by Renee Rose
Part of me feels like coming to the Louvre to sketch the art is too cliché—the art student studying the masters. But I actually forgot about Mexico and the pregnancy for a moment here, which is a gift.
A girl—maybe nine or ten—stops and looks over my shoulder. “Wow, mom—look, a real live artist is here!” She’s American. Very cute.
“Shh, don’t bother her, honey.” Her mother has that indulgent tone that says she knows her daughter is no bother, but feels obligated to say something, anyway.
Humans have been looking over my shoulder all morning, murmuring their comments in various languages, but this one is the cutest. I tear the drawing out and hand it to her with a smile.
“Is this… free?” Judging by her look of incredulity, she thinks I’m on par with Michelangelo.
This is why I want to illustrate children’s books. Or make greeting cards. Some artists would call commercial art a sell-out but for me it’s not about making money. It’s just the kind of art I like to make. The audience I prefer to reach.
“Yep. And it’s just for you. What’s your name?” I pull the drawing back and lift my pencil.
“Angelina.”
I write To Angelina, from Sedona, The Louvre and the date.
She beams at me as she takes it. “Thank you very much.” Her mom cradles her shoulder as they walk away. Angelina turns back. “Your English is really good.”
I laugh and her mom looks embarrassed. “She’s American, honey.”
Out of nowhere, Carlos’ scent fills my nostrils. It’s happened at least a half dozen times a day since I left. I think it’s because his essence is embedded in me now.
It could drive a she-wolf crazy.
Because I seriously don’t know how I’m supposed to get over him when his scent assaults me at every turn. Even a continent away. Not that I ever forget, except that rare moment drawing. Everything reminds me of him. I remember the growl of his voice speaking low in my ear, of his large hands coasting over my skin. The way his eyes glowed amber when his wolf came to the surface.
And I wonder a million things about him. What it would be like to run with him in wolf form, what he would think of Paris, of my family, of my art. Will I be able to keep the news of this pregnancy from him and his pack?
I pick up my pencil and start to sketch again, only this time it’s not Nike, it’s a black wolf. He’s snarling, teeth bared, fur standing up in a ridge down his back. When I finish, I smudge the fur around his ears and hold it at arms’ length for perspective.
Goosebumps prick my skin. It’s Carlos, but I don’t know why I drew him this way. Do I think he’s protecting me?
Or coming after me?
~.~
Carlos
I watch Sedona head into her hotel room and sag against a wall in defeat. Is it possible to go moon mad when you’ve already taken a mate?
Because I seriously can’t stand being near Sedona but not with her. I’m feverish with the need to touch her, to get closer to her. I want to be the recipient of the smiles she reserves only for children. Thank fuck she doesn’t smile at other males or they’d be dead before they hit the floor.
I know I’m not thinking straight. I’m drunk on need. I’ve forgotten what I’m doing here.
Or rather I’ve changed my mind a hundred times. Right now, my mind is set on winning Sedona back—not that I ever had her. But she’d been warming up to me back in that cell. If I could just get some extended time with her alone again, I know I can seduce my mate. The physical attraction is strong. We’ll start with sex and build from there. I’ll learn everything else about her and show her I can be the mate she deserves.
So. How to get her alone?
It’s wrong. So wrong. But I’m an asshole enough to think I can pull it off. I head out of the hotel and find a sex shop. The kind that sells handcuffs. Bondage tape. Ball gags.
This could backfire horribly. Or it might be just the thing we need…
9
Sedona
I step in yet another puddle and rain water soaks my shoes and socks. It’s rained all day and I’m not as excited as I expected to be walking along Montemartre tracing the steps of Picasso, Renoir, and Degas.
I don’t even know how much of Paris I took in as I wandered the streets today. My chest aches like someone punched me. A few Frenchmen give me odd looks, and I realize my wolf is whining. The only time she’s happy is when I think of Carlos—or fall asleep and dream of him.
This is Stockholm Syndrome. Right?
