Claimed by the Pack (Blue Moon Brides)

by Anne Marsh

  “You can’t tell?” She asked the question lightly.

  His thumb ran down her calf, paralleling a partially healed scratch. “I wan’ you to be tellin’ me,” he said.

  “And if I don’t want to?”

  He shrugged. “I’d like to be sure. And,” he looked up, meeting her stare head-on, “I’d like you to tell me. So there’s that.”

  She wouldn’t be his mate simply because he’d decreed it so. Still, the whole sharing and let-me-take-care-of-you line was strangely seductive, despite the years she’d spent looking out for herself. She was tired and that had to be the reason why she wanted to lean into his touch while she answered his questions. She’d never been much of a talker, preferring her relationships long on sex and short on words. Even then she’d never found a man capable of giving her toe-curling, rip-your-clothes-off-now sex—a lack she suspected Dag could address—and she’d certainly never done heart-to-hearts. Not even with Mary Jane, and the two of them were close.

  “Why do you keep asking how I’m feeling?”

  He shook his head, like she was a puzzle missing a piece or three. “You don’ wan’ me to ask, you bein’ my mate and all?”

  She wasn’t touching that mate business with a ten-foot pole. Not now. Not while she was mostly naked.

  His hand tightened on her knee.

  “Nope. Not really,” she said.

  “Huh,” he said and picked up her right arm, stroking the cloth down her skin in a long, firm stroke. “You got somethin’ you do wan’ to talk about?”

  She thought for a moment.

  “Yeah. I want to talk about Ameline.”

  “Okay.” He set her right arm back on the bed and reached for her left. She’d half lifted it towards him before she realized it. The man was too good at sneaking under her defenses. “So talk,” he continued. “I’m listenin’. Maybe start with who Ameline is.”

  “Was.” She didn’t want to remember, but the memories came anyhow. Waking up inside the shack after being abducted first trip and hearing the sounds of the vampire feeding. It hadn’t even tried to make the act quick or merciful. Ameline had screamed for a long, long time, until she hadn’t, and the silence had been worse than the noise.

  “The female in the vamp’s nest?”

  “Yeah.” Her throat clogged, but she refused to cry. Not now, when she was so close to getting free. Getting even made sense and tears wouldn’t get her any closer. Ameline hadn’t deserved that kind of end. Death was sometimes a welcome respite in the bayou—after a person had lived long enough, sometimes a rest was no bad thing—but Ameline hadn’t been ready. Certainly no one would choose that death. Mauled and chewed on until she bled out on the floor, alone because the vamp wouldn’t allow Riley go to her. “Her name was Ameline.”

  “You knew her before?”

  She considered how much to tell him, because he was male and possessive and because she’d seen for herself how many unhappy endings that could lead to. Dag Breaux, for all his rough edges and rougher words, didn’t strike her as mean, so she opened her mouth and let the words come out. “I work in a women’s shelter. She came there maybe eight weeks ago because her boyfriend liked to hit on her.”

  Dag swore. “You went after him.”

  Clearly, things were simpler in his world, because his words were all statement and no question. Maybe wolf-men didn’t have to worry about Louisiana law enforcement. That would have made some of her work at the shelter easier. Sometimes, though, it didn’t matter how much force your punch packed. Some things, all the fighting and vengeance and getting even in the world couldn’t fix. Ameline had ended up being one of those things.

  “I wanted to,” she admitted.

  “You would,” he said and she wondered what he thought when he said that.

  “She came in to the shelter and she hadn’t left, not when I went out on the Bayou Sweetie with Mary Jane. Maybe she checked out in the last week, but what if the vamp grabbed her? And,” she continued, because the connections she was drawing in her head bothered her too much to keep to herself, “she wouldn’t be the first woman to disappear this month. We had two others leave.”

  “Unexpectedly?” He got up, emptied the water and returned with fresh. He gestured for her to tilt her face back and she hesitated, then did as he’d silently asked. She wasn’t sure what his low growl meant, but it sounded almost—happy.

