by Diana Seere
Gavin growled but turned the sound into a throat clearing. “Hello?”
Eva’s dulcet tones filled the line. “We have an interesting issue here, Gavin.”
A tingle of surprise shot through his veins. “Is Lilah OK?”
Eva’s amused chuckle made him mad and relieved at the same time. “She’s fine. Determined and stubborn, but fine.”
“Stubborn?” Gavin asked.
“Oh, she’s talking about you,” Derry interrupted, brewing himself another coffee.
Gavin ignored him.
“I just received a check and a note from Ms. Lilah Murphy. From her personal account, in the amount of $500. Made out to Xavier Rand.”
Gavin needed another espresso. And a fifth of scotch. “What?”
“Her note is clear. She insists on paying for the services of her mother’s home health aide.”
The room began to spin as Gavin’s ire turned up more notches than he knew possible. “She what?”
“You heard me. The check is amusing. It might cover Sophia’s parking ticket budget for a month.”
“Lilah can’t afford Sophia. I’m not sure I can afford her. The price is too high,” he muttered.
“What shall I do with the check, Gavin? Cash it? Give her the ruse? Make her think she’s paying for her mother’s home health aide when, in fact, she’s...” Eva’s voice trailed off. Gavin could hear her long fingernails tapping against something hard in the background. Marble? Steel?
Lilah’s backbone?
The laughter that claimed his throat took him by surprise. “She’s rejecting my money?”
“Yes.”
“First she rejects me, and now my money?” Outrage poured into his blood like a serum. Like an antidote. Like five espressos and a Red Bull.
“It would appear so,” Eva said in a pleasant voice.
“She can’t do that!”
“She just did,” Eva said.
“Then I need to go to Boston and have a little talk with her.”
“That,” said a hard voice from Gavin’s front door, “is the last thing you need to do.” Gavin whipped his head around to meet angry, animal eyes.
Asher.
He hadn’t shifted. He was simply so determined, so alpha, that it was as if Gavin and Asher had shifted.
Much more of this rage mixed with passion and a deep keening for Lilah and Gavin most certainly would shift.
“Thank you, Eva,” Gavin said in a clipped voice, ending the call without another pleasantry. His eyes remained fixed on Asher’s.
“You absolutely cannot go after her,” Asher declared. “You will not.”
Gavin looked down at his body. He needed a quick shower, shave, and clothes. Storming past Asher, he headed for his bathroom, dropping the robe midway there.
“Watch me,” he said, leaving Asher with a view of his rapidly moving ass.
“You only get one choice here, Gavin.”
Derry made a deep sound of shock.
The sound—not Asher’s words, but Derry’s reaction—made Gavin halt. Slowly, with painstaking patience, he turned around and faced his older brother.
“Excuse me?”
“You heard me. If you choose her, you’re out of the pack. You’re endangering us all, and I won’t have it.”
Gavin’s eyes widened, mirroring Derry’s. “You’re crazy,” he finally said. “And you can’t do that.”
“Watch me,” Asher spat back, slamming the door, ending the conversation with a finality that made Gavin feel like he could taste silence.
It was quite bitter.
Ten seconds. Twenty. Sixty. Infinity. Time stood still as he inhaled and exhaled, mind reeling from the implications of Asher’s words.
“He can’t kick me out of the pack, can he? Out of the family?” he asked Derry with a combination of vengeance and desperation in his voice.
His younger brother shrugged those enormous bearlike shoulders and stared at the back of the door Asher had just slammed. “He seems to think he can.”
Gavin began to laugh, a sound of bemusement and amusement all wrapped up into one. Where outrage had just pumped through him like venom, now hope infused him.
And then the bitter silence turned into a taste like the sweetest honey as the quiet gave way.
Gavin.
He closed his eyes.
Lilah.
He heard her. He heard the Beat again.
Fuck you, Asher.
He chose Lilah.
