by MJ Compton
She nodded.
His huge palm spanned her belly. She tensed, but he simply held her for several moments. He really wanted to tear off her sweatshirt, suckle her tits, kiss his way to her interesting bits, bring her to a screaming climax, then fuck them both senseless. His dick was so hard he hurt from it.
He sat her up and pulled up the hem of her sweatshirt. It was tight going over her head. Static electricity crackled in her hair. Her bra was the same shade of pink as her sweatshirt, and he briefly thought about surreptitiously snapping a photo to keep on his super phone to view when he was on tour. She was deliciously sexy looking. And she deserved better than his sofa, at least this time.
He stood, then pulled her to her feet and swung her into his arms. She was lighter than a sunbeam. The stairs to the loft were steep, but he was agile. “I left the phone downstairs.”
Her wide blue eyes never left his.
“I really want to do the married stuff with you.” He was careful when he put her on the bed. He pulled off his shirt, then removed her bra. “We never got a chance to really look at each other after the picnic. And that’s a shame.” But he had to swallow hard when he looked at the bruises on her abdomen. Gary must have pounded her repeatedly to create such a massive contusion.
Her tits were as sweet as he remembered and even more responsive. The deep rose of her nipples was so pretty against the pale pillows of her boobs.
Luke took his time, using his mouth and hands to relax and excite her. She didn’t protest when he pulled down the elastic waist of her leggings.
“Hey baby, this is your daddy talking,” he murmured against the soft skin of her belly. “You be a good baby and take it easy on your mama.”
He rested his cheek on her stomach. “Are you hoping for a boy or a girl?”
“I haven’t given it much thought.” Her voice vibrated against his ear.
“Me either. But I think I’d like a little girl. One who looks like you.” He slipped his hand into her panties. She was wet. She was ready. So was he. But he needed to be gentle with her. Careful with her.
Removing her stretchy pants was easy. Her underwear went with the leggings. Abigail looked like a goddess spread out on the royal blue of his comforter. He was about to worship.
Abigail flinched when his tongue found her clit, but settled back to enjoy the service his mouth provided. It wasn’t long before she was moaning and thrashing. A few minutes more brought her to orgasm. Her contractions were strong, and he worried about the baby.
He knelt between her splayed legs, remembering how fantastic it had been to be inside her. This was one time when memory wasn’t nearly as wonderful as revisiting the past. She was hot. Tight. Wet.
“Practice makes perfect,” he muttered against her ear. “And we’re going to be practicing this a lot.”
“Good.”
Her nails dug into his shoulders. Her knees clamped his ribcage. His climax followed hers. Boneless. The muscles in her legs vanished. She was as limp as a freshly killed rabbit. He kissed the side of her neck, making sure he kept his teeth away from her skin. No more nibbling her neck. The last thing he needed was her accusing him of marking her. . .
His eyelids drooped. He hadn’t slept in a couple of days. Neither, according to Abigail, had she. From the sound of her breathing, he’d fucked her into slumber.
When Luke awoke, Abigail was curled up against him. His super phone was singing for him to answer it.
He stumbled down the stairs, not bothering with clothes. The autumn chill felt good against his bare skin. And should Abigail awaken, well, she was going to have to get used to seeing him naked and to being naked around him.
The phone stopped ringing by the time he reached it. He hoped that didn’t mean Tokarz would make a trip to check on them.
Except Tokarz usually didn’t use a phone. Cellular service in the mountains was spotty at best. Luke liked gadgets and owned a phone that used satellite technology. And most werewolves distrusted technology. They still believed in the old ways. The old ways had brought them to the United States.
They’d been persecuted in France, during the time of the French Revolution, and made a deal with the new nation: service for sanctuary. A werewolf’s speed was better than Paul Revere’s horse; his superior hearing, vision, and, sense of smell—not to mention his ability to shift forms—made them excellent spies.
Electronics were starting to replace them, but periodically the government still called on the Loup Garou pack to handle sticky situations for them.
