by Amy Green
She was standing in her small, neat kitchen, looking at the bloody bandages he’d left in her sink. She was still wearing the t-shirt and cargo pants she’d worn only yesterday—or perhaps it was two days ago now, since it was past midnight—when they’d left for the mine. Her brown hair had come undone from its braid, and her face was stark and white. She turned to look at him.
He watched a complicated mix of emotions cross her expression. She was worried. She was numb with exhaustion. And beneath it she was happy to see him.
It wasn’t just because he wasn’t wearing a shirt. Well, it was partly because he wasn’t wearing a shirt—her gaze, tired as it was, traveled his chest and stomach almost by instinct. That was nice. He was wearing only jeans, nothing else. But beyond the shirtlessness, she was actually happy to see him, so he moved closer.
“Sorry about the bandages,” he said. “I cleaned up. There’s no mess.”
“Are you all right?” she asked.
No. He had a limp, and now he would have an injured shoulder for the rest of his life, and that was after he fully healed from the other bullet wounds. He was supposed to be a warrior, a fighter, but instead he was a broken wolf, and he’d never be whole again. But that didn’t matter, so he said, “I’ll be fine.”
“You’re in pain,” she said.
He nearly shrugged, but remembered it would feel like he had broken glass in his shoulder. “I’ve had pain before, and I’ll have it again. I’ll be fine. You’ve been with the police all night?”
She swallowed. “Ben isn’t dead,” she said.
Her deputy, the man the Silverman had knocked out. Devon knew he wasn’t dead—his wolf could smell death almost better than it could smell anything—but he nodded. “That’s good.”
“He was knocked out cold, and he hurt his neck, and the hospital is keeping him tonight for observation.” She rubbed her forehead, trying to think. “No one else is dead, and that’s what matters. They shot at you. Did they hit you?”
This time he did shrug, though it hurt as much as he thought it would. “One in my calf, one grazed my ribcage. Already healing.” There would be scars, but that didn’t matter, either. They would blend in with the scars he already had. “The Silverman is still dead?” he asked. It was a strange question, because there was no such thing as vampires, but if anyone could rise from the dead out of pure crazy hatred, Devon would put his money on the old man.
Nadine nodded, not even noticing that the question was odd. “We fingerprinted him,” she said. “He was in the database. His name was Christopher Wagner. He served in the army until 1984, when he was discharged for mental health issues. His prints are from the one and only time he was arrested, in 1986. He robbed a family in their home at gunpoint. He took all of their money and killed their dog.” She glanced at him, as if this last fact might upset him.
Devon thought it through. It made sense. The Silverman had been discharged, had probably hit rough times, unable to get help, ill and possibly even homeless. He’d done a desperate crime. And sometime after he’d been released, Christian Martell and his pack had found him—or he’d found them. And he, and his sickness, had found their release in killing shifters.
It hadn’t been a good life. It wasn’t a life he’d wish on anyone, even his enemy. Shifters weren’t much for hate, even when they fought or hunted or killed. Revenge, yes; survival, yes. Neither was the same as hate. The Silverman had gone down, but he had gone down fighting after a life harder than most people could imagine, and for that there was simply no hate to be had.
Still, he carefully watched Nadine’s face. Humans saw killing differently than shifters did, and Nadine had seen him rip his enemy’s throat. It wasn’t the best way to impress a woman; in fact, it was an excellent way to terrify her. Yet he was in her house now, and she didn’t seem afraid.
Still, he had to say it, because he wanted her for his mate, and that meant taking all of him, if he was lucky. “What you saw,” he said, holding her gaze with his. “That was me. That was what I am.”
She licked her bottom lip, one brief motion, and didn’t look away. “I know,” she said softly.
“I killed him,” Devon said, because there was no other way to put it. “I did it by choice, because he was going to kill all of you if he could. I did it to defend you.”