  “Women come and go. We usually have two or three long-terms stays and another three or four who come for a night or two. We serve the entire parish. But what our women usually don’t do is up and disappear in the middle of the night without so much as a thank you or a he didn’t mean to and he’s real sorry, so I’ll be going now.”

  “And these two did?”

  “Yeah. I didn’t think too much about it, because fear and anger can make a woman do strange things, but now I’m wondering.”

  “If the vamps took them.” Dag bent over her, the cloth’s slow drag finding the perfect spot. She could feel the tension in her muscles relaxing.

  “It killed Ameline,” she admitted. “It drank her to death. I thought that only happened in books, but no, it goddamned happened right in front of me.”

  “It drank from you too.” He turned her forearm over carefully, exposing the ragged wound. Already, the injury looked better. She held her breath, wondering if he would ask questions. But he didn’t. Instead, he lowered his head and her breath caught as he brushed his lips softly against her skin. With his fingers, he spread some antibacterial ointment from a scrunched up tube onto the injury, the small sting followed by a slow, soft burn that reminded her she’d heal and everything would be okay.

  “Is there anything I should know? Like, am I growing to grow fangs or want to suck your blood?” She asked jokingly, but God, she didn’t know what she’d do if he said there was something to worry about.

  “It’s not contagious,” he said and wrapped a strip of gauze around her wrist. “You won’ be turnin’ into a vampire, Riley.”

  “Good.” Her teeth bit into her lower lip. “Because I wouldn’t be okay with going all fanged. I’m just putting that out there.”

  “You askin’ me to stake you if you develop a craving for raw meat?” He lifted his head and his eyes were definitely laughing at her, although his mouth didn’t twitch.

  She wondered if he’d really do it and decided he would. There was nothing gentle about him. Which was good. She didn’t want or do gentle. The damned moon gone now, but heat still uncurled in her, making her restless.

  God, she was in such trouble here.

  ###

  She was going to be okay.

  Dag didn’t know if he was telling himself the words he wanted to hear, or if maybe it was true. Maybe his Riley could spend the better part of a week locked up by a vampire, break out, and come through it with no more than a few wounds on the inside of her wrist.

  When the other female was dead as anything.

  He ran through the facts in his head one more time while he tied off the gauze, because things weren’t adding up here. She should have been hurt bad, even if her status as a blue moon bride should have protected her some. The vamps needed her alive, in order to bait the Pack, but barely alive would have done the job. Hell, it would have been better for the vamps’ purpose, because nothing riled a wolf shifter faster than hurting one of their females.

  He trailed his fingers up her forearm. She didn’t pull away, but she didn’t lean into his touch none, contrary to what his Alpha had promised.

  “You find your bride, and she’s goin’ to be wantin’ on you somethin’ fierce.”

  His younger self looked at Luc, hoping desperately the older shifter’s words were the truth. Because even then he’d been mostly wolf on his best days, just man enough to know he had damned little to offer any female, so he’d take whatever advantage he could.

  “You sure ‘bout that?”

  “Uh-huh.” Luc thumped Dag on the back. “Absolutely. When you find her, you be
tter to see to her needs. You treat her right and you love her lots.”

  So he’d have to do his own wooing, when he knew nothing about courting. The way her eyes widened, she didn’t appreciate his offer to put a stake in her heart. “I won’ hurt you,” he promised roughly and she flinched. Yeah. His romance was all rusty.

  Her chin came up, though, so she still had her spunk. “I won’t let you.”

  “Understood.” He considered his next move, his fingers lightly circling her arm. She hadn’t tried to get away these last few minutes, so maybe he was making progress.

  “You heal real fast,” he said.

  Her arm jerked in his. “Not really.”

  “Boo, when a vamp feeds, he isn’t any too careful about where he puts his teeth.”

  She cut him off. “Not. Talking. About. It.”

  Uh-huh. He inspected her arm again, but the skin was barely scratched, despite her mad dash through the bayou. The wound at her wrist showed no signs of infection—if it had closed up as fast as whatever damage she had to have done tonight, it was no wonder any bacteria had given her a pass. He didn’t want her hurt, but her brand of speed healing left him wondering. Something didn’t add up about his Riley.

