If Hewitt felt any surprise at the reply, he didn’t show it. In fact, Devon found he had significant trouble reading the man. Sure, he sensed desire within his mate, but beyond that, Hewitt was, in fact, the opposite of the open book he claimed to be.
“I see,” Hewitt said. “I suppose I should deal with this. Give me a moment. I’ll be right back.”
To Devon’s surprise, Hewitt actually made for the door. Devon intercepted the other man before he could leave. “No way. I won’t let you. Ferals are dangerous.”
This time, Hewitt seemed amused. “So am I. Besides, this is my club, my turf. It would take more than a feral—no matter how powerful—to beat me here.”
Devon reluctantly stepped away from the door and allowed Hewitt to pass. His apprehension didn’t go away, but he admitted he trusted Hewitt’s power. Still, that didn’t mean he’d let his mate out of his sight. In one single instant, his resolve to leave Hewitt fell. He could not abandon the witch in such a moment.
They exited the office together, Devon following behind Hewitt. His mate didn’t seem concerned, but rather, decided. He moved like a man on a mission. Devon noted several of the guards giving them inquiring looks, but Hewitt just shook his head. Apparently, he could handle himself just fine.
They reached the ground floor, and the beat of the music immediately assaulted Devon’s hearing. He suppressed a groan, unused to such loud melodies after so much time spent away from civilization.
Hewitt seemed to sense his discomfort. “You okay?” he asked.
Devon just nodded, and Hewitt didn’t prod further. Still, Devon suspected that once they investigated the new arrival, they’d have a talk—and not only about the peace treaty and the Magistrate’s plans.
Thankfully, Hewitt led him away from the dance floor and through a secondary exit reserved for staff. They walked through a winding corridor, and at one point, Hewitt veered right and found a door. Devon followed his mate into an alley behind the club.
Once outside, he spotted the spying feral. The man must have sensed the power of the witch just like Devon and seemed reluctant to come inside.
“Is there anything I can help you with?” Hewitt called out.
Wild, insane eyes turned toward them. “You’re the witch,” the feral said. Of course, it wasn’t hard to guess since Hewitt didn’t bother to hide his power. Devon supposed that at this point, it would be useless. Hewitt’s location had been revealed, and even if the witch might have been more discreet in the past, prudency wouldn’t help him now.
“I am,” Hewitt replied. “Please leave. I have no business or quarrel with you. I advise you to go now, or suffer the consequences.”
The feral ignored Hewitt’s warning. “I think not.” He looked toward Devon and bared his teeth in an animalistic grimace. “You’ve been marked, witch, and you will die.”
Devon couldn’t suppress a growl at the other man’s words. Ferals were, by nature, vindictive, and Hewitt’s involvement with the spirit wolves naturally drew their anger upon him. But Devon would not allow any harm to come to the witch. Even if they couldn’t complete their bond, in his heart, Devon still acknowledged their connection.
Hewitt shook his head at the feral. “I suppose I can’t let you go anyway,” he said. “You’ll just harm others, and I can’t allow that.”
The feral lunged forward, changing forms midleap. He moved so fast Devon almost didn’t see him coming. On instinct, he turned into his wolf, too, prepared to attack. But he did not get the chance to protect his mate. Magic slammed against the feral, propelling him back. The insane wolf hit the wall so hard the bricks actually shattered and collapsed on top of him. Still, the feral crawled out from under the debris and prepared himself for a second attack. This time, Hewitt stopped him before he could even move. Devon heard his mate utter a stream of words—probably a spell. A pentagram appeared under the feral, flashing brightly. The wolf immediately froze, as if numbed by an unseen force.
“There we go,” Hewitt said, sounding pleased with himself. He rummaged through his pockets and retrieved a cell phone. “Now, I’m calling the Magistrate to come pick up this guy.”
The words were, in a sense, a warning. The Magistrate would clearly send hunters here, so Devon needed to leave before that happened. But Devon didn’t fear Wolfram. He’d known the man for too long and had escaped Wolfram’s hunters for decades. Still, Devon didn’t want his mate to contact Wolfram, not yet. He wanted to spend some time alone with Hewitt. He didn’t trust Wolfram, but Hewitt was a whole different matter.