Luke had already been on two missions. The Toke Lobo and the Pack band was a great cover in certain circumstances. And his computer skills had come in handy when the old ways clashed with the modern world.
Luke held his breath and listened to the silence of the cabin. Abigail was still asleep. He crept up the stairs, super phone in hand. Late afternoon sunlight bled through the window, spotlighting Abigail’s naked form. She was on her back now, her bruises all the more poignant in the golden glow.
Luke raised his phone and started snapping photos. What Abigail didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her, and he wanted a record of what Gary had done to her. He was able to photograph the damage from several angles. He’d transfer them to his computer drive later.
His penis stirred. Brushed his belly. He dropped the phone to the night table then crawled back into bed with Abigail. She might not be his mate, but he sure liked fucking her.
Chapter 7
The band delayed the start of their one-month tour so Luke could attend the services for Abigail’s mother. The human practice made no sense to Luke, who had been raised in the werewolf culture. Dead was dead. You sang to your forebears on the night of the full moon. You didn’t need to look at a corpse in a box.
But Abigail was human, and Gary was playing sympathy for all he could. His wife had died. His stepdaughters were bereft. He got his three days off from the brewery. It would have looked really odd if Abigail and Libby didn’t attend the funeral. Luke needed to be present for Abigail’s sake.
Sendall Funeral Home. D. Sendall, Director. Serving the families of Oak Moon for four generations. The white building with its black shutters looked like any other house on the street, except for the sign on the lawn.
Abigail was pale in her dark sweater and skirt. Libby was her usual faded imitation of her sister.
Luke stood behind them in the receiving line, ready to step between Gary and Abigail if he needed to. Restin stood next him to keep him from ripping off Gary’s hands before ripping out his throat. But even Luke knew killing the widower at a funeral was bad form.
Luke was also worried about Abigail. She wasn’t too steady on her feet. Dark circles marred her pasty complexion. Luke missed the rosy-cheeked girl he’d seduced at the Moonsinger picnic. She flinched when he pressed his palm against the small of her back.
A crowd from Loup Garou showed up to pay their respects. Luke’s parents, grandparents, his Aunt Macy, plus all the band members, including the roadies and bus drivers. Their presence surprised Luke. Maybe Tokarz was trying to make Abigail feel accepted by the pack.
Except Luke still hadn’t told her the whole werewolf thing. Tokarz’s wife had shrieked when Tokarz told her, had called their child an abomination—in general freaked out. Stoker’s mate, Lucy, had been enchanted—she’d always wanted to turn into a butterfly and fly off. Hank’s mate—Lucy’s younger sister—hadn’t reacted at all. In fact, Luke wasn’t sure Hank had said anything to her. She was so grateful to get away from her first husband, anything Hank did or said was practically holy.
Abigail was the great unknown.
People murmured condolences. Abigail introduced a few people to him—some of her dead father’s friends, people from church, her mother’s Safeway job, and from the neighborhood.
Libby cried and clut
ched Abigail’s arm with one hand and the grubby Santa Claus pillow in the other.
Luke wanted to be anywhere but there.
After an hour, Abigail swayed. Granny had warned him not to coddle Abigail, but also to make sure she didn’t overexert herself. Whatever that meant.
“Are you okay?” he murmured in her ear.
“As well as can be expected.” Abigail swallowed hard, soothed her sister, and turned to the next person in line.
“Pete,” he heard Gary say. “It’s so kind of you to come today. Girls, you remember my boss, Mr. MacDougal, right?”
Abigail nodded and Libby buried her face in Abigail’s side.
The man had what Luke had heard called a radio voice: deep and booming, even when he was trying to be solemn for the sad occasion. “I’m sorry for your loss. I know how much you loved Tina. And her girls—they must be devastated. I know my mother is rallying the ladies at church to help out with food and such.”
The air was close in the funeral home, and warm. Stuffy. The stench of dying flowers only added to the oppressive atmosphere. Luke would have given anything to be able to morph and lope through the doors and into the wilderness.