“They’re looking for you.” Her voice cracked a little when she said it, and he knew that this was part of the worry that was burdening her. “They don’t care that the Silverman had a knife, that he’d made himself with stolen silver. They don’t care that he stabbed you first. They don’t know who you are, because they only saw your wolf, but they’re searching for the killer werewolf. They want to find you and put you down.”
He took a step closer to her, cupped her jaw to reassure her. “No one will find me,” he said. “No one will put me down.”
“I keep going over it in my head,” she said. “I don’t think anyone saw you—in human form, I mean. The Silverman—God, I should call him Christopher Wagner, right? But I still think of him as the Silverman—he saw you, saw us, but he’s dead now. And Tate, he maybe saw you, but he’s dead too.”
“Nadine,” Devon said softly.
“If they know who you are, they’ll try to arrest you.” She was shaky beneath his hands, but strong, so strong. “You didn’t hear the talk that I did. They don’t care that the Silverman—Wagner—shot Tate. They think you’re a wolf with a taste for human blood.”
He stroked the side of her neck. “There’s no such thing. We don’t get a taste for human blood.”
“That’s what I tried to tell them. But I couldn’t say too much, because then they’d know how much time I’ve spent with werewolves lately. They already suspect I brought a shifter into this case, they just don’t know who yet. Devon, it’s such a mess.”
He stroked her neck again, and then he leaned down and kissed her, on the skin where his thumb had been. Kissed her gently, up to her jaw, to her temple. He felt her inhale.
“Who takes care of you, Nadine?” he asked her. “You take care of everyone. Who takes care of you?”
Her breath was shaky. “Tate… Tate was coming up the mountain to look for me. He came for me.”
“He was a cop,” Devon said softly, kissing her temple. He stroked his hands down her back through her t-shirt. “He was a grown man. He made a decision to come into danger without help. It shouldn’t have happened, but you didn’t kill him.”
She was still tense, but she was leaning into him, and she didn’t push him away. “I didn’t—I should have—”
“Stayed in town and done nothing?” he asked. “Taken him with you in the first place so he could have been killed a day sooner? You faced his killer. You arrested him. And now his killer is dead. That’s the best justice you’re going to see.” His hands were at her waist, and as she leaned closer he curled his fingers under the hem of her shirt and pulled it up slowly. “Nadine, you take care of everyone, but you can’t do it all the time. Right now, let me take care of you.”
She sighed and lifted her arms, and he pulled the shirt off her in one smooth motion, letting it drop to the floor. She wore a plain white bra, now grimy from two days of hiking. He leaned down and kissed her collarbone, and she shivered, the soft smell of arousal coming to his nose.
“I stink,” she said as he reached around and unclasped the bra.
“I’ve smelled worse,” he said honestly. Even sweaty and tired, his mate’s smell was the best smell in the world. “I’m going to wash you.”
She twitched a little as the bra came undone and he slipped the straps off her shoulders. As it fell away she put her hands up to her modest breasts, covering them. He didn’t protest. This wasn’t about ogling her—not unless she wanted it. She was relaxing, trusting him. He wanted nothing more than to take care of his mate.
“Are you hungry?” he asked her.
“I ate something at the station,” she said, blushing a little. “Some kind of sandwich, I don’t
remember.”
He lowered to his knees and pulled off her boots, then undid her pants and pulled them down her hips. “I’ll make you something if you like,” he said.
“I can’t.” She was looking down at him, her hands still covering her breasts. “Devon—”
“Relax,” he said. He hooked a finger under the elastic of her panties—plain white, like the bra—and tugged, planting a kiss on her hip. “I’ll only fuck you if you want me to.”
She made a noise, and there was another rush of arousal as he pulled her panties down and off. “Jesus, stop talking like that.”
“You like it,” he said, dealing with her socks. “Besides, it’s true.” He was level with her bare pussy, but he didn’t touch it, only kissed her hip before standing again.
He took her to the bathroom, turned on the shower, and got the temperature right. He’d had his own shower hours ago, but when he had put her inside, he took off his jeans and got in again, joining her under the spray.