Devon turned back to his human form and smirked to himself when Hewitt looked away. He wasn’t shy or uncomfortable with his nudity, but humans didn’t share the same opinions. So, if nothing else, Hewitt was attracted to him.
“But first, we need to get you some clothes,” Hewitt grumbled. “Can you carry him?”
It meant a lot to Devon that his mate seemed willing to trust him, at least to a certain extent. He nodded. “Sure.”
Hewitt uttered another incantation, and the wolf went limp. Devon made his way to the feral’s side, feeling a bit apprehensive as the lingering traces of magic tickled at his senses. He ignored it and picked up the now-unconscious intruder.
“Now what?” he asked his mate.
“Follow me.”
Without another word, Hewitt entered the club. Devon found himself forced to follow, although he remained puzzled as to how exactly Hewitt would deal with explaining a strange man in the buff carrying a wolf in the middle of a busy nightclub.
Strikingly, no one paid them any heed. Even after they left the corridor, the guards and staff they passed just smiled at their boss and dropped the occasional comment, seeming relieved, but not surprised. Devon realized Hewitt must be using some sort of cloaking spell to disguise their presence.
Before he knew it, they reached the office, but didn’t stop there. Instead, Hewitt revealed a second set of stairs Devon hadn’t originally seen. They climbed to a superior floor and to what Devon guessed to be Hewitt’s quarters. The suite was decorated in warm, calming colors, antique furniture complimenting a modern décor. Upon Hewitt’s instructions, Devon placed the unconscious feral on a couch. His mate disappeared through a doorway and returned a few moments later with a shirt and a pair of pants.
“Put these on,” he said.
Devon ignored the offered clothing. Adrenaline coursed through his veins, aroused by the sight of his mate fighting, his mate in danger. His fangs dropped, and he took a few steps closers to Hewitt, invading the other man’s personal space.
Hewitt blinked and stepped back. “What are you doing?”
Devon grinned at his mate. “This.”
Without further warning, he pounced on his witch, pressing his lips to Hewitt’s. Hewitt gasped, and it allowed Devon to slip his tongue inside, to take possession of his mate’s mouth. He crowded Hewitt against the wall, his hands already working at the witch’s clothing.
Hewitt’s protests were weak at best. After a brief struggle, Hewitt wrapped his arms around Devon’s neck and pulled him close, giving as good as he got.
Devon knew his mate could easily push him off by using magic, but it seemed Hewitt had no intentions of doing so. Reveling in this knowledge, he tore Hewitt’s shirt off, his claws skimming over the other man’s skin. He was careful not to push too hard or hurt his mate, but the beast inside him already wanted to claim Hewitt. What little patience he had was reaching its end.
Breaking the kiss, he growled in the witch’s ear. “Wrap your legs around my waist.”
Hewitt obeyed, his limber body rubbing against Devon’s as he shifted in Devon’s arms. As soon as he had a good grip on Hewitt, he got rid of Hewitt’s pants and underwear as well. Holding Hewitt upright with just his body and one arm, he spit on his fingers and reached down to Hewitt’s puckered hole, roughly inserting two digits into his mate’s anus.
Hewitt winced. “Lube,” he whispered. “In the bedroom. Too big.”
But
Devon could not be bothered to lube himself up. He didn’t care about anything else except fucking Hewitt, getting inside the man’s ass. “It’s fine,” he snarled. “It’ll fit.”
He pushed his fingers in and out of his mate’s passage, hissing at the tightness around them. It would feel so good. He just knew it. He wanted so badly, and he couldn’t wait anymore.
With blood roaring in his ears, Devon removed his fingers out of Hewitt’s body and positioned his cock at Hewitt’s hole. But just as he readied himself to slide home, a powerful, invisible force threw him off Hewitt. Devon landed on his feet, growling at being denied. Hewitt was his mate, his. No one could refuse him the right he had to claim the witch.
With decided steps, he stalked toward Hewitt, his anger pushing away all reason. Just as he reached his mate, Hewitt spoke. “Devon, stop,” he said.
