Hunt the Moon

by Kari Cole

  A group of young men jogged through an intersecting corridor ahead of them. Boisterous laughter echoed in their wake.

  “Does everyone live here?”

  “No,” he said, tightening his grip on her as they turned down a smaller passage. How big was this place? “Like I told you before, this is our safe house. A few of the older pack members who’ve lost their mates live here all the time, but everyone else has a home somewhere in the county.” A growl entered his voice, vibrating along her side where their bodies touched. “When it became obvious you’d been attacked, we called everyone in.”

  Ignore the wolfy noises. You are not afraid. Yeah, now if her adrenal glands could get the memo and stop sending her heart rate into overdrive every five seconds, that’d be great.

  “So, where are we going?” she asked again.

  “The kitchen,” Luke said. “To get you some decent food.” On cue, her stomach growled. He slid his eyes to her. “Yeah, I heard that.”

  Of course he did. Probably smelled it, too.

  Grumpily, she said, “Well, I wouldn’t be so hungry if you’d let me eat the food Sarah brought.” Her mouth watered thinking of the tofu and veggie scramble.

  Luke grimaced and she felt him shudder. “In no way was that...stuff food. It looked like lumpy children’s clay. And it smelled worse.”

  She huffed. “What am I supposed to eat then?”

  They turned left down another passage perfumed with the smell of baked goods, coffee, and roasting meats. Luke paused outside a set of double doors. What he said next dropped her empty stomach through the floor.

  “Meat, Isabelle. Time for you to eat like a werewolf.”

  * * *

  If Luke didn’t have the benefit of a werewolf’s nose, he might have taken Isabelle’s silence for agreement. But he was a wolf, and could smell the disgust, horror, and most of all, anger pulsing off her in steady waves.

  He pushed through the dining hall’s steel doors and she tensed even more. Numerous packmates called out greetings as he carried her through the large, cozy room of mismatched furniture.

  “Put me down,” she said quietly through gritted teeth, a deep blush spreading across her face.

  “No.”

  When she growled at him—albeit in a human way—he barreled through the kitchen’s swinging doors. Three males, too young to even drive yet, froze in the act of raiding one of the refrigerators. Their nostrils flared and their eyes widened. He didn’t have to tell them to beat it. Nice to see the younger generation wasn’t stupid enough to ignore the signs of two dominant wolves about to fight. Hell, they moved so fast he made a mental note to sign them up for the high school track team.

  Luke strode to the big, sturdy table set against the wall. After scooting a chair out with a foot, he set Isabelle on it. “Don’t move, sugar.” He grabbed a tablecloth from a cabinet and laid it on another chair before propping his mate’s injured leg on it. “How’s that?”

  She didn’t answer.

  “Isabelle?”

  Face pale and sweating, she smelled sourly of panic and looked like she might vomit again. But before he could ask another question, she straightened. Seeming to grow in size, she glared at him. “I told you before, I don’t eat meat. What do you mean I have to eat like a werewolf?”

  Trying not to show how pleased he was at her quick turnaround, he pointedly looked at her damaged and emaciated body. “Do I really need to spell it out?”

  Her eyes narrowed to slits. “Apparently so.”

  “Fine. These wounds on your hands and feet are nuisances. Minor. Or at least they should have been. They’re nothing for a lycanthrope to heal. Hell, even the cuts on your head and leg from the crash are just scrapes to us. One shift or a few hours’ time would have taken care of them for a healthy shifter. You shifted twice. Yet, you’re healing human-slow. Maybe slower. A vegetarian diet can’t satisfy your body’s needs, Isabelle.”

  “People do it all the—”

  He ran his fingers over the pronounced edge of the collarbone peeking out from her shirt. She swiped at him but missed.

  “Human people, sugar. You’re not human. You’re a werewolf. No amount of soy is ever going to cut it for you. You surpassed underweight a long time ago. You could be an extra in a movie about famine victims.”

  She scowled and looked away from him. Gently, he tipped her face to meet his gaze. “Slowly but surely, you’re doing exactly what your sister did. You’re killing yourself, Isabelle.”