“Oh, my God,” she moaned, looking at him.
“I don’t bite,” he said. She kept staring, which was fine with him. He let her. He found her shampoo and put some on his hand, then rubbed it softly into her hair, making sure none got in her eyes.
“I’m being rude,” she said finally.
“You’re not.” He leaned her head back under the water, rinsed her hair.
When he finished, she went back to staring as he found her conditioner. “I haven’t dated very many men,” she finally admitted.
He made a noise. His mate was just past thirty, so she’d had a man at some point, but that didn’t mean he liked it. “Don’t name names or I’ll have to kill them,” he said, rubbing the conditioner in her hair and only half joking.
“I’m not a prude,” she said, as if this was important to her. “But it isn’t easy. I don’t want some stranger.” He growled softly, and she paused. “And I can’t just date anyone. Too many people on the job watching me. I always thought the right man would come along, and some men are nice, but the truth is that I’ve never met a man that…” She trailed off as he finished rinsing her hair again.
“Turns you on?” he asked, tilting her head and kissing her neck. “Makes you wild? Makes you want him, anywhere and everywhere, all the time?”
In response, she put her hands on his bare chest, running them over it and down his stomach. “You are so fucking beautiful,” she said.
Ah, she was using curse words now. Very good. He was hard, but that wasn’t a problem. He had self-control. He took the bar of soap in his hands. “Lift your arms.”
She did; she had forgotten the impulse to cover her breasts. He soaped them, smoothly and gently, and then her armpits, her ribs, her back. He soaped down over her hips and her ass, his hands moving over her small, slender body, mapping it. She lowered her arms to his shoulders, and then she lifted her hand.
“Your bandage is getting wet,” she said.
He soaped her belly, which was imperfect and beautiful. “It doesn’t matter.”
“I didn’t even look at your wound.”
He lifted a hand and drew his thumb over her bottom lip. “Stop.” He kissed her, unable to stop himself, and she kissed him back, opening up to him as they stood under the water. He put down the soap and cupped her breasts again, which made her pant. Then he lowered his hand between her legs and touched her, lightly at first, then with gentle strokes.
She broke the kiss, her breath coming hard. “Oh, my God.”
“Good?” he asked, his mouth against the soft spot beneath her jaw.
“Oh, my God” was her only answer. She was loose now, her words leaving her except for those ones.
He was pleasing her. He could feel it, hear it, smell it. She was unwinding, her problems lifting away. She had left her endless thoughts and was inside her body now, wanting, wanting what he wanted so much to give her. His wolf was raging with the urge to have her, but his wolf was also happy at the wild sounds she was starting to make.
So he let her go, and he turned off the water. And he led her out of the shower.
19
Never go to bed with a werewolf. Wasn’t that some kind of rule? Some wisdom every woman needed to follow?
Well, Nadine was about to disobey it.
She pulled Devon Donovan into her bed like a crazy woman. They were buck naked and both wet, and she could taste the water on his skin when she kissed him. So she pulled him over her and kissed him hard.
She had never even seen a man like Devon. His body was big, muscled, traced with old scars. It was an unapologetically male body, with dark swirls of hair on his chest and stomach, that sexy beard, dark hairs on the tops of his arms and his legs. And dark hair between his legs, and—oh, God, she could look all day.
And he wanted her. Her.
He pulled away from the kiss and she reached down between them, taking him in her hand. He made a sound, and his dark eyes burned into hers. She rubbed him, and he waited, very still.
“That,” he said, “is very fucking good.”
She liked when he talked like that. She liked that she was making him crazy, the way he was making her crazy. It wasn’t supposed to be like this. He was younger and bigger and so hot, and a werewolf and a wild man, and it didn’t matter. He was offering, and Nadine was taking. And he was obviously happy with his end of the bargain.