Chapter 18
Over the next few days, Lilah’s life settled into a new normal. She walked her dog, went to work. Ate. Slept. There were no voices in her head and, other than Smoky, no bodies in her bed. The weeks with Gavin had been a dream, but their last night had been a nightmare. What else could she do but try to shake it off and keep living? It was impossible, of course, but she had to try.
If just for Jess, who watched her with increasing worry in her eyes, and even for Smoky, who shadowed her around the apartment, whining even when she closed the bathroom door between them.
Work was easier. She served and smiled, kept busy, didn’t have to think, didn’t have to feel.
“What happened out in Montana?” Molly asked on her third night back. “At first I thought it was jet lag, but now I think it’s something else. I know it is. You’ve been crying.”
Lilah turned away and found a navy pantsuit on one of Molly’s clothing racks. It had a high collar and baggy waist, like a priest. Perfect. She hugged it to her chest. “I can’t talk about it.”
Molly didn’t reply for a moment. “Not here, at least,” she said softly. “You never know who’s listening.”
“Yes,” Lilah breathed, so grateful for her understanding. But how much did she know? Lilah turned around. “Have you heard rumors about me?”
“You’re my friend. I would never gossip about you. Everyone knows that by now.”
Lilah rubbed the scar on her head out of habit, out of pain. “Whatever you hear, it’s not true. There’s nothing to know. OK?”
Molly made a skeptical grunting sound. “Next time, we’re skipping the movie and getting drunk far away from here so you’ll tell me everything. Even if you don’t want to.”
“It’s over,” Lilah said. “There was something but there isn’t now. That’s all I can say.”
“It doesn’t look over. We’re going to have to put on three coats of concealer around your eyes tonight.”
Lilah clutched the pantsuit more tightly. “Whatever. I don’t care what I look like.”
Only then did Molly seem to notice what she planned on wearing. Eyes widening with horror, she seized the pantsuit and held it behind her back. “You can keep your secrets but you will never, ever walk out of my dressing rooms looking hideous. Got that?”
At the end of her emotional rope, Lilah spun around and marched to the dressing room. “Fine. You choose. I don’t care.” Because she didn’t. She just wanted to get away from Molly and her questions and lose herself in her work.
But ten minutes later, as she stepped off the elevator and walked into the club, Lilah realized Molly had given her a dress that was far too sexy for her mood or her job—a long, stretchy black sheath with slits up both legs. The neckline appeared modest at first until one noticed that the fabric crossing between her breasts didn’t have any buttons holding it together. She would have to serve drinks by bending her knees, not bending at the hips, to keep her cleavage under wraps.
What had Molly been thinking? This wasn’t appropriate for the Platinum Club. Lilah would have to talk to her after her shift.
“That’s a hell of a dress,” Carl said as he put two Manhattans on her tray. “We’re all getting to know you a little better.”
Making a face, she tugged the fabric over her breasts as well as she could. “Molly forgot what kind of club this is.”
“I don’t get it. It’s not like her to make a fashion mistake. It’s almost as if—” Carl cut himself off, staring over her shoulder. His
voice dropped. “As if she was up to something.”
Lilah looked behind her and was slammed with an awareness that had been missing now for almost four days.
Him.
My One.
Pain like a hot poker shot through her temple, making her drop the tray with the Manhattans on her black stilettos. She clutched her head and doubled over, biting her lip to stifle a cry.
Vaguely she was aware of two of the other waitresses circling around her, saying her name, of Carl holding her elbow.
“Is she hurt?”
The sound of Gavin’s voice was almost as painful as the throbbing ache in her temple. She leaned on Carl for support, half-blind from pain, and swept the broken glass aside with one foot. Without looking at Gavin—mineminemine—she said, “I’ll get a broom.”
And then he was touching her, holding her arm, stroking her shoulder, breathing her air—and the knife in her brain disappeared.
“It’s being taken care of,” Gavin said.