Abigail shifted her weight from one foot to the other. Stumbled. Collapsed.
Luke caught her before she hit the floor. Scooping her into his arms was not a hardship. Mourners stared at them. “Find us some privacy,” he snapped at Restin. He’d likely pay for that later. The pack beta was insufferable, especially when it came to status. Status didn’t matter to Luke. Abigail had to be his primary priority.
But Restin didn’t argue. He simply bulldozed his way through the clusters of people until he found someone who led Luke to a small lounge, complete with short sofa and one of those handmade blanket thingies like his Granny hooked every winter. Luke deposited Abigail, and ignored the glare Restin tried to laser through his back.
“You want some water or something?” he asked Abigail.
She shook her head. “No. It was stuffy in there.”
“You might be dehydrated.” Granny had cautioned him about making sure Abigail had enough to drink. “Restin, see if you can find some water or juice or something.”
Who else was he supposed to ask? Libby, who was cowering like a shadow at the foot of the sofa? No one ever gave an omega a handbook on how to deal with bad situations when you were the least of all. He had to go with his gut.
Abigail’s pink tongue wet her lower lip. Or tried. There wasn’t much saliva there.
“Now,” Luke growled.
Oh, yeah. There’d be scat to eat come band departure time the next day. He’d worry about retribution then.
But it was Libby who came through for her sister. Luke didn’t notice her slip out of the lounge. Didn’t notice her absence until she returned with the funeral director.
“Is Mrs. Omega okay?” Digger Sendall asked.
Luke didn’t like his smarmy tone, his aftershave, or the way his hair was slicked back, but Sendall carried a bottle of water.
“I’m fine,” Abigail said, even though any fool could see she was lying simply by looking at her. Her face was far too pale, emphasizing dark circles beneath her eyes.
Luke snatched the bottle from Sendall, unscrewed the cap, and handed it to Abigail. “Drink,” he barked.
She gulped the entire bottle in one trip to her mouth. “I’m okay now,” she said. “Thank you. Libby and I need to get back.”
Luke scowled.
“People will think it’s odd if we’re not there for our own mother. If we consigned her to Gary’s keeping.”
So he cupped Abigail’s elbow as she returned to the viewing parlor. Rested his hand on the small of her back as she greeted the people who’d come to pay their respects and say goodbye.
Libby crushed Abby’s hand as they stood in the receiving line. Luke stood behind them, warming Abby’s back.
So many people to greet, faces to pull from her memory. People she hadn’t seen since Gary moved into their house. Her father’s friends showed up—her real father, not Gary. Mrs. Shaw, the pastor’s wife, remembered Abby from the days when Abby had been in her Sunday School class, when Abby had played the basic chords of “Jesus Loves Me” on the guitar while the rest of the school sang.
Mama’s coworkers from Safeway also wanted to meet Luke. Not for Abby’s sake, but because of who he was. Toke Lobo and the Pack were popular locally and getting famous. People would want to say they knew Luke and Abby when.
Not that Abby expected the marriage to last. Luke had been pressured into marrying her because of the baby. She wasn’t going to kid herself about that. But it would work out okay. It had to. She and Libby had already gotten away from Gary. Now Abby was much closer to asking Toke Lobo to listen to her songs. Luke clearly hadn’t shown them to him. Once she had some money of her own, she could take Libby and build a new life for the two of them.
The three of them. She was going to have a baby.
How could she have forgotten her pregnancy even for an instant? Escaping wouldn’t be so easy now. If it were only her and Libby, she could have managed. But not with a baby, too.
So she stretched her face into a fake smile and greeted people from church or who had worked with Mama at the Safeway. She shook hands with Mrs. MacDougal, who told Libby she hoped to see her in Sunday School again soon.