I stop at a sidewalk cafe to get some dinner and sink into a seat protected by a wide blue awning. Water pours from the edges, splashing my legs and gathering in little pools beside my table.
When rain comes in Tucson, we celebrate because the desert is always thirsty, but today it just depresses me. I stare unseeingly at the menu. It hardly matters—I don’t speak French and no one seems to speak English—or if they do, they don’t bother to help me—so I’ve ordered frites and chocolat chaud or cafe au lait everywhere I’ve eaten. I’m going to get sick of French fries and hot chocolate soon.
Carlos’ scent swirls around me again and sadness stirs behind my eyes. Part of me wonders what our date would’ve been like, if I’d stayed in Tucson and let him take me to dinner. He would have held the doors and paid, like a perfect gentleman. That much I know. But would we have found laughter together? Would we joke? Tease? Would the same sparks be there between us that we felt during the full moon?
Hah. How can I even doubt that? He couldn’t keep his hands off me in Tucson, and he was trying to make amends.
I stare at the cafe across the street, not really seeing anything or anyone. Not until my eyes meet the gaze of a man who has the look of a spy stealing glances.
A jolt of electricity flashes through me.
Carlos.
The man looks away, playing it cool.
Wait, is it him? I can’t tell now, because he’s turned his face away. But it has to be. The man has the same broad shoulders, same dark hair and bronze skin.
Fuck. Me.
What in the hell is he doing here? Has he been following me this entire trip?
I resist the urge to stomp across the street and sock him in the face. No, he doesn’t know he’s been made yet, which gives me the upper hand. If he wants to follow, I’ll make it exciting for him.
I finish my meal and pay the bill, then play entitled oblivious American and walk right through the kitchen and out the back door, slipping into the alleyway behind the cafe.
Catch me if you can, I murmur through clenched teeth.
I have no doubt he’ll find me soon, and I’m not feeling kindly toward him at the moment. But how to punish him for this incredible infringement on my privacy, my space?
Garrett’s text yesterday said his contact in Paris could be found at a paranormal bar called The Dungeon. I don’t care about meeting up with the contact, but a paranormal bar would be just the kind of place to get under Carlos’ skin.
Normally, it wouldn’t be a location I’d frequent alone. I’ve been warned my whole life about staying away from places like that. As a shifter, I’m fairly safe in a normal bar—no human man could mess with me unless he drugged me first. But a paranormal bar is full of trouble, and dangerous for a single female. Or maybe that’s just the bullshit lie I’ve been fed all my life.
Either way, I have a feeling Carlos will lose his ever-loving shit at seeing me there, and that serves him right for stalking me like a creep-o.
I look up the location on my phone and, as luck would have it, find it’s just six blocks from the boutique hotel where I’m staying. I grab a cab to go back to the hotel, certain Carlos will show up there when he realizes he’s lost my trail.
Feeling almost cheerful for the first time since I arrived in Paris, I shower and put on the dress I packed. A red dress. With a short flippy skirt. I blow dry my hair and apply some mascara and lip gloss. It must be the pregnancy, because despite my low mood over the last week, I loo
k radiant.
Carlos, eat your heart out.
I don a pair of black knee-high boots and march out of the building with a flick of my umbrella and a toss of my hair. Now that I’m watching for it, I notice when the door opens behind me, sense the black wolf’s presence behind me.
Did you just want to make me chase you?
Yeah, I guess I do. Because my wolf loves this game. I have a bounce in my step as I walk down the narrow, cobblestone streets in search of The Dungeon. I walk past it a few times before I locate an unmarked door at the bottom of a short set of steps. Well, of course the Dungeon is located below ground level. Guess that should’ve been obvious.
I stretch out a hand to the door knob, listening first to make sure I’m not trying to walk into someone’s home or something. No, I hear music. I push the door open.
It’s like the cliché in every movie, when the needle scratches off and the place goes quiet, everyone turns to look at me.
One of these things is not like the other. At least I hope not. Because the crowd inside is seedy. With a capital S. And I stand out like a bright, juicy grape in a pile of raisins.