“I’ll do it,” she said, still not looking at him. Mine. “I’m the one who dropped it.”
“You’re in pain.” He led her away from the bar toward the back entrance. “Lilah.” His voice was silky, hard, and burning-hot all at once.
Not hurting anymore, she thought. Still dazed from pain, embarrassment, and shock, she let him lead her into the back hallway. Only when he hit the elevator button did she put up any resistance, leaning away and trying to free her arm. “Where are you taking me?”
“Somewhere private.” He didn’t release her. When the door opened, he swept her inside and pressed his palm on a flat silver plate near the buttons. The doors slid shut with a whisper, closing them in semidarkness in the very spot they first tasted each other’s lips.
Because of her suffering of the past few days—and the lingering hurt that he’d deceived her—she pulled on her arm again. “I’m not going back to the ranch, just like that, when you—”
“When I’m a werewolf,” he said roughly. “I feared as much. But before you refuse me utterly, you’re going to hear everything. You’re going to see everything.”
Werewolf. He’d said it. The word reverberated in her mind.
He’d assumed she’d rejected him because of who he was. “You didn’t even give me a chance to understand.”
“I am now.” He took her face in his hands and slanted his mouth over hers, kissing her hungrily.
Is this a dream? Her body responded to his kiss immediately, melting into him, but her mind fought for control.
“Stop.” She saw two hands—her own hands—push against the fine white cloth straining over his broad chest.
With wounded eyes, he gazed into her face and did as she said: he stopped. But the effort seemed to break a sweat on his forehead, and she saw the muscles flex in his jaw.
“I’m going to show you everything,” he said. “I’m going to give you a chance to understand.”
In spite of herself, she felt the hair on the back of her neck stand on end. “Everything?” What else could there be?
No, she was lying to herself. There was a vast world she didn’t know. Deep down, she was terrified. Could she swear she’d accept him as he was when she knew it all?
The expression on his face was raw but determined. “Everything.”
She would have to try. Pretending her pulse wasn’t skipping wildly, she nodded. “Good.”
He grinned suddenly. “Good.” With a glance at the elevator numbers which had long since frozen on the lower level—although the elevator continued to descend—he turned to face the doors and lifted his arm for her to grasp.
She was glad for the support even if his touch made her tremble. “Where are we going?” Her first thought had been the wine cellar, assuming he wanted an encore of their first wild lovemaking, but that was floors above them by now. Six, seven, maybe more.
Finally, the car stopped, and the doors slid apart. An ancient brick wall and flagstone floor greeted them.
“The Novo Club,” he said, not looking at her. His aristocratic profile was high and proud. “The shifter families have gathered here for hundreds of years. Since coming to this continent. This is the second location, and the club has been here for more than one hundred and thirty years.”
“Shifter. Families.” The implications dazzled her. Shifter? That must be what they called it when they... changed. “How many?”
“Four, thereabouts,” he said. “Outsiders come for mating and friendship, so the lines get blurred.”
“Outsiders?” Oh. Like her.
He took her arm and led her into the hall, which reminded her of the wine cellar. This hallway, however, was clean and bright, as elegant as a rich king’s bedchamber. Crimson-red tapestries hung from gold hooks, thick carpets cushioned their steps, diamond chandeliers sparkled overhead.
“You said shifter. So not just...” She took a breath. “Wolves?”
“Not just wolves.” An eyebrow quirked. “Would you rather I were some other beast?”
“Absolutely not.” The conviction in her voice surprised them both. A little embarrassed, she gestured at the chandelier. “It’s...rather luxurious down here.”
“Riches beyond your imagination,” he said. “But this is just the back entrance. Wait until you see the club proper.” Gripping her hand on his arm, he led her through a wide black-lacquered door with gold inlay into a room that reminded her of a British men’s club in the nineteenth century: leather chairs arranged around a dark-paneled room, servants in elegant black suits and white gloves carrying trays heavy with drink, walls covered with antique books, original oil paintings, and more tapestries.