  She jerked as if he’d struck her.

  “If you want to heal,” he said, “if you want to survive, you’re going to have to eat animal protein.”

  Isabelle’s hand drifted up to rub at her left shoulder. Fear and disgust saturated the kitchen like black smoke. Tears filled her eyes, but they didn’t fall. Staring past him, she vibrated with tension. Her delicate features twitched as if she were carrying on a silent argument in her head.

  Luke watched the tips of her fingers turning white as they pressed into her shoulder. What had Freddie said? “There were a lot of nightmares...they have scars.” That shoulder had a burn scar.

  Blood rocketed through his veins. He struggled to keep the anger off his face and out of his voice. “Who hurt you, Isabelle?”

  Eyes gleaming with unmistakable rage snapped to his. “I can’t talk about her now.” Her voice was a low snarl. “I need to be able to control it. The wolf. Will eating meat help me do that?”

  “Yes,” he said slowly. “Properly feeding your body helps maintain balance between the human and animal sides.”

  “All right.” She dragged in a ragged breath. “I’ll do it. I’ll eat meat if you teach me to control...it.”

  “It? Your wolf, you mean.” He really didn’t like where this was going. “You want me to teach you how to not shift unexpectedly?”

  “Yeah. Sure.”

  “Isabelle—” His wolf stopped him. In his head, the predator prowled. Seeking the reason for his mate’s fury and fear. A way to conquer it. Patience, his wolf said. Hunt.

  Luke blinked. “Okay, sugar,” he said, putting on an Oscar-caliber performance of nonchalance. He rubbed his hands together and made a show of looking around the kitchen. Legs as stiff as cedar trunks carried him to the refrigerator. “Let’s find you something to eat.”

  Chapter Twenty-Four

  Izzy watched Luke prepare her meal like he was defusing a bomb, as though, if she didn’t follow his every move, it would blow up in her face. She gave herself a mental slap. Please. She was the bomb in this scenario, not the bowl of soup spinning in the microwave right now.

  The scar on her shoulder blade throbbed with phantom pain. Grandmother would be so pleased her nasty conditioning still snapped like a steel-reinforced rubber band. How she wished she could have given her grandmother a taste of her own medicine. Just once.

  But then, Izzy had never been that cruel.

  Luke laid down the bread knife and looked at her. Damn his freakish sense of smell.

  Focus on something else. Because blowing like that metaphorical bomb was not going to help her regain control of her life.

  If she’d ever had any to begin with.

  The kitchen setup would have been at home in a large restaurant. Stainless-steel counters and industrial-size appliances gleamed like new. But the cold, professional vibe ended there. In one corner bunches of herbs hung drying like socks on a clothesline. Beside them, half a dozen long shelves lined the wall, overflowing with pots of basil, parsley, and other fragrant herbs. The room smelled like her foster mother’s porch in the summer. The only things missing were the tottering pots of cherry tomatoes.

  Children’s handmade artwork decorated the cream-colored walls: pages torn from coloring books, crude finger paintings, drawings, and elbow macaroni collages.

  But the unique lighting stole the show. Numerou
s whimsical light fixtures done in a variety of metals hung around the open space: a dragonfly here, a flowering basket there, and in the center, a multi-limbed, curling tree with colored-glass pendant lights.

  The microwave dinged and Izzy nearly launched out of the chair.

  “Smells good,” she lied when Luke raised a brow at her. Lie. Lie. Lie. Because that stuff didn’t just smell good, it smelled freaking fantastic. Hell, had anything ever smelled as wonderful? Her mouth watered even as her stomach churned with nausea.

  She was so fucked up.

  Luke set the bowl of live explosives in front of her. “Beef barley. My mom’s specialty,” he said with no small amount of pride.

  Right. Soup/nitro glycerin, tomato/to-mah-to.

  A plate overflowing with thick, crusty bread slathered in butter and a huge glass of chocolate milk appeared next to that balefully steaming bowl.

  She heard more than saw Luke plop down onto a chair next to her, since she only had eyes for the soup. “Isabelle.”

  “I know.”

  A second passed. An eternity. “You’re not blinking, sugar.”

