Every day since the move, she thanked Jesus and her mother for teaching her to hoard her money like an old woman hoarded cats.
Even if she couldn’t be in the thick of some corporate trial, she could at least afford to live well. Not that she did. Since she’d been uprooted, her love of designer skirts and pretty shoes had fallen to the wayside. There was nothing and no one to wear them for.
But she missed sparring with her legal opponents, the rush of taking a bitch down when they least expected it.
She even, albeit reluctantly, missed the nickname her associates had given her—Ambush Ashe. Infamous for taking her opponents in court by surprise, she’d earned the name.
Claire rubbed her arm and smiled affectionately. “I’m sorry. I didn’t mean to dump salt in the open wound. But I’m hoping someday soon you’ll decide to rejoin me in the land of pretty where we wear cute jeans and mascara.”
Yeah. She couldn’t wait for that day. “So I can what? Dress like a supermodel while I make my next quilt?” She’d taken up quilting as a hobby, as a way to keep busy while she figured out what her life—her future—meant.
“You’re too short to be a supermodel.”
“At five-foot-two, I’m only eight inches shy of a dream.”
Claire stood on tiptoe, looking over the heads in the crowd and scanning the square. “So when does this shindig begin? Soon, I hope. Hadley has homework and I have some work to finish up for the library.”
There was that sting of jealousy again. Just a little one, but it existed. Claire had a family and a mate now, and Freya had her dog Clarence Darrow and her quilting. Certainly equally as fulfilling.
Freya poked her in the ribs with a gloved finger. “You don’t have to be here anymore, remember, Vampire? You’re no longer a werewolf. That means you can go home to your nice warm house and snuggle with your nice cold vampire.”
“You were here for me last mate call. Our friendship resides on Two-Way Street.”
Freya tucked a chunk of her hair behind her ear and shivered at the memory. “Last mate call we almost predicted Gannon was going to call you out. Of course I was here for you. No way would I let something that traumatic happen to you alone. But this mate call, I think we’re good. I think Courtland has his eye on one Miss Petra Morrow, anyway. Short of wearing a T-shirt declaring as such, she’s certainly made it no secret she wants to be female alpha.”
Claire wrinkled her nose. “She seems like such a nice woman. What the hell makes her want to mate with someone like Courtland?”
Freya knew exactly what she wanted. It was what all women in the pack now craved because there was little else to crave. “Power, I suspect. Being the alpha female would bring her power, and she’s a smart woman, if her past profession in forensics is any indication. It’s not like she couldn’t run circles around Courtland’s brain if she wanted to. You do remember how easily led he was by big brother Gannon, don’t you? I’m guessing Petra could have whatever she wanted, given some time to convince Courtland. Coupled with the bigger checks Courtland gets from the government because he’s a town official, and she’d get a pay raise, too. Those are the only angles I can think of because it sure isn’t his charisma laced with the scent of sweat and cheap beer.”
There was a rustle in the crowd as Courtland took his place behind the microphone on the floor of the gazebo.
“I think the show’s about to start. Courtland looks pretty pleased with himself tonight, huh?” Claire asked.
As she kicked the hardened snow at her feet, Freya clenched her jaw to keep from heckling Courtland Dodd while he stood smugly looking over the crowd, as though all the eligible women of the pack were frothing at the mouth to be considered his chosen one.
“If the two brain cells he has left had any life in them at all, he’d see every single woman looks positively green around the gills at the possibility of mating with him. I wish he’d stop posturing and get on with it. I want to go home.”
Claire laughed, tinkley and light. “So you can make another quilt, supermodel?”
“Actually, smarty pants, I was going to dye my roots because no supermodel’s roots should look like mine.” She tugged at a strand of her hair, holding it up to the light of the moon. Her blonde had gone dingy and dirty—much like her life.
Courtland tapped the microphone with a thick finger, quieting the crowd. His straggly hair blew around his shoulders in the frosty air, greasy and unkempt. As he cleared his throat and began to mumble into the mic, Freya promptly tuned out, disgusted by the whole process.