“Are women allowed in here?” she whispered, only half-joking.
“Not human women,” he said. “Or human men, for that matter. Unless their own families weave between ours over the generations.”
“Human,” she echoed. “You’re not human?”
“I’m not all human.”
Three men sat around the room, each on their own, reading and drinking. All were about Gavin’s age, in the prime of life, well-dressed and well-heeled. They looked over their books at her, then at him, then at each other.
She stood up taller and swallowed. “Am I going to get in trouble? For being here?” she asked Gavin softly.
“No,” he said.
“Are you?”
An old man, quite formal and with a long, serious face, stood to the right as they walked past.
“Mr. Stanton,” he said in a voice with an accent she couldn’t place. Something eastern European. He had thick, wild eyebrows with strands that curled like broken springs, and wore a white jacket and black tie. The opposite of all the rest of the staff. He could have been fifty. Or ninety. He appeared to be ageless.
And yet very old.
“Morgan,” Gavin said curtly, as if defending himself against criticism not spoken yet. Gavin turned to Lilah and said:
“Let me show you the next room. It has a painting done by an uncle of ours when he arrived in America. You might find it interesting.”
“You are going to get in trouble, aren’t you?” She cast a nervous glance at Morgan. The man was gone. Like that. As if he’d disappeared.
He continued to ignore her question. “You’re going to see everything, just so your choice is clear. You fled before you knew it all.”
“I fled because you lied to me.”
“I know that’s what you believe,” he said.
“It’s true.”
“The shock of seeing me in my other form must’ve been painful.”
“The shock of your hiding this from me after we’d spoken in each other’s minds is painful,” she said. “Seeing you turn into a wolf was kind of cool, actually.”
“You don’t mean that.”
“Sexy, even.”
His disbelief was plain on his face. “You mock me.” He marched her past the three sharp-eyed men through a doorway into a small room filled with books. A library. There he slamme
d the door and turned a skeleton key in the lock. “It was a mistake to bring you here.”
“It was a mistake not to do it weeks ago.”
“You’re angry. You’re vengeful, perhaps, trying to hurt me by pretending you don’t care. I don’t blame you, of course—”
“I’ll prove it to you.” Being down in this place, as unnerving as it was, had renewed her courage—and her love. This was a battle they had to wage here and now if they had any chance to be together. He didn’t trust her, she didn’t trust him—but they had to. “Change. Transform.” She waved her hand toward him. What was the word he used earlier? “Shift.”
His eyes widened. “What, here?”
“Yup. Right here.”
“Wouldn’t you rather I did that someplace more familiar to you? Where you knew you could depart swiftly if the desire struck you?”
“No. This secret basement of yours is perfect,” she said. A painting on the wall caught her eye. She’d seen it recently on the side of a bus, an advertisement for some museum exhibition. He wasn’t kidding. This club within a club was a secret place for the ultrawealthy, a society that no one knew existed.
A lair.
He walked over to a massive oak sideboard and poured himself a drink. No—it was for her. He turned and held it out. “You’ll want this.”
“I don’t need it.”
“Humor me,” he said.
She rolled her eyes toward the crystal ceiling fixtures before striding over and taking the glass.
With a nod, he moved past her to the center of the room, running his hands through his flaxen hair. In the dim light with the fire roaring behind him, he looked golden. Otherworldly, like something from a Dutch masters painting. The light highlighted the sloping planes of his long, lean arms and legs, thick with muscle and tension. He was timeless. He was eternity.
Mine.
Then he unbuttoned his suit jacket and threw it on a wing-back armchair, his broad shoulders pulling his tailored shirt taut, his muscles straining under the fabric. His jaw was tight, making his face intense, eyes blazing with passion and determination. Her heart began to pound. While he wasn’t looking, she downed the whiskey. Breathing fire, she gripped the sideboard behind her for support.
