The Wolf Princess: The Wolf PrincessOne Eye Open (The Pack)

by Karen Whiddon

  An hour later, still awake, she gave up. Since counting sheep only made her hungry, she tried not to listen to Carson’s restless tossing and turning, and focused on relaxation techniques instead.

  They didn’t work, either. Restless and impatient, she couldn’t stand it any longer. Sending Phelan a quieting thought, she rose soundlessly. Dressing in the dark was easy. She stepped into her jeans, shimmying them over her hips. Her sweatshirt came next, then her socks and shoes, and she was done. She left her parka behind. She would be warm enough once she changed. With one last look at the puppy curled up on the end of her bed, she made her way toward the door.

  “Going somewhere?” Carson’s scent suddenly filled her nostrils as he loomed up in front of her, blocking her with his body. His sleep-roughened voice seemed deeper, more suggestive. Startled, Brenna jumped, fighting back the instinctive urge to change.

  “Outside,” she said, managing not to growl. “I need some fresh air.”

  “Right.” He didn’t move. She blinked, taunted by an insane urge to run her hands down the length of him.

  Desire, or the haunting scent of need, filled the space between them.

  “I’m going outside.” Attempting to push past him, she felt a spark as her hand connected with his bare stomach. She jerked her hand away as if the feel of him burned her. Sometime in the night he, too, must have removed his jeans. An ache started deep within her, pulsing with her accelerated heartbeat.

  “Move,” she snarled, furious at her body’s reaction to him. Instead, his arms came around her and crushed her against him. Her sweatshirt rode up, giving her bare skin a touch of his.

  Naked except for his boxers, he was muscular and hard in more ways than one. A thrill went through her, even as she debated using her martial arts training to free herself. But, unable to resist, she gave an experimental wiggle against him, as though she were only a helpless human female, trying to free herself. Immediately his body responded. She bit back a moan as he surged against her belly.

  Adrenaline, frustration, desire. The urge to change always made her other animal instincts more pronounced. And she wanted him—badly. She could still scent her own desire. Though his sense of smell couldn’t be as developed as hers, Carson could surely detect her urgent need. If not from the scent of her, then from the way her nipples pebbled against him. In the darkness, she could see only his silhouette, though his heartbeat thundered under her cheek.

  He broke out in a sweat, the light sheen only adding to his appeal. Unable to resist, she licked his neck lightly, the salty taste heady. He moaned, a strangled curse as he ground himself against her.

  Now she wished she hadn’t gotten dressed.

  He captured her wrists with both hands. She saw images of him tethering her to the bed, ravishing her eager body with his mouth, before he covered her with his body and made savage love to her.

  Instead he released her and pushed her gently toward her bed.

  “Back to sleep.”

  She laughed, the sound almost a purr. “Is that an order?”

  “Brenna…”

  With slow, deliberate motions, she kicked off her shoes, peeled off her jeans. He swore again, still motionless in front of the door. Without hesitation she removed her bra and panties, thrilling to the feel of herself naked, desirable, powerful and aroused.

  She moved silently, knowing he couldn’t fully see her in the darkness. He still wanted her, she knew in an instant, as she rubbed her cheek against his chest.

  “No,” he said, but his body disagreed. Delighted, Brenna let herself touch him, chest and arms as well as there, and was rewarded by his groan.

  She kissed his corded shoulders, then his neck, pressing her bare breasts into his chest.

  One minute he was with her, the next he pushed her away and moved toward the bathroom.

  “Fine,” he said, disgust and anger in his voice. “You win. If you want to leave, I won’t stop you. Just don’t try to seduce me again.” And he slammed the bathroom door, leaving her shocked and aching.

  * * *

  Five-thirty in the morning. Only masochists rose at this hour. Carson punched his pillow and listened again for the sound of Brenna’s breathing. He’d had a torturously rough night. Fitful dozing only, hanging on to the sharp edge of awareness so he would know if she tried to climb into his bed. Asleep, he could not resist her, though even the thought of her silky limbs intertwined with his made him uncomfortably aware of his own hard and aching body. His own need and desire.