When the return to the ways of old went into full force once the council realized they could find some packs extinct with the new laws in place, nights like this became quite frequent.
The ways of old meant you no longer had a choice about who you were mated to. When you were called, your duty was to mate—no matter who did the calling. Yet, most of the eligible, single male candidates in her pack here in Rock Cove were made up of Neanderthal bikers with greasy hair and bad teeth who drank all night and abused their power as pack leaders.
What kind of longevity did the council hope to gain with fools like Courtland Dodd and his sidekick who went by the name Pinky?
Pinky…The name was as ridiculous as he was.
Fuck Courtland. Fuck his stupid motorcycle gang who collectively shared one set of teeth between the lot of them. They were ill-mannered, uneducated imbeciles. Fuck them all.
There was a gasp, rousing her from her hateful thoughts.
A loud group gasp.
And then there were eyes starting at her. Hundreds of pairs of eyes.
Glowing under the buttery globe of the moon.
She looked to Claire, whose eyes were also staring at her, but they were kind of wide and astonished.
Curious.
Mouths began to move, hands began to clap, but the sound had a weird, muffled effect to it.
And then Claire was shaking her, her voice rushing into Freya’s ears. “Freya!”
“What?” she yelled over the cheering from the crowd.
“Weren’t you listening?” she hollered back, her red hair flying about her head.
“To?”
Claire’s face went whiter than its usual shade of pale. She gripped her arm, pulling her close, and began moving her through the crowd of smiling people. “The mate call, Freya,” she hissed in her ear.
Freya yanked her arm out of Claire’s grip, startled by the panicked vibe she was picking up from her friend. “Where are we going and why are you dragging me around like an ill-behaved two-year-old? So Courtland called his mate. Whoop-whoop.”
Claire stopped dead in her tracks, ignoring the people milling about them, and grabbed her chin, forcing Freya to look at her. “Look at me, and try to focus on my words. Yes, Courtland called his mate. He called you, Freya. You!”
Whoop-whoop.
Chapter 2
Liam slid onto the barstool at Ahab’s and listened to the roar of the crowd outside as Courtland named his mate. The flames from the bonfire swept the sky as even his own kind gathered to watch the freak show.
The mate had become an event in town—a reason to gather. Potluck dishes were made, hotdogs were roasted, buttered popcorn and hot chocolate scented the air.
There was little to do here in Rock Cove. A community, in order to thrive and coexist, needed structure, rules, something to look forward to, and as much as the mating ritual disgusted him, he understood why it had become a party of sorts.
To some it was cause to celebrate. Clearly, it wasn’t a celebration for Freya and her feministic, independent thinking. And he didn’t blame her. The mate call was a putrid display of chauvinistic fodder, made up of little boys who knew nothing about the gift of a woman.
Freya…Damn. That woman.
He’d watched her for two years now; watched her rounded hips and even rounder breasts hidden away in the bulky sweaters and sweatpants she chose to wear. He’d watched her lips, the color of ripe strawberries, purse i
n not-so-silent-distaste over the Dogs and their poor behavior at least a hundred times.
He’d smelled her. Fuck, had he smelled her. Smelled the scent of her lavender-and-sage body wash when she breezed past him in town, her dirty-blonde hair in a messy ponytail, her cornflower-blue eyes serious. Imagined himself lathering that very soap in his hands under the hard spray of a shower just before he drove them between her legs and spread her wet flesh to ready it for his eager mouth.
And he hated himself for it. He hated that when his hand reached for his cock in the shower, Freya’s strawberry-colored lips were wrapped around it, her pink tongue gliding over it in an image so clear, he had to grit his teeth.
He hated that he wanted to strip her of the oversized clothing she wore until she was naked before him, with her nipples hard and tight and her plump pussy visible to his lustful eyes. He hated that he wanted to devour every inch of her until her hands gripped his hair and she screamed his name over and over.
He hated that he couldn’t admit that to anyone, and in his hate, he’d built a nice cocoon of cocky, or what some would call an arrogant distance between himself and everything werewolf.