Scents assault my nose—shifters of all kinds are here, along with vampires and whatever else is freaky in Paris. They look like they live in this bar, faces flushed red and pickled with alcohol use.
I’m one of three females in the place, and the other two are old shifters of some kind and not attractive. I pick my way toward the bar. Dirt coats the floors, the tables haven’t been scrubbed down to the wood in ages, if ever.
Behind the bar, a short, disheveled man dries a glass with a dirty rag, openly staring at me like everyone else.
I swallow and swagger to the bar, nudging my way between two leering males who don’t have the decency to move their limbs and feet out of the way for me. “I’ll take a ginger ale,” I say.
The bartender doesn’t move, just keeps polishing the glass like I didn’t say anything.
Maybe he doesn’t speak English. I sigh and try again. “Café au lait?”
This time the bartender’s lip curls and he shakes his head.
Well, peachy.
Even if I hadn’t sensed Carlos come in, I wouldn’t let this asshole’s lack of hospitality chase me away. I plunk both elbows on the bar, like I’m going to stay awhile. “Well, what do you have?”
He pours a clear liquid from an unmarked bottle into a small glass and pushes it over to me.
It smells like rubbing alcohol. For all I know, it’s a home brew. Maybe laced with the date rape drug for good measure. Probably what they reserve for every stupid female who finds her way in here.
I don’t touch it.
A shifter with broad shoulders and a tight black t-shirt comes over and leans his elbow down next to mine, a broad smile on his face. I don’t recognize his scent until I see the dragon tail tattoo curling around the side of his neck.
No. Way. I’ve never met one before.
Before Carlos I might have been impressed. The guy is big, good-looking and oozes male dominance. But all I can think is how much better-defined Carlos’ muscles are, how much kinder his dark-lashed brown eyes appear.
And suddenly, I’m not so sure about my plan to strut in here and get under Carlos’ skin. I don’t actually want to make him jealous—not in the real sense of the word, and this guy might do that.
I try to take a step back, but I’m pinned by another guy to my left. Also dragon. They’re hunting together.
The dragon murmurs something in French and I shake my head, twisting and looking around the bar with a forced nonchalance. Where did Carlos go?
The dragon frowns and picks up my drink, lifting it to my lips.
I turn my face away and some of it spills down the front of me, cold droplets trickling between my breasts. The dragon’s eyes light on the droplets and he leans forward like he’s going to lick them off. I shove at his head, trying to get his tongue away from my skin. His friend grabs me from the back, chuckling as he pins my arms behind me. I scream.
I see a flash of skin and hear the crack of bone on bone. The dragon shifter roars and leaps to his feet, rubbing his jaw, as two hundred pounds of angry wolf wedges in front of me.
Carlos.
I’ve bitten off way more than I can chew. I never meant for him to have to defend me or fight for me. I only wanted to rile him up a little. To reveal himself.
Now we’re both in serious danger. In human form, Carlos might be an even match for this guy, maybe even for the guy and his friend. But if they shift, a wolf is no match for a dragon. Hell, the dragon could burn this place down with one roar.
The dragon behind me chuckles, but he’s released my arms. “The she-wolf has a mate,” he observes in English.
I grab Carlos’ arm and tug him toward the door. “Carlos, it’s all right. Come on, let’s go.”
Carlos won’t stop growling, nor does he take his eyes off his foe.
I pull with all my might. “Carlos, let’s go.”
The dragons haven’t moved to escalate the fight, but I have no doubt they will if Carlos keeps it up.
I change my tactic, and push in front of Carlos, as if I’m going to defend him. He immediately picks me up by the waist and tries to set me aside, but I don’t go. I repeat the action of pushing my way between them. It seems to do the trick, because his brow furrows. I’m banking on the instinct to get me out of danger being greater than his need to prove himself in front of me.
Carlos picks me up again and carries me toward the door, only stopping to readjust and throw me over his shoulder when we’re clear of the dragons.