  She was definitely keeping secrets.

  Hell. He was no good at talking. He knew that. As a blue moon mate, she was wasted on him, but he had his orders from Luc, so he’d make her his. This should have been straightforward. She needed—he provided. When she got injured, he looked out for her. So why didn’t she recognize him as her mate? He could give her pleasure and cubs. He would destroy her enemies, keep her safe from this vamp. And yet that wasn’t enough.

  He’d talked when she demanded words. He’d brought her into his den. What else did she want? Maybe, he realized, that was the key right there. Want. The wolf perked up, certain he was on the right trail now.

  “Okay,” he agreed, reaching for the hem of her shirt. “No more talkin’. Let me touch you, Riley.”

  Chapter Five

  “May I?” Dag’s dark eyes watched her. Wanting this man’s touch was a mistake. Riley was one hundred percent sure of that.

  And yet the next word out of her mouth was one hundred percent permission. “Yeah,” she whispered.

  When the cloth glided beneath the hem, the rough-tender rasp of the damp fabric on her inner thigh was exquisite. The pressure Dag exerted was perfect, not too soft, but not quite hard enough to sting. Damned if she didn’t feel a bolt of pleasure four inches away.

  So, okay, she was ninety percent asking Nurse Dag here to give her a sponge bath was a dangerous idea.

  He rubbed the cloth in a teasing circle. Eighty percent, she thought on a sigh.

  “Just so we’re clear,” she said, “this is a really bad idea.”

  This was about the sheer pleasure of getting clean. That was her story and she’d stick to it. To make the lie easier to swallow, she closed her eyes. Hell. She was a mess, covered with blood, dirt, and God knew what else. Her week in the vampire’s shack hadn’t been a spa getaway. Not going there. Everything was easier with her eyes closed—like pretending she was doing this for herself, that it wasn’t Dag running his big hand over her inner thigh.

  Except the darkness magnified the sensations and left her yearning for the soft whisper of the cloth, listening to the in and out of his breathing growing rougher with each caress because he liked this too. He’d asked—and then he’d done. Despite not knowing him long—she was fairly certain their acquaintance could be numbered in minutes, not hours—the behavior seemed typical for this man. Dag acted. He used that big body of his and he did. He wasn’t a big talker.

  Right now, he was perfect.

  He carefully folded the T-shirt up, exposing the top of her thighs. The night air hit the damp on her thigh, deliciously cool. He’d take this all the way. He wouldn’t hesitate.

  Thank God.

  She didn’t want talking. She wanted to forget. Wanted to live a little and just plain feel.

  When he ran his thumb over the curve at the top of her thigh, she made a sound, half-moan, half-sigh because he’d discovered a sore spot. He massaged and she could feel herself sinking back, boneless, into his bed. There was a trickle of sexual arousal too, because he had his hands on her and she’d bet he’d be in her if she let him.

  “You sure?” His hoarse rumble startled her out of the pleasant stupor.

  “About what?” She floated in sea of bliss. Then his other hand joined the first, pushing her thighs wider. Better, she decided. Who knew two hands were even better than one?

  “That my touchin’ you is a bad idea. A really bad idea,” he clarified. The cloth covered her core.

  And he rubbed.

  The trickle of desire kicked into a blazing inferno. She wanted more, wanted the cloth gone and his fingers on her and in her. When he slid the cloth to the top of her slit, she pushed up to meet him.

  He tucked the T-shirt around her waist. Still decent, she told herself. Still just playing games. With six feet of Cajun werewolf, but that didn’t bother her much. The pulse of pleasure exploded into renewed life. She shuddered. Yeah. He’d got to her good.

  “Boo?” He leaned forward, surrounding her with the heat of him.

  “Yeah?” Now her voice sounded hoarse.

  “I do need one more word from you.” He found her clit with the cloth and pressed.

