by Nikki Sex
“Come here, Quentin.”
“Yes, my Lord,” The man virtually runs to his leader’s side.
Stafford hands me my driver’s license without meeting my eyes. Fists clenched, he regards Quentin. There is no outward sign of his vulnerability. No display of the emotional struggle that rages below the surface.
His face is terribly calm.
“Take—” he pauses, expels a deep, audible breath. “Janice with you, if you please. I’ll call for her later.”
As the last domino falls, I no longer feel Stafford’s rage. I only sense black, agonizing sadness. Sorrow oozes from every part of him. Like the thick, flammable tar used to pave roads, the pain from his loss seems highly combustible.
For an instant, I see raw grief in his eyes. He looks stricken.
What the fuck?
Unsettlingly swift, the Alpha spins on his heel and strides away. To my relief, he takes his disquieting waves of power and heavily charged angst with him. Moving with silent, animal grace, Godzilla and I watch his broad back as he leaves.
A minute passes, but after Stafford is gone, I reach up and lightly touch Quentin’s enormous bicep, making him turn to face me.
“Tell me what’s wrong with my driver’s license, will you? I don’t understand.”
Quentin towers over me, his lips a thin line of condemnation. “You are using a false ID.” He says it as a statement, not an accusation.
Remaining perfectly still, I say nothing.
“Your name is Janice St. John. You were born on May 5th, twenty-two years ago, here in Vancouver Canada.”
My ID contains the facts of another’s life, not my own. Claiming it’s mine is an outright lie, but only the most powerful supernaturals can discern the difference. This werewolf has some serious firepower, but not nearly enough.
With the natural belligerence of the guilty, I can’t conceal my sudden, irrational anger.
“Yeah, so what?”
Quentin’s gray eyes flash. He crosses his arms over his huge chest in heated disapproval. “Our Alpha’s mate died in childbirth on May 5th, twenty-two years ago. Stafford named his daughter—who was stillborn, at the time—Janice St. John.
Shock rips through me. My jaw drops.
“You’ve been using the ID and identity of our Alpha’s dead daughter.”
Shit, shit, shit, shit!
Chapter 30. One Little Mistake
Janice St. John was Stafford’s daughter.
A dreadful coincidence, but not that much of one, really. I’d had several options when I was picking out my new identity. Naturally, I selected the surname St John. The name brought back happy memories for me.
For him, not so much.
Poor Stafford. I feel terrible to have hurt him so badly. I tell myself all I have to do is get through today. After that, I’ll leave the country and select a new identity anyway.
Aware of my mental turmoil, Toby nudges my fingers with his nose as he walks by my side. He and the werewolves get on just fine. He’s wary of the Alpha, but otherwise, he really likes it here.
Maybe it would be better to leave Toby at the lodge with Hope and Owen. I’ll miss him, but he’ll be loved and well looked after in this magical place.
Quentin and Samara ignore the elephant in the room as they take us all on a tour of the lodge. With good reason, Stafford had been furious. I wonder how long it will take for him to recover.
As we tour the lodge, Hope and Owen ask questions, all of which are fully answered. After that little episode with the Alpha, everyone appears to be comfortable once more.
Everyone except me.
Why hasn’t Stafford aged? I don’t think it’s a pack leader thing. For a few minutes, I wonder about it. Was it something I or my demon did? I received so much power from him during that one passionate night of lovemaking. Did he also obtain something from me, some magic that gave him eternal youth?
Perhaps Webb, Owen, and Hope are not the only people my demon has affected. How would I know? I disguise myself for my one night stands. Once it’s over, I never see my partners again.
A sudden thought chills me. Maybe Stafford has a demon of his own? For all I know, many people do. It’s not a subject I’m able to discuss.
On top of my current issues, the weird white wolf ghost won’t leave Hope’s side. No one else can see him, of course, but I’m beginning to get used to him. Except for when he stares at me with those blood-red eyes.