  Guilt filled him. He shouldn’t want her, but he did. Pushing away his erotic thoughts, he gave up his futile attempt to go back to sleep and sat up.

  If he focused on what he’d come to do instead of what he wanted to do to Alex’s sister, maybe his raging hormones would subside.

  Today. Today they would drive out to the encampment, the last thing those murderous thugs would expect. And, since Alex seemed so intent on warning him away, Carson wanted to show him beyond a shadow of a doubt that he wouldn’t let Brenna go anywhere. Not until he got answers. He found it hard to believe that a man as cold-blooded as Alex had become would worry about her at all. And if he did, surely Alex knew Carson. He wouldn’t let her get hurt. Not on his watch. Two lives lost had been more than enough. He would die before he let that happen again.

  Alex had offered a trade—himself for his sister. Right. Like Alex would really turn himself in on Friday, the day after all the drugs and cash were supposed to trade hands. No, Carson would bet his last dollar Alex would be on some plane to an undisclosed Caribbean country.

  The rising sun leaked around the edges of the heavy, dust-covered curtains. Padding to the window on bare feet, Carson drew back the drapes, letting the fresh light of the new morning in through the dirt-streaked glass.

  Today would be a good day. He repeated the words like a mantra. Though he hadn’t had a truly good day since he’d lost his family, each hour that brought him closer to achieving his goal he deemed a success.

  In the bed next to him, Brenna stirred, stretching her supple, slender body like a cat. She’d kicked off her covers in the night, and the sweatshirt she wore rode up one shapely hip. He stared, unable to resist, drinking in her unconscious sensuality like whiskey and feeling it burn in much the same way.

  Whiskey had been his salvation once, when every day had seemed like the darkest night. No more. He needed every sense sharp and ready to bring down his enemy. The need for such oblivion still haunted him, especially when his stomach ached and he wanted to forget.

  He focused his attention away from the bed next to him.

  Brenna. Damn her. When he’d woken in the night and found himself holding her, fully aroused, he’d wanted her with a savage mindlessness that stunned him. Later, after he’d rejected her, she seemed hurt. No doubt an act; yet he couldn’t let go of the knowledge that she wanted him as badly as he desired her. Still.

  Later again, watching her try to sleep, at times she’d seemed as if she were burning from the inside out. She’d seemed like a wild animal, predatory, fierce. Looking at her, Carson had thought for one startled second that he still lingered in some weird dream. Then she’d rolled over, stretched and become Brenna again, and he’d felt even more foolish.

  Time to get back to reality.

  “Hey.” Reaching down, he shook her shoulder, ignoring the leap his heart gave in reaction to her soft skin. “Wake up.”

  She came awake instantly, moving away from him and rising with a compact movement that made him remember her claim to martial arts training. The more he came to know this woman, the more he questioned his sanity.

  He shouldn’t even care, didn’t care, not really, but sometimes, just watching her made him remember how sweet his life had once been.

  “Take the first shower.” His voice sounded gruff, brisk, a drill sergeant who’d actually taken that imaginary shot of whiskey. “Make it quick. We’ve got a lot to do today.”

  After her first surprised look at his sharp tone
, she narrowed her eyes. He was almost disappointed when she didn’t argue, merely ducking her head in a quick nod before grabbing her duffel bag and disappearing into the bathroom.

  The shower started. For a moment he entertained the enticing image of her naked, water sluicing over her creamy skin, the soapy washcloth touching her breasts. Then, muttering a curse, he forced his thoughts to the target at hand—the internet maps he’d obtained of Nemo’s isolated estate, the Hell Hole.

  The shower shut off after five minutes. The bathroom door opened a moment after that.

  “Your turn.” She matched his earlier tone, toweling her hair with one hand. She’d donned a beige T-shirt and a pair of olive khakis, again making him think of the military.

  With a nod, he grabbed a clean pair of jeans and a shirt from his own duffel, and turned sideways to go past her into the bathroom. Though he had no doubt she’d planned to sneak off in the night, he closed the door behind him. If she wanted to go it alone, on foot, more power to her. However, no matter how badly she wanted to find Alex, he didn’t believe she would do anything that stupid. And he needed space to clear his head.