  “Okay.” That was one word, right? Even if it had come out in a needy little pant because his deliberate touch sent heat shooting through her.

  “Yes,” he growled. “I need you to tell me yes.”

  Now, when she wanted him to take charge, he was asking her for permission? He’d pushed and he’d chased—literally—warning her every step of the way that he’d be taking.

  Having.

  So what was this “May I” and “Yes” bullshit? Right now, she wanted to forget the last week and he was her means to the end. So he could damn well get on with business.

  She opened her eyes and leaned forward.

  “I don’t give a damn what you need. This is about me,” she snarled. “And what I need right now. And I want you to get on with it.”

  His thumb rubbed the washcloth over her clit again, rewarding her with a rough burst of sensation.

  “I’ll take that as a yes,” he drawled.

  He could take it any way he wanted. When his thumb circled her over the cloth, she settled her hands on his shoulders, yanking him closer. His taking any kind of an order from her was a turn-on.

  She was wet. She could both hear and feel slickness as she pushed up to meet his next stroke, her hips bumping against his hand. He wasn’t close enough. She needed more and too damned bad if that made her greedy. She didn’t care. He was here. He’d offered. So she’d take.

  “More,” she breathed and he laughed.

  But he moved his hand away and disappointment lanced through her because the need was still building, damn him, but now her orgasm was farther away than ever. Maybe he didn’t like bossy women. Maybe he didn’t like her.

  She was still figuring out her next step when he moved, dropping between her thighs, his shoulders pressing her wide. Oh. Yes. She barely stopped the word from coming out. She wouldn’t give him the satisfaction.

  “You sure you’re not a wolf?” he rumbled, resting his chin on her thigh. He pulled the cloth away and tossed it over his shoulder. She could only imagine his view, pink and wet. Spread wide open. Well, she refused to make excuses for her need. He’d started this. He could finish her.

  “One hundred percent certain.” He had no idea what she really was.

  He turned his face into her thigh, rubbing his cheek against the tender skin. Yeah. The bastard was marking her. She’d smell like him for days. Thank God her brothers were up in Baton Rouge because otherwise they’d be lining up to kill him.

  “You should know somethin’.”

  “Yes?” She gave him the word, fighting to keep still. He was killing her here.

 
“That too.” He flashed her a quick grin. “You oughta know when you let a wolf into your bed, boo, he’s goin’ to eat you up.”

  Please.

  “Open up.” His hands pushed on her thighs, cupping her ass to help her. Lifting her onto the shelf of his hands. He was going all the way, going down on her. Oh. God. She’d wanted his intimate kiss, but there was imagining and then there was doing. He licked her and she came apart.

  ###

  Pleasuring her was a new emotion for his beast. Dag wanted to please her, but he damned sure didn’t know how. Not really. She wasn’t an animal, and as much as he couldn’t fix who he was, he knew he didn’t want to hurt her.

  “Mine,” he growled against her pussy. He figured she couldn’t hear him over the sexy mewling sounds she was making so he stopped what she was doing. That almost killed him—she was sweet and hot, the taste of her so incredible that if he hadn’t already known she was his mate, he’d have known just by kissing her. He couldn’t imagine doing this with anyone else now.

  “Dag—” Her hands clutched frantically at his hair, trying to pull him back.

  “One minute, boo.”

  “I’m going to kill you,” she said fiercely, but her hips moved restlessly. “What is it with you and waiting?”

  Hell. He didn’t want to wait either—he wanted to be seated deep inside her—but this was important. This was the part that guaranteed he got to keep her.

  “You’re mine,” he said, watching her face, his voice full of certainty.

  “Dag?” She, on the other hand, didn’t sound sure at all, like she was still fighting his possession, so he licked a slow path down her folds, spearing her opening with his tongue. Reminder, tease, promise—he didn’t care what she called it. She belonged to him, with him, the same way he was all hers and had been from the moment he laid eyes on her.

  “Are you my mate?” He was holding his breath, he realized. Not moving, except for his thumb pushing inside her snug channel. She pushed back, sinking down onto his digit.