Miraculously, no one follows, no one challenges him.
He doesn’t say a word to me or anyone else as he shoves out the door and climbs the steps. The rain has stopped and mist curls around the buildings and lamplights. Carlos’ breath puffs in and out at an angry cadence as his shoes hit the cobblestones.
A shiver of excitement goes through me.
I like him mad.
Of course that makes no sense. I don’t even know how to analyze it, other than recognizing his take-charge display of male dominance curls my toes. Maybe I do feel a teeny bit guilty, too, for nearly getting him killed in there.
He marches all the way back to my hotel, not setting me down until the elevator doors close behind us. Then he drops me to my feet, spins me to face a wall, and flattens both my hands against it with one of his pressed over the top of them. His other hand crashes down several times on my ass.
Ouch.
And… yum.
My panties dampen, heart taps rapidly against the front of my rib cage.
Carlos, you devil.
“Never, never go into a paranormal bar alone,” he clips, his accent thicker than usual.
The elevator stops on my floor. He pulls my hands from the elevator wall, whipping me around, making the skirt of my dress swing and flare. “Come.”
He marches straight to my door, taking my purse from my shoulder and retrieving the key.
I ought to be enraged by the proprietary actions, but I’m not. I’m still finding his anger enticing.
I know, it’s weird.
The moment the door swings open, Carlos points to the opposite wall. “Hands on the wall, like before.”
I try to muster some fire, cocking a hip. “What right do you have—”
Carlos is upon me in seconds, shoving me back against the closed door, mouth pressing over mine in a searing kiss. His large hands roam over my body, find the zipper on the back of my dress and yank it down. The dress falls to my feet and I stand in my black lace bra and panties and black leather boots. Stunned.
“Panties off. Keep the bra and boots,” he orders.
My tummy flutters with excitement. I’m not the least bit scared of this male—maybe that’s crazy. But we’ve been through worse and he managed to be a gentleman. He may be angry now, but there’s no sign of his wolf in his eyes, only dark promise.
Delicious dark promise.
Still, I don’t move to obey him. Maybe I just want to see what he’ll do. How far will he take this authoritative stance?
I’m right. He doesn’t grow angry, instead his eyelids droop and he adjusts his cock in his pants. “Muñeca, get into position like I told you.”
My nipples harden. I’m sure he smells my arousal because heat blooms between my thighs. I’m too excited to refuse him, so I strut across the room in my bra and boots and panties and put my palms against the wall, ass out.
“Good girl.” His purr hypnotizes. He walks up behind me and hooks his thumbs in the elastic of my panties. I expect him to tug them off, but he lowers them to just below my buttocks. “You don’t want to take them off?” His lips are close to my ear. “Now you have to keep them up. Spread your legs, ángel. If the panties drop, I start the spanking over.”
My pussy clenches at the word spanking, which somehow thrills me the most out of all the sexy things we’ve already done, mango fucking included. I widen my stance to stretch the panties between my thighs. It’s half-humiliating, half-erotic. I love it.
But then Carlos’ hand claps down on my ass, harder than I dreamed possible, and the fun is totally over.
I yelp and jump away from the wall. “Ouch! That hurt.” Shifters may heal fast, but it doesn’t mean we don’t experience just as much pain as your average human.
Carlos grabs my ass, fingers gripping the cheek he just marked with his palm. He brings his body right up against mine, snaking an arm around my waist to hold me tight. His thick cock presses against my belly, hard and insistent. “I know, ángel. I meant it to hurt.” He eases his grip on my ass and rubs away the sting. “You must get back into position.”
I don’t know how he manages to make his bossy words sound so sexy. Is it the rough timbre of his voice? Or the way he holds his lips so close to my ear?
Still, I’m not falling for it. Not now that I know how hard he spanks. “No.”
He nips my ear, then traces the shell with the tip of his tongue. “Sí, mi amor. I need to show you I care enough to do this. I won’t let you put yourself in danger.”