Abby accepted hugs from her mother’s closest friends, but none of Abby’s friends were there. They’d all gone away to college or were off seeking careers in bigger cities. Young people didn’t stay in Oak Moon. And if they did, Gary had successfully forced distance between Abby and Libby and their schoolmates. Gary’s poker cronies and their wives showed up, too. Jesse Stetson was the only one Abby knew besides Pete MacDougal and Digger Sendall. She tried to avoid being home on poker night when it was Gary’s turn to host, but Gary liked to have her act as waitress on those nights.
The turnout was amazing, considering how Gary had isolated them from the rest of the community.
Finally the long line was gone. The small of Abby’s back ached from standing. Luke guided her to a padded chair in the front row. He sat on one side of her. Libby, who was unusually sedate, sat on the other. Toke Lobo himself indicated to Gary that he should sit on the other side of the aisle. Toke loomed large and angry when Gary started to argue, but short of creating a scene, there wasn’t much Gary could do.
Colette, Marcus, and Luke’s grandparents filled in the rest of the front row. Luke’s Aunt Macy was there, too.
Looking at the unfamiliar faces surrounding her, Abby realized marriage to Luke had given her a family. Not the family she’d lost when her father had died, but something better than her mother’s attempt at substitution. Without even thinking about it, Abby’s hand sought Luke’s. He squeezed her fingers, then released them.
Nope. These people were Luke’s family. Her child’s family. She was going to have to be strong for Libby. The only interest Luke’s family had in her was as an incubator for the next generation of Omegas.
The hard seat under the thin padding of the folding chair didn’t help the ache in Abby’s back. Still, she held herself upright. Head raised. Chin lifted. When Libby grew restless, Abby put a restraining hand on the jittering knee. Nobody was going to talk bad about Tina and Joe Grant’s daughters.
The service was short. Tina had been ill for so long, the consensus was her passing was a blessing. Maybe it was, if only to free Abby and Libby from Gary. And that was a lousy reason to lose a mother.
Somehow, Abby was going to make Gary pay.
Crisp brown leaves scuttled across the cemetery grounds as Luke and his family stood between the Grant sisters and Gary. The mourners who’d joined them for the internment were departing.
Restin hung around making sure Luke didn’t do something like maybe rip o
ff Gary’s hands. Oak Moon wasn’t Loup Garou. Yeah, the brewery was there. And yeah, the brewery was the town’s largest employer. But Oak Moon was still a homo sapien community. The residents wouldn’t take kindly to witnessing a violent death-by-werewolf.
Plus he had to protect Abigail. And his unborn child. No, he’d wait until a better, less public opportunity to deal with Gary. Because he wasn’t going to let the insult go. And if Restin and Tokarz had any clue about the beating Gary had given Abigail in an attempt to make her miscarry, they’d drive him to Oak Moon and stand guard while he exacted his revenge. And once he was done with all that needed doing, they would repeat the process until only a laboratory could identify Gary’s remains. Someday. Sooner rather than later.
Luke focused on the people shaking his hand rather than his blood lust. Tried to remember their names: Huckstermyer, Blaser, MacDougal, Johnson, Smith, and Wesson. Dottie Lou Stetson, who wore navy blue and white polka dots along with giant fake pearls in her earlobes. Charmaine MacDougal, who wore enough perfume to burn a nose out of commission.
It was good for Abigail and her sister that so many people had come to pay their respects to their mother. Tina Grant Porter had been loved by Oak Moon. Now he understood what the event was about. Werewolves handled it differently. That’s all.
There was already a stone marking Tina Grant Porter’s grave. A family marker. Joseph Grant, beloved husband and father. Luke did the math. Abigail’s father had died when she was fifteen. And there were two other names on the stone. Tabitha and Gabriella. Both girls had died on the days they were born.
How terribly sad.
As they stood at the edge of the open grave, Luke’s thoughts wandered. He’d have one more night with Abigail in his bed before the band left for its Last Hurrah of the Year tour the following morning. When he returned, his house wouldn’t be the same. There would be a nursery for the baby and a bedroom for Libby.