Like a zombie, I mechanically go through the motions and carry on with the tour. It’s difficult to engage when I have so much on my mind. The thought of downing a number of straight shots of whisky seems mighty attractive.
This is one of those times I wish I could get blindingly drunk.
The lodge is a three-story structure with a zillion square feet of space. The ground-level exterior walls are rock masonry, while heavy timber logs are used for the floors above. Two wings, running west and east, flank the head of the house.
While natural materials are used, the amenities are modern, such as industrial ovens and dishwashers, all top of-the-line energy saving appliances and furnishings. We are introduced to shifter residents working in the kitchen, preparing the evening meal. Everyone’s incredibly glad to see us.
Their happiness makes me nervous.
Our rooms are in the east wing. Individuals or mated pairs, everyone we meet are all friendly and accommodating. I respond, automatically pleasant, yet I’m so distracted by what happened with Stafford, that an hour of time flies by with me hardly noticing my surroundings.
Every so often a blast of lust slams into me. My damned demon has been nagging, but I can’t talk to him under my breath—not with acute werewolf ears around. Images of potent shifter sex flash through my mind.
I excuse myself and use the restroom.
“Listen, buddy,” I murmur to my inner friend in a firm, low voice. “The Alpha is deadly, and he’s mad at me, so forget hot alpha shifter sex. It’s not going to happen. Besides, if anyone finds out about you, I’m dead. You aren’t even hungry, so just keep it in your pants, alright?”
Considering my demon doesn’t wear clothes or have any genitals that I know of, the expression doesn’t entirely translate. Still, I’m sure he gets the idea.
Too bad he’s not listening.
Images of the pack alpha keep returning to my mind in technicolor detail, thanks to my ever-horny friend. I see Stafford naked, his taut stomach muscles bulging like corded rope. His tapered waist and tight ass make my skin flush.
The thought of Stafford—a sexy man, who has somehow meant so much to me for so long fuses my brain cells. The powerful Alpha is enough to drive me into a wild feeding frenzy—regardless of consequences.
Reality check: I can’t have him!
Through sheer will, determination, and centuries of self-discipline, I’m confident I can deny myself despite this bottomless pit of desire. Yet I’m not fooling my demon. My inner friend knows I want Stafford. He’s taking advantage of my weakness, flooding me with images, tastes, smells, and sensual memories—ratcheting it up a few notches by adding his own longing.
Does it really matter?
I shut my eyes as I’m blasted with sensation. My blood heats and my breath quickens as relentless sensual memories come to me in a concentrated rush:
Stafford’s warm, soft lips nibbling, licking, and sucking every inch of my bare flesh. The feel of his ragged breath as it touches my skin. The erotic sounds and vibrations from his moans.
The delicious weight of his body covering mine, pushing down on me as he thrusts in the way I crave so badly. His magnificent strength holding me. His desperate need.
Me straddling his body, as I ride him. His heat stretching me in a delicious inner burn.
Him spreading me open as he kneels down, tastes and teases my swollen, sensitive sex.
Me on all fours, waiting for him. Longing for him to take me every way a man can take a woman.
Such intense memories. Stafford’s low husky voice, deep
with desire is enough to make me come. He feels good—he tastes divine! His scent alone makes my sex tighten and throb.
“That’s enough,” I snap, trying not to raise my voice. “Thanks for the walk down memory lane. No more images.”
We’ve both spent quality time with Stafford. Unfortunately, now he’s a shifter, he’s especially captivating to my inner monster—and to me. I’m used to not having the things I want. I tell myself restraint is good for the soul.
Mostly, this strategy works.
“No way, my friend,” I whisper, coming up with as good an explanation as possible. “The Alpha is seriously pissed.”
A part of me thinks, just this once, why not? Stafford knows I don’t age. He’d never guess I have a demon. What would be wrong with sleeping with him one last time before I leave the country?
The thought fills me with anticipation and excitement. Such a wicked, yet captivating idea.
It would be a hell of a mind-fuck for Stafford, though. What kind of a bitch would love him and leave him again?