His voice sounded so gentle, and impossibly, it stopped Devon in his tracks more efficiently than any spell could have done. He froze and gave his mate a shocked look, truly taking in Hewitt’s appearance.
The witch looked like he’d been mauled by a wild animal, scratch marks and bruises already forming on his skin. Devon gaped as he realized what he’d been close to doing. He stared at his hands, at the claws that had left marks on Hewitt’s hips. He remembered the way he’d refused preparing his mate for invasion, not caring about anything expect his own instinct and pleasure. He felt like for the first time, he was truly seeing what spirit wolves did when they looked at him.
Sure, he’d always known he was a perversion of their kind, but that didn’t make the realization any less painful. Horrified, he backed away from his mate. How could he have ever thought he and Hewitt might have a chance together? Answer—he hadn’t been thinking. He’d ignored his rational knowledge, the one that told him ferals didn’t have mates. Devon had lost the right to one when he’d surrendered to the wildness inside of him, when he’d become nothing more than an animal.
The pain and self-disgust were so intense he almost keeled over. The emotions he’d thought dead and buried choked him, and he couldn’t hold onto his human form. He’d lose it altogether if he did so. As quickly as he could, he changed into a wolf and made for the exit.
But he was out of luck. Before he could reach the door, Hewitt muttered something that sounded like a spell. A magical barrier popped up between Devon and the hallway.
“Devon, don’t run from me,” Hewitt said. “I won’t let you go. I want an explanation.”
Devon knew better than to believe he could force his mate to do anything he didn’t want to do. Hewitt had proved that beyond any shadow of a doubt. Devon could try to wait it out, but he didn’t know if he’d be able to withstand Hewitt’s presence for so long and not jump him again.
He turned and looked at his mate, willing Hewitt to understand. He needed to leave, before he fucked up again, before he made an even greater mistake.
However, just as he thought this, his eyes fell on the still unconscious feral. He could not abandon his mate. Even if Hewitt managed to defend himself just fine, the thought of leaving him at the mercy of his attackers made Devon’s stomach turn.
Resigning himself to the inevitable, Devon shifted back to his legged form. “All right. You win.”
Chapter Three
Mason growled at the feral female in front of him. “What do you mean he left and didn’t come back? Where did he go?”
The woman cowered in front of his show of strength. “He said…He said he wanted to take revenge on the spirit wolves. He meant to attack that witch who helped them.”
Mason took a deep breath and forced himself to calm down. He tried to find a measure of peace in the sound of nature, the feel of the wind on his face. As always, he failed.
It was a feat of excellence that he even managed to cope with the presence of the other feral. As a rule, those of his kin disliked each other. Mason would have preferred hunting for a nice meal rather than chatting with the bitch, but he’d taken up a responsibility, and he couldn’t exactly refuse.
Mason was an Alpha feral, one of the few of his kind who could cloak his and his inner circle’s presences from spirit wolves, including the Magistrate. He had been born with this potential for greatness, and this strength had been too intense to control during his young years. Unfortunately, this meant Mason needed to care for “his people,” a fact which, given their unsociable nature, was very problematic, indeed. He’d have preferred to be like the normal ferals, the lone wolves who cared about no one and nothing but themselves. But no…He needed to listen to the complaints of a feral female who inexplicably still cared for her young.
Mason had no idea what urged her to become feral in the first place and couldn’t care less. The woman had requested an audience, and he, as their unofficial leader, needed to look into the disappearance of the bitch’s spawn.
“Fine,” he told her. “Get out of my sight. I’ll look into it.”
The bitch shifted into her wolf form and rushed out of the clearing. Mason considered the information he had to go on in his unpleasant quest. He kept himself informed with the comings and goings of the paranormal world and knew all about the famous Hewitt Moore, who’d aided Wolfram Rozenstadt in defeating a feral who got too ambitious. Just because of this aid, Mason already disliked the witch. He had beef with Wolfram that wouldn’t go away, and any ally of his was Mason’s enemy.
Perhaps Mason should pay a visit to this Hewitt, if only to give him a lesson as to why it was better to stay out of the affairs of other races. Mason smirked, already feeling much better about the whole thing. Sure, it would be a drag to go all the way to London, and Mason hated big cities—what feral didn’t?—but it would be worth it.