  Her eyes burned and seemed too large for their sockets. Wrenching her gaze away from that damned bowl, she forced her lids down and took a deep breath. Mistake. The rich aroma stabbed her in the gut with hunger and a buzzing sound filled her head.

  “It’s not complicated,” he said. “You want to see your brother and parents, you eat.”

  “Oh?” Her voice sank into what Freddie and Bess had dubbed her run-away-and-hide-and-you-just-might-live voice. She glared at Luke—the big jackass—who appeared unmoved. “So I’m your prisoner then?”

  “Call me crazy—I think Freddie’s an ass, but it would really annoy Rissa if you got fangy on her mate and in-laws. This being her wedding week and all.”

  The blood drained from Izzy’s head in a rush as she envisioned her worst nightmare: Hank, Abby, and Freddie, lifeless and torn.

  “Monster,” her grandmother’s voice echoed in her head.

  Izzy swayed. Only Luke’s grip on her arm kept her upright. His grip, and her promise. To herself. And the one she’d made to Bess many years ago that they would never hurt the Dodds or anyone else. Bess had failed, but Izzy would succeed. For both of them.

  She grabbed the spoon.

  * * *

  Luke had never been more proud of anyone in his life than when Isabelle snatched up that spoon. The scent of her anger and fear still hung in the air, but so did her determination.

  Only the tips of her fingers jutted from the bandages covering the raw wounds on her hands. But his mate grabbed that utensil like a lifeline. For her, it was.

  She thrust the spoon into the broth and rushed it to her mouth. Halfway there, the spoon wobbled. Just before her mouth, it tipped, spilling the hot soup onto her lap.

  Her teeth snapped together and she scowled. He handed her a napkin, which she slapped against the wet spot on her pants.

  Again with the aggressive scoop and shake. This time the liquid splashed on her chin.

  “Dammit!” Isabelle swiped her sleeve at the dribbling broth on her face as she attacked the soup again. The spoon made it just above the bowl before it fell from her fingers and clattered onto the table.

  The depth and breadth of his mate’s cursing skill impressed him.

  For the sake of the pack’s silverware, he was glad Isabelle was a lycanthrope and not a witch. Otherwise, going by the intense glare she shot it, the hapless spoon would be a puddle of melted steel right now.

  Luke stopped her when she reached for the utensil again. “Let me.”

  “I can feed myself,” she snapped. “Usually.”

  “Isabelle, your hands are wrapped in gauze and covered in frostbite and friction burns. You’re more than half-starved and have the shakes from low blood sugar. Let me help you.”

  She glowered at the bowl like it had insulted her mother. Finally, she gave a stiff nod. “Let’s do this.”

  He couldn’t help it, he laughed. “It’s soup, sugar. Not a camp of insurgents.” Though the task of eating a simple meal that would actually nourish her probably required a more Herculean effort than taking on al-Qaeda.

  With narrowed eyes, she watched him dip into the soup. Bringing the spoon to her mouth, he cupped his hand underneath it. “Just broth for now. You can get this down.” Please let her get this down.

  A complicated blend of scents rose from her pale skin, fear the most prominent. His wolf whined in worry. For a minute, he was afraid she’d refuse to open her mouth; it was set in such a mulish line. But she did, and he slid the spoon between her bloodless lips.

  Her eyes popped wide and her hand fluttered in front of her face. She swallowed. Trembling fingers touched her mouth. When the pink tip of her tongue darted out to catch a droplet on her lip, Luke almost moaned.

  Keeping his mouth to himself had never been so hard.

  * * *

  A shudder worked through Izzy’s body from head to toe. God, the taste, the illicit thrill.

  “Okay?” Luke asked. His voice sounded like he’d gargled with gravel.

  She nodded. The buzzing in her head that had been coming and going for months, steadily growing stronger and more frequent, hummed incessantly in the back of her mind. Now, though, she knew it was the wolf.

  “Ready for more?”

  Another nod. She wasn’t sure what would come out of her mouth if she tried to speak. A scream? A plea for more? A moan?

  This spoonful held barley and a hunk of carrot. And again she hesitated. Just do it. Don’t wuss out now.