As much as I seriously crave his hot, sexy body, his touch, his attention, and his mind-blowing otherworldly energy—I can’t do that to him.
When I return to our group, Samara’s phone rings. “Yes, my Lord? Of course. Right away.” She looks at me. “Our Alpha sends his regards and apologizes for his boorish behavior. He’s asked me to bring you, Jan, to visit with him in the basement.”
“In the basement?” Quentin asks, surprised.
“That’s what he said.”
Not sure I’m ready to have a face-to-face with a desperately sad, super sexy, majorly pissed off werewolf, at least his gracious message reduces my anxiety. I trail after Samara as we weave through wide hallways, and make our way down flights of steps, deep into the underground.
This place is like a Tardis. I’m constantly surprised by how much room there is available in the lodge.
I pass through an infirmary set up to world class standards. As a doctor, I’m super impressed by their facilities. No doubt they have a number of trained medical personnel.
I sense Stafford’s mountain of magic well before I see him. Taking a deep breath, I prepare for an onslaught of pulse-pounding lust. His delicious animal magic pulls me toward him like a bee toward honey.
Elemental, dynamic, and very, very near.
Finally, I enter a huge, well-lit laboratory. There are workplaces for at least thirty people, but no one is here except Stafford. His wolf energy rolls over my tongue, his scent captures my senses.
God, he’s such a powerhouse! Almost impossible to resist. With his acute animal awareness, I’m sure he’s aware of my overwhelming interest.
A voice in the back of my mind whispers, “Oh, c’mon. Let’s fuck him. Why not?”
It’s a good question. Just now, I can’t think of a good reason not to.
Chapter 31. History
“Thank you, Samara. That will be all,” Stafford says.
“Yes, my Lord.”
Stafford is watchful, alert, and perfectly motionless. While he can’t hide his magic, whatever strong emotions he’s triggered are now utterly locked down. I can’t read him, which is unusual for me.
“Stafford, I’m so sorry—”
He holds up a hand. “Come and look at what I have here,” he says.
I walk over and stare into the humming vat he stands beside. In it is some sort of living animal fetus. My demon is eager and immediately fascinated. “What is it?” I ask.
“It’s a baby sheep.”
“Is it cloned?”
“No. This represents the culmination of many years of trial and error, hard work, and the determined efforts from many. It’s a place for a mammal fetus to gestate until birth. An artificial womb.”
“Really? Does it work?”
His smile is broad and sincere. “It does.”
When I first met him all those years ago, Stafford was an enthusiastic science devotee who dreamed of changing the world. He was interested in curing cancer, clean energy, effective agriculture—you name it. But why in the world would he have ended up focusing on creating an artificial womb?
While the subject is fascinating, I can’t get past the fact his stillborn child’s name and details are on my driver’s license. I’m going to get a new identity in the next few days—not that I can tell him that.
“Stafford, Quentin told me about your daughter.”
“Yes,” he says calmly. “I assumed that was the case. I apologize for losing my cool. Please, come with me.”
“You had every right to be upset.”
Shaking his head, he says nothing, but clearly disagrees with me. His British upbringing is rearing its head. The “stiff upper lip” and “don’t let the side down” culture. His apology and his earlier admission of being “boorish” endears me to him further. Only a confident man can admit when he’s wrong.
Stafford walks into a very comfortable staff area, where we both sit down on a couch. For a moment, I feel a little awkward. Decades have passed since we last saw each other and an hour ago he had a meltdown that I caused. Also, I have a lot of explaining to do while being careful not to expose my demon.
He smiles. “Despite your name and date of birth, I’m awfully glad to see you.”
“Stafford, look I can—”
“No, don’t even consider altering your identity. I’ve completely changed my mind on this subject. Whenever I think of you, I’ll be reminded of my daughter. That’s a good thing.”
For a long moment, his dark, sad eyes lock with mine. He hesitates, searching for, then finding the right words. When he speaks, he seems accepting and resigned. “One should never forget a child…or a mate.”