With that in mind, Mason left his sanctuary, the age-old forest that had protected him for so long, like it did for so many animals here. As a natural reserve, the Virgin Komi Forest kept them safe and away from civilization.
But as any feral, Mason knew how to move around and blend in. This goal gave him focus even while he made his way out of the forest and into civilization. The thought of this hunt managed to keep his good mood up until he left Russia. He hated airplanes, hated the crowded space and the humans around him. But he didn’t have private jets or expensive cars like the Magistrate. As a rule, he didn’t need it, and property of any kind could be traced. He’d have foregone his bank accounts if he’d thought he could live and make do without them. Unfortunately, not even a feral could isolate himself in the wild, and Mason’s money allowed him slightly more bearable incursions into human cities.
He didn’t know how he managed not to snap during the journey. Objectively speaking, he knew it wasn’t too long, but he’d have preferred a month-long trek through the continent to the airplane trip.
At last, the jet landed on the runway. As soon as he got the “all clear,” Mason burst out of his seat, grabbed his small pack, and shot out of the plane, receiving disgruntled looks from the rest of the passengers and the crew. He didn’t care. If he were forced to stand the close quarters for any longer, there would be considerably fewer humans in London.
Compared to the flight, the taxi ride to the famous club owned by Hewitt Moore was a breeze. It was early morning now, and the city was waking up, but at least the car didn’t have any other passengers. Still, as it approached their destination, Mason began to feel something strange, an ache in his chest. His beast paced, snarling to get free. He wanted to hunt, to fuck, to feed. His instincts were on the edge. Had the plane trip affected him so much? He needed to get out of the forest more often. It wouldn’t do to lose touch with civilization so much.
The driver gave him cautious looks, a clear sign that Mason wasn’t doing a very good job in disguising his emotions. Thankfully, it also made for a shorter drive to The Witching Hour. He paid the human without really looking at the number of bills and left the car. It drove off in a rush, but Mason had already ceased caring. His full attention was on the building ahead.
As an Alpha
feral, Mason had traveled a lot before he’d decided for his permanent residence to be in Russia. He could sense others of his kind from longer distances, and because of this, he was well acquainted with ferals all over the world, including here in Britain. Many deferred to him, his superior strength having earned their begrudging respect. However, this was the first time he had experienced such a sensation, a heady rush of attraction and need.
Something from inside that building drew him like a moth to the flame. It was with great dismay that he finally acknowledged the source of it. Mate, the wolf within howled. Mate.
He’d always thought ferals couldn’t have mates. It had been one of the things that hurt him most. He’d never even had the chance to find his mate, since he’d turned feral upon reaching his coming of age. Mason still remembered that night, the only night he’d met his leader, and he’d almost been killed by those he considered his kin. To think that all this time he’d been wrong, that ferals did indeed have mates waiting out there, shocked him beyond belief.
His body moved without him even telling it to. He didn’t care about anything else except seeing, feeling the person meant for him. What would his mate be like? Would he or she be a feral like him, or a shape-shifter? Or perhaps even a human? Anything was possible. Mason hoped his mate wouldn’t be a human, but he felt certain he’d figure things out somehow. After all, he’d done well for himself even as a feral, and his mate could do the same.
Predictably, there were bouncers at the entrance into the club, and he even felt magic sizzle over his skin. A ward, he realized. The witch seemed to be resourceful, but no shield, be it physical or otherwise, could keep Mason from his mate.
“Hey, you,” one of the bouncers told him. “Just where do you think you’re going?”
Mason didn’t even bother to answer. He just punched the guy in the face, and the strength of the blow made the man slump to the ground unconscious. The second bouncer cursed and retrieved a gun, but didn’t get the chance to use it. In a few well-placed kicks, he took out his opponent, without even breaking a sweat. Another time, he might have enjoyed grinding their faces in, just for standing in his way, but now, he was too keen on getting inside.
Bewitched by Their Mate [Feral 1] (Siren Publishing Ménage Amour ManLove) Page 3