  When she closed her lips around the warm metal, the soft, nubby texture of the grain swimming in savory broth hit her tongue, and she hummed in delight.

  Luke chuckled. “Good, huh?”

  Her face warmed. The absurdity of her reaction wasn’t lost on her. For God’s sake, it wasn’t like she hadn’t eaten decent barley soup before. But there was no denying the difference between beef broth and vegetable. The silky liquid slid over her tongue and down her throat like melted butter.

  Warm fingers tucked a strand of hair behind her ear. “Ready for the main event?” Luke asked.

  “Yeah,” she said, surprised at her own answer. She rubbed her shoulder. For as long as she could remember, she’d been doing things her grandmother’s way. Where had that ever gotten her? It scared the hell out of her, but the fear of hurting someone due to her own weakness, or not being able to protect her brother when someone could be out to hurt him, drove her choice. “Yeah, I think I am.”

  Luke’s smile made her heart trip in her chest.

  He brought another spoonful up to her mouth.

  “Little monsters. The both of you, nothing but killers-in-waiting.” Christ, her skin crawled even from the memory of her grandmother’s shrill voice, and the buzzing grew louder.

  “Lord, you got a hard head, little girl. Use it.” Her foster father’s familiar admonition rose over both the wolf and Grandmother. The way Hank had said it always filled her with confidence.

  She opened her mouth and let Luke feed her.

  All the voices crowding her thoughts shut up. She waited for her grandmother to scream at her, for the scar on her shoulder to throb, for the beast inside to burst free. Nothing happened.

  “Are you going to chew that, Isabelle?” Luke said, his voice calling her back into the moment.

  She did. “Oh, sweet baby Jesus,” she moaned. She snagged the spoon from his hand and dove into the meal. She couldn’t gulp it down fast enough. While her stomach throbbed with hunger and anticipation, the buzzing quieted.

  A choked sound reminded her she wasn’t alone.

  Hello, humiliation.

  Luke stared at her mouth, his eyes burning into her. He reached for her face. “You have a little—no, let me.”

  Fingers
curling under her chin, his thumb brushed at the corner of her mouth. Any lingering embarrassment burned away in a molten rush of desire when he put his thumb in his mouth and sucked. His voice a low rasp, he said, “The sounds you make.”

  She reached for him, barely stopping herself from grabbing his hand and tasting him, too.

  Luke tore a hunk of bread and held it out for her. As soon as she ate it, he brushed his thumb over her lips again, held it there.

  Possession.

  She had to be possessed. That was the only explanation for her behavior, because she licked the butter from his thumb. His flavor exploded on her tongue, invaded her senses.

  Luke’s rumbling groan vibrated over her skin, penetrated her bones, and settled deep down inside, sweet and hot.

  “Holy shit,” she whispered.

  The flush on his cheeks made his eyes seem fever-bright. “Have another bite, sugar.”

  “St-stop calling me that.”

  Luke moved his chair in front of hers, pulling Izzy in close. So close, he draped her legs over his thighs, until she practically sat on his lap. “Stop calling you what?”

  “Sugar,” she said in a gasp as his hand caressed her hip, scalding her through her clothes, branding her.

  “Why?”

  “Because,” she said. Her heart pounded like a bass drum.

  He leaned into her and all she could do was pant. The huge kitchen suddenly seemed airless. He’d put her under some kind of spell. She couldn’t move.

  Didn’t want to.

  The inch of space between their bodies hummed with electricity. Shivers danced over every nerve and she trembled. His breath caressed her jaw as he trailed his nose along her neck, leaving goose bumps in his wake.

  He buried his face in her hair, inhaled. A purr-like sound raised every hair on her body as if reaching for him. “Can’t,” he said.

  “Wh-why not?”

  He whispered in her ear, the stubble on his chin tickling the shell. “’Cause you smell so sweet.”

  A tingling shudder rocked her.

  Luke pulled back just far enough to give her a wicked look. Green eyes shot with liquid gold held her as surely as his strong embrace. Raising her right hand, he nuzzled her wrist just above the bandages.