A wave of understanding flows over me. My throat feels thick, I say nothing.
The world is full of tragedy and joy. Like rolling dice, there doesn’t seem to be much sense in it.
I’ll never marry or have children, but with these few words I can appreciate his joy from being a father, his sorrow at the death of his daughter, and the loss of his mate.
Stafford takes my hand, squeezes it. “Tell me, why did you run away? I woke up and you were gone. You didn’t even leave a note.”
Chapter 32. The Problem with Werewolves
Even though I owe him an apology, I can’t help but be relieved by the subject change.
“Sorry.” I purse my lips. “I avoid relationships—it’s a hard and fast rule. It’s too difficult to explain why I don’t grow older. I’ve found it best to leave before anyone asks questions.”
His eyes brighten. “I don’t age, either.”
“I noticed.”
We grin at each other for long seconds. Christ, his smile makes me dizzy. He’s so damned cute.
I clear my throat. “Like shifters, I’m immune to sexually transmitted diseases. I can’t get pregnant either.”
His brows draw down. “Are you sure you can’t get pregnant?”
“I haven’t so far.”
“I’m sorry.” His regret is heartfelt.
Of course, he can relate to my problem. It appears he shares the exact same one, an inability to have children.
I move my hands in a French, comme ci, comme ça wave. “Meh. Life. What can you do? Anyway, not getting older does make it difficult. Rather than being turned over to some pharmaceutical company to find the secret of eternal youth—or worse, to the government, this is the choice I made. Who wants to be a guinea pig?”
“How old are you?”
“I was born June 15, 1815.”
Nodding, he takes my answer in his stride. “Are you a witch?”
“I don’t think so.”
“Do you know what you are?”
I’m a human being with an inner demon. However, I can’t tell you that. Your beast can smell a lie.
“As far as I know, I’m human.” I frown. “Although, I can see and speak to ghosts. Often I assist them to leave the earthly plane.”
His eyebrows arch. “What�
��s that like?”
“It’s pretty cool. I enjoy helping dead people.”
“How have you avoided contact with the paranormal community? Surely you’ve run into vampires, werewolves, shifters, and others with magic?”
I grin. “Look at me. Don’t I seem utterly normal? There’s nothing perceptibly magical about me.”
“True.”
“Besides, I can sense supernaturals so it’s easy to dodge them. I wouldn’t be here except Hope and Owen needed to join a wolf pack.”
“I’m glad you’re here,” he says quietly.
My heart gives a kick at the depth of feeling in his voice.
Clearing my throat, I quickly explain how I found Hope and Owen, rescued them, treated them, and brought them here. “Owen is clearly submissive. I’m not so sure about Hope. She’s a strange one, but they’re both powerful.”
Stafford leans back on the couch. “Yes, they are. They’ll be valued members of our pack. You’re absolutely positive that a vampire and werewolf worked together in this forbidden assault?”
“No doubt about it—wait, I just remembered,” I say. “I kept Hope and Owen’s clothes from that night to give to you.”
“You did?”
“Yeah. Everything they were wearing during the attack is in a plastic bag, in my car.”
“Keeping it was smart.”
I shrug. “Not really. Doctors and nurses routinely bag and save forensic evidence. It’s in their training.”
“You’re medically trained?”
“I’m a doctor. I worked as a physician in many different times and places. I disguised myself as a young man in the late 1800’s. I had to. As a woman, I wouldn’t have had any freedom or fun at all.”
Laughing, he rocks back on the couch. “You’re joking.”
I grin. “Girl’s got to do something.”
Our eyes lock—his are intense, unblinking. “You astound me,” he says, his voice low and admiring.
Absurdly flattered, I say nothing.
Pride is a sin, but it’s not one I generally struggle with. His high opinion of me creates a warm glow of pleasure I didn’t expect.
Stafford clears his throat. “OK, later today can you show me where it happened?”