He was good at it, too. He was good at keeping his bullshit fantasies and his Freya fetish to himself. He’d keep right on doing it. He’d keep right on ignoring her wide eyes, full of flashes of vulnerability. He’d keep right on ignoring how goddamn angry seeing her at the mate call left him. How it filled him with rage to know that someday, one of those jackholes would be her mate.
The double doors of Ahab’s burst open, forcing him to dig himself out of his dark mood and focus on the ruckus happening all around him.
Courtland strode toward him across the brick-colored concrete floor littered with peanut shells and slapped him on the back, the smell of beer puffing from between his thick lips. “Time to celebrate, Bloodsucker. I got a mate!”
Liam made an effort to relax under Courtland’s grip on his shoulder. Sometimes, it was all he could do not to chew his hand right off his damn wrist every time the puke touched him, but he fought the impulse and smiled instead. “I heard. Congratulations, man. Best of luck.” You piece of shit.
The crowd spilling into Ahab’s parted then, their loud voices becoming hushed whispers momentarily before someone chanted, “Freya! Freya! Freya!”
Liam spun around on the barstool, his eyes scanning the litter of people to see Freya, clinging to Claire Montgomery as they were dragged into the bar.
Liam sat up straight, sniffing the air, smelling Freya’s discontent and even some terror mixed in with the excitement of the crowd. He damn well hated when she was unhappy, but he hated it from afar.
He hitched his jaw at Pinky, trying to keep his question cavalier. “What the hell’s going on with her? She looks like someone just belted her in the gut.”
Pinky spat some chew on the floor, grinding it into the concrete with his booted foot and shrugged his shoulders. “I think she’s a little in shock is all. She’ll get the fuck over it.”
“Shock? Because?”
Pinky looked at Liam as though he were the brainless of the two. “Yeah, you know, shock. Like the kind of fucking shocked when you hit the lottery or win some shit on Wheel of Fortune.”
Liam’s eyes narrowed. “Speak English to me, Pink. She doesn’t look like she just won a car from Pat Sajack. So what the hell kinda shock are you talking about, man?”
“The kind of shock a chick like that has when she hits the mate jackpot. She’s Courtland’s now, dude. He chose Freya as his mate.”
Holy fuck.
* * * *
“Just follow me, Freya!” Claire ordered with a firm tug on her arm, dragging her toward the bar and pushing the overzealous crowd out of their way.
She nodded woodenly, her feet moving because they had to do something or she’d bust out of this dive and run so far, so fast, she’d become a blur.
When they finally made it to the long, sticky bar, well away from Courtland at the far end, Freya collapsed against it, clung to it, waited—prayed for the dizziness to pass.
Courtland Dodd had called her as his mate.
Smelly, greasy-haired, backward-ass, IQ-of-an-inanimate object, smarmy, lying Courtland Dodd.
It was time to drink.
Freya slammed her hand on the bar, summoning Lachlan Macgregor. She didn’t bother to linger on his handsome face the way she might have even just an hour ago, though he was certainly lovely to look at. With his thick chestnut hair and green eyes, he made all the women in town melty and giggly.
But this was no time to giggle. She’d been called out for the mate—to Courtland Dodd. Would repeating that over and over in her head ever be any less vile?
She swallowed her disgust and leaned forward, shouting a terse demand, “Whiskey—straight. A lot of it. And screw that dinky excuse for a glass. Give me the bottle.”
His eyebrow rose when he threw the towel he was holding over his broad shoulder. Occasionally she dropped into Ahab’s for a girls’ night with Claire and some of the women of the town, and Lachlan was always pleasant enough. “The whole bottle, Freya? That’s not like you.”
“Suddenly you know me? I don’t need a damn babysitter. I need a bartender. I said the whole bottle.” Maybe two.
“You shouldn’t drink, Freya. Not now,” Claire warned, her eyes sending the girlfriend message.
Right. Because too much drinking always led to trouble for her. But how much more trouble could one be in than to be called as Courtland Dodd’s mate?
Freya’s anger, raw and hungry for a bite out of someone, spiked hard, making her temples throb. She yanked off her scarf and threw it on the bar. “Is that what you thought when Gannon called you as his mate? Or are you forgetting the tequila shots you slammed back like Jose Cuervo needed the money?”