  But even here, he couldn’t escape her. He took a deep breath and smelled…flowers. A floral, feminine scent filled the small room. He shook his head. Chest tight, he turned on the water, setting the knob to hot, and stepped inside the shower.

  A few minutes later, clean and dressed, he pushed open the door and stepped into the bedroom. Empty.

  Refusing to believe she’d really gone, he caught himself about to peer under the bed. A glance at the front door showed the chain had been taken off, the dead bolt unlocked.

  His heart began to pound. He wanted to curse his own stupidity. He battled the urge to run outside after her, to see if she’d left tracks.

  Damn! She’d left. And he’d given her the opportunity. Now she would warn her brother, and Alex would disappear, exactly as he’d disappeared eighteen months ago.

  Or, worse, Hades’ Claws would see her, know she was with Carson and kill or capture her. Once again he would have failed to keep an innocent safe.

  He’d blown it. His careful planning—gone. All for nothing. All because, for the first time in years, he’d allowed himself to think with his body—and maybe a little bit of his heart.

  Chapter 9

  He would find her. Plain and simple. Holstering his gun, he grabbed his jacket just as the front door creaked open. Wearing the black DEA cap at a jaunty angle, Brenna brandished a couple of white bags in one hand, grinning.

  “I brought breakfast.” Her wide smile faded when she got a good look at his face. She kicked the door closed, juggling two takeout cups of coffee in her other hand.

  “What is it? What’s wrong?” After setting down her burden on the dresser, she crossed her arms and studied him. “Are you all right? What happened?”

  “You went outside. Unprotected.” His words came out in a snarl.

  “I was hungry.” She shrugged. “So sue me.”

  “Hungry?” An explosion built inside, but he tried to contain his anger, worry and, yes, relief as he strode across the room. When he reached her, he gave in, grabbing her small shoulders and yanking her into him. Holding her tight. “What the hell were you thinking?”

  She froze, completely still in his hold. Unable to help himself, he breathed in her scent, the flower-like aroma of spring. No doubt she felt the still-too-fast thumping of his heart in his chest, the lightning-swift catch of his breath as his anger shifted into desire. Unwanted desire, sudden but razor sharp just the same.

  She lifted her head to look up at him, long lashes shadowing her coffee-colored eyes. Though he wanted to step away, to drop his arms and let her go, she gave a soft cry and wound herself around him. The invitation of her parted lips was more than he, no saint for sure, could even begin to resist.

  As he bent his head, she lifted her mouth, and he was lost.

  Lifting her arms, she twined them around his neck. Belly to belly, they kissed. She tasted of spearmint toothpaste and woman. He wanted her. Like an eager youth in a roadster, his body urged him to take her. Now. Hard and fast and deep. Impossible, without them stripping off their clothes. Would she let him inside her? The way she curled into him, sinuous and willing, told him she might.

  Brenna. Heat and musk, no longer spring but the lush heat of summer. Brenna.

  Think. He needed to think. Through the red haze of desire, he forced himself to use common sense. He couldn’t do this—they couldn’t do this. Cursing under his breath, he pushed her away. He would have laughed cynically at himself if he didn’t hurt so damn bad.

  And she—what must she think? Lately all he’d done was paw at her like some horny adolescent, then push her away. He, of all people, should know better.

  Unable to look at her, his every sense on overloaded overdrive, he spun away, staggering like a drunk. One step wasn’t enough, so he took two. Then three, until he stood as far away as the motel room would allow. Wiping a hand across his mouth, he took a ragged breath, exhaled, then took another.

  Behind him, she made a sound. Not a whimper, not exactly, but a sound of regret, nonetheless. Even so, he refused to turn around, afraid if he did he would drown again in the frank sensuality of her gaze.

  “This isn’t acceptable,” he said harshly, furious with himself and with her for the lure she represented. He should have been beyond such temptations.

  Paper rustled. He smelled eggs and ham and croissant. That must have been what she’d brought for them to eat. His stomach, which, like the rest of his body, had taken on a mind of its own, growled.

