widows weren’t welcome in the pack; they were once considered too old to have children, at least that was the stupid-ass theory going around. She sank down on the edge of her bed and tried to find a ray of light in the situation. When Poppy had come to her with her crazy notion of making money from Katnip-laced baked goods, Caro hadn’t really understood it. The mention of more money, her own spending cash, was what lured her in; she, Zelly, Madeline, Janice, and Danielle had all jumped at the idea, and besides, the alpha males couldn’t say no. It could benefit the packs, for crying out loud, and lure in customers to their own personal businesses. Only they weren’t telling the alphas, and Zelly and Danielle had left their group.

  Despite being from different packs, they figured out a way to rotate who had the bake sales and when, so they all benefitted. They weren’t hurting anyone; Katnip wasn’t dangerous, at least that’s what they’d been told. When Caroline had read about an increase in Katnip victims, she hadn’t connected it to what they were doing. Now she had her doubts; with the recent deaths, her warning bells were going off. She considered calling Torger, but what would she say? Poppy had eyes and ears everywhere; Michael would clean up her messes and possibly kill all of them. An idea occurred to her. She picked up her phone.

  The door to her suite opened. Poppy breezed into the room with shopping bags in her hands, bruises on her face, and a bandage over her nose. Nothing new, as far as Caroline was concerned. “Boy, that was close. Urban, you know, the brother of Torger, was looking into Stan’s death. I nipped that in the bud. They won’t find anything. I brought some wine and a sedative for you. You need to relax and get some sleep. The police will be coming by tomorrow. I spoke to a detective on the scene and told him you were a mess and couldn’t see anyone.”