Claire threw up her hands and looked to Lachlan. “Bring whiskey. Lots of whiskey.”
Lachlan reached for a bottle of amber liquid behind him and dropped it on the bar in front of Freya, sliding a glass in front of her along with it. He winked. “Just in case you want to go slow.”
Without a word, she removed the top, wrapped her fingers around the neck of the bottle, and took a long, burning swig, letting the sting of it settle in her empty belly.
Claire leaned on the bar top, her fist under her chin, her eyes sympathetic and concerned. “Talk to me.”
Freya smacked her lips after swig number three began to warm her fingertips. “Fuck Courtland,” she spat.
Claire popped her lips. “Yes. Fuck him!” she agreed in girlfriend solidarity. “Now what are we going to do about this?”
She let her head fall back on her neck. “Why me, Claire? Why the hell would he choose me? He hardly even acknowledges I exist, which is fine by me, and suddenly he wants to play house? We’ve barely spoken to each other.”
Claire nodded, tucking her hair behind her ear. “Well, true, but that’s mostly because you never leave your house.”
“Well, look what happens when I do!”
“I don’t get it either, Freya. If I had an answer for that, his reasoning might start to make sense, and I won’t allow that to happen—ever. Nothing he says or does is ever allowed to make sense in my head.”
Pulling her jacket off as the whiskey assaulted her body’s thermometer and her cheeks grew warm, Freya threw it on the floor and slugged back another swallow, wiping her mouth on the back of her hand. “I’m telling you right now. I won’t damn well do it, Claire. I don’t care why he chose me, but I won’t do it. I don’t give a Dog’s greasy ass about the new laws. I don’t care if they put me in prison camp for eternity. An evolved, educated woman like me does not mate with an imbecile like him! I’d almost rather be a bloodsucker than mate with that swine!”
Ethan Dempsey, a fellow pack member who’d sidled up to the bar to order a drink, winced and turned chalk white at Freya’s words before backing away.
Claire clamped a hand over Freya’s mouth and gave her a jolting shak
e. “Hush!” she demanded in her ear. “Do you want everyone to hear you, for Christ’s sake, Freya? Like we need that kind of trouble after my mate call went so damn wrong? We’ll figure it out. I promise you.”
Freya shrugged her off, the whiskey hitting her system just enough to free her flappy lips. “Figure it out?” she said in disbelief, her voice rising. “Like you figured it out? Should I let some damn vampire bite me to make this all better?”
“You’re being evil because you’re angry, Freya Ashe,” Claire chastised, not an ounce of hurt in her tone.
“Damn right I’m angry!” she hissed. “I’m not mating with him, Claire. Not a chance in this lifetime.”
Petra Morrow came up behind them, her svelte hip pressing into Freya’s, her smile fresh and as pretty as she was. “So look who won the mate lottery tonight. Congratulations, Freya.” She held up her wine glass in salutation, smiling a cool smile.
Freya turned to look up at her, grabbing the edge of the bar to keep from wobbling. “The lottery? Is being auctioned off like some cow at the 4H like winning the lottery? Did you ever hear the cow declare it felt so lucky it was like winning the lottery?” She frowned. Did that make any sense?
Claire leaned over and verified, “Not winning any arguments here, beloved. Just smile graciously and clamp it before we have embarrassing memories to reflect upon tomorrow while I’m holding your hair and you’re vomiting into the toilet.”
Petra kept her smile on her face, despite what her almond-shaped eyes reflected. “You were chosen as Courtland’s mate, Freya. It’s an honor. It is like winning the lottery, as far as I’m concerned.”
Freya burped, reaching for the bottle and just missing it. “You want my ticket?”
Claire swiped the bottle up and shook her head, grabbing the glass Lachlan had left. “That’s it, you’ve been demoted to drinking from a glass. Time to slow down.” She slid the glass toward Freya with that look of disapproval she used on people who didn’t return overdue library books.
How to Love Your Dragon Page 15