He took her wrist and pulled her hand off him. “Not yet,” he said. He pinned her hand to the side and ran his other hand over her, over her breasts, her nipples, down her stomach and her hips and her thighs. He parted her legs and bent down, his gorgeous face intent on every inch of her, his breath warm on her belly. He kissed her there.
“Say something else,” she told him.
“I’m not good with words.” His tongue touched her belly. “I want to put my mouth on you.”
The liar. He was plenty good with words.
“Do it,” she said.
So he did. Not an attack, but a slow, gentle onslaught. Just so. She was squirming and panting in no time. She could feel his beard against the insides of her thighs. She had never felt that in her life. It was the wildest, hottest thing she could imagine.
But just as she was about to go over the edge, he lifted his head. He kissed her belly again.
“Devon,” she nearly shouted.
He made a hmm sound that sounded distinctly pleased with himself, and moved up her body, taking a nipple in his mouth. That gave her a new bolt of pleasure, and she lay helplessly as he did the same to the other one, his beard gently scraping her skin.
“Are you on the pill?” he asked after he had finished.
“Yes,” she managed. “Yes.”
He moved further up her body, kissing her mouth quick and deep, then kissing beneath her ear as he slid his cock over her wet folds, making her groan. “I can’t catch diseases, and I can’t give them,” he said.
She moved her hands over his muscled back, feeling the dip of his spine, the perfect curve of his lower back. “I know,” she said.
He rubbed her again, his sizeable cock slipping over her, and she made a sound she barely recognized. “You like that,” he said. He kept at it, and he gently took her earlobe in his teeth, biting it. “What would please you, Nadine?”
“You,” she said. Her nails were digging into his lower back, but he didn’t seem to care. She hooked her knees around him and said the words. “It would please me if you were inside me. Please.”
He paused for only a moment, his muscles rigid, and she felt his eyelashes brush her skin, as if he was closing his eyes. Then he thrust inside her.
It was incredible. It was big, but it fit. Nadine held on, and he moved slowly at first, taking her with a deep, exploring rhythm. She buried her face in his shoulder and breathed in his smell and his big hands gripped her, holding her steady as he moved deeper, harder. She had never let herself go like this—never wanted anything like this. She sunk her teeth into the flesh between his neck and his shoulder, maki
ng him growl, and he moved faster still.
She was so close. So close. She said his name, and begged him, and he gripped her hips hard, tilting them, moving inside her just so, his body so completely in control of hers, every movement timed to make her explode. When she came, it was wild and undisciplined, her body jerking, a near-scream in her throat. He had her. He had her. He stroked her through it, and then he pushed in deep and came himself, still possessing her.
He pushed off of her so he wouldn’t crush her, but he didn’t let her go. He kept her in his arms and wound both of them in the blankets, their body heat warming each other against the chill of the dark bedroom. Nadine curled into his big body, resting her cheek against his shoulder, her arm slung over his chest. He stroked her back with one palm.
She was exhausted, and happy, and sad, and she felt like crying. She’d never had a man treat her like that, want her like that, make her feel like that. She’d never felt so close to anyone.
And he was someone she couldn’t have.
But she had him now, in this minute. All of him hers, all of her his. Until morning.
She curled in to him and closed her eyes.
20
“This tattoo,” she said later, much later, after they had fallen asleep and woken up and made love again. Nadine touched the D on the back of his neck. “What is it?”
Devon was sitting on the edge of the bed, pulling on his boxers, and Nadine was sitting up behind him, the sheet pulled over her, watching the fascinating show of his back.
“The D means I’m a Donovan,” he explained. “A pack alpha. The lower wolves in the pack don’t carry the D. Only the alphas.”
“Oh.” She moved her fingers down and traced the snarling face of the wolf on his shoulder blade, crouched and ready to fight. The warrior wolf. That one, she understood—it was the mark of his animal. It was half covered with a bandage now, because the silver blade had gone through his shoulder and pierced the tattooed skin. “So the D mark is your bloodline.”