  “Breakfast,” she said. If her voice sounded overly bright, he pretended not to notice. “And coffee. Hot.”

  While she fussed with the grease-spotted bag, he stalked to the dresser and snatched up one cup. As he pried off the lid, the steam told him it was still scalding. Good. She’d brought it black. Even better.

  Moving back to the window, he peered out. He took a quick gulp, letting the coffee scald his throat.

  “We need to talk,” she said, sounding determined and angry and scared all at once.

  “No.” He took another swallow. “We don’t.” If, like most women, she pressed the issue, he would simply apologize and tell her it wouldn’t happen again. Hell, he would make damn sure it didn’t happen again. No matter what.

  Even now, guilt still lay coiled in his gut. Not guilt because he’d taken unfair advantage—no, that wasn’t it. Brenna, with her eager mouth and roving hands, had been more than willing. This self-directed loathing was because he shouldn’t have wanted her. Shouldn’t have, couldn’t have but still did. Right this very moment his blood still burned with desire for her. If he was stupid enough to close his eyes, he knew he would still see her, knew he would still dream at night of the yearning on her mobile face, dream of pushing himself deep inside her. Knew he would still want her with every breath he took.

  “Damn it all to hell.” He had to get a grip—no, not that kind of grip. A grip on the crashing crescendo inside his chest.

  “Do you want to eat?” Her voice sounded normal now, clear and unaffected. Which both angered and pleased him.

  “Yeah.” He forced himself to meet her eyes. Seeing nothing but pleasant concern made his gut clench.

  Holding out one of the white bags, she flashed a small smile. “It’s okay, Carson. Come eat.”

  Her cool-and-collected look almost fooled him. Almost. But her nipples still poked against the front of her faded T-shirt, and the irises of her eyes were dilated.

  And he was hard again, just from one look.

  “This has to stop.”

  “Yes,” she agreed. He hadn’t realized he’d actually spoken the thought out loud.

  “Your food’s getting cold.” She tossed him the white bag.

  Suddenly ravenous, he pulled out the croissant and took a huge bite. While he chewed, Brenna wadded up her bag and napkin and tossed them at the trash can. They bounced off the rim and
went in.

  “Two points,” she muttered. Then she glanced at the nightstand clock. “Are you about ready? I want to get this show on the road.”

  He nearly choked on his food. Then he laughed, feeling the tension ease. “Let’s go,” he said.

  Following her outside, he tried not to notice her sexy behind or the gentle sway of her hips. Together, they climbed into his vehicle. After clicking the seat belt in place, she folded her hands in her lap, as prim as if they were heading to church.

  Once out of the parking lot, the Tahoe’s rattles and creaks attested to its recent beating. Carson found a radio station that played oldies and turned the volume up louder than usual. The last thing he needed was Brenna continuing in her earlier we-need-to-talk vein.

  The drive north down Main Street took less than five minutes. At the end of the town square, they took a left. On the outskirts of town, the forest took over, scraggly branches of leafless trees giving the road a stark, primitive appearance. The houses, few and far between, were set back at the ends of long, tree-lined driveways that snaked away from the road. In the summer the trees would shield these brick monstrosities from view. But right now dappled sunlight mingled with the bare branches, exposing the massive homes in a sort of primitive beauty. Even so, the limited sunlight was unsuccessful in melting the snow and ice alongside the road.

  “Beautiful,” Brenna said.

  He glanced at her and saw she was studying the landscape, an intense look of yearning on her face. He recognized that craving—identified with it, as well. He, too, often longed for what he’d lost—a home. But for him it was like crying over spilt milk. But Brenna had a home somewhere upstate, where she worked as a librarian. That is, if her story was true.

  As they followed the curve of the road, the houses became fewer, the trees thicker, the scrubby underbrush wild.

  He consulted his handwritten directions and slowed to a crawl.

  “It should be right about…there.” An uneven stone wall wound between the trees. Flanked by two towering cement monoliths, the wall ended at a huge, black iron gate, which guarded the long driveway that disappeared into the trees. The rock wall looped and dipped, high and low, some areas crumbling, others tall with the look of haphazard repair, as though installed by a crew of inebriated men.