What a Wolf's Heart Decides (Lux Catena Book 4) Page 5

  Like prey.

  The blue eye didn’t blink. When he spoke again, the tips of his fangs flashed white behind his scarred lips. “You claim you’re a guest here, Miss Michaels.”

  Her thighs pressed against his. Her breasts mashed against his chest.

  None of that mattered.

  The only thing that mattered was the enraged Alpha holding her prisoner. Because he was enraged. His wolf stared at her—the veneer between man and beast dangerously thin.

  His voice dropped to an inhuman register. “I say you’re a trespasser. And maybe a witch.”

  Witch? Confusion crashed over her.

  He pulled her closer, to where their mouths almost touched and their breaths mingled. A deep, woodsy scent filled her lungs.

  Despite her predicament, her brain latched onto it. Sandalwood.

  His eye lightened even more. “Now give me a reason why I shouldn’t kill you right now.”

  4

  The female was beautiful.

  And terrified.

  It was there in her wide blue eyes and the frantic beat of her heart. For a moment, he almost told her to take deep breaths to slow it down.

  Almost.

  Instead, Bard Bennett tightened his grip and pulled her even closer, until her cheek brushed his and her lips were even with his ear.

  She squirmed, the muscles in her upper arms straining against his hold.

  “Hold still,” he said. She might not like this, but it was necessary.

  Proving she most certainly did not like it, she jerked her head away from his. “Are you insane? What are you doing?”

  He released one of her arms so he could palm the back of her head and force her back to where he wanted her. “I said hold still.”

  She fought, but she was no match for him.

  Must not be trying too hard, then. Because if she was what he suspected, she could best him. At least, she could if she’d planned far enough in advance.

  Anger rose hot and wild in his gut. Her kind never did play by the rules.

  He slid his hand to her nape, dislodging her knit cap. Light brown hair spilled around her shoulders, and her struggles sent a whiff of flowers up his nose. Soft curls brushed his hands.

  Good. Seizing a handful, he dragged her head to the side and buried his face in her neck.

  She gasped . . . then let out a low, pained whimper. Her heart beat faster, her pulse visible in the jugular vein jumping erratically in the smooth column of her neck.

  Again, he almost barked an order for her to slow her breathing. Again, he bit it back before it could leave his mouth.

  He couldn’t afford to let his guard down—not even a little bit. Not with someone like her.

  Ignoring her ragged breaths, he closed his eyes and lowered his nose to the hollow where her neck met her shoulder.

  She jumped. With her free hand, she clawed at his forearm, her fingers digging into his heavy ski jacket.

  No matter. The thick material prevented her from doing any damage. But he needed to hurry before she got smart and realized it was better to go for his face. Or his good eye.

  He took a deep breath, letting her scent fill his lungs. Clean skin and the more subtle aroma of flowers swirled around his senses.

  Which was . . . odd.

  Pressing closer, nose over her vein, he dragged in another breath. Good eye squeezed shut, he focused on her scent. Like every other living thing, it had layers—some more difficult to detect than others. There was soap, a surface scent that was a mix of perfume and chemicals. There was also a faint whiff of salt, which probably came from the detergent on her clothes.

  And there was something light and feminine and altogether hers—an elusive scent that conjured images of green, open fields and wildflower blooms pressed in the pages of books. Of blue skies and skirts twirling in a wide arc under a shining sun.

  It was like . . . spring. She smelled of spring.

  God, he could almost taste it.

  Without even really knowing what he was doing, he turned his head, letting his cheek nestle in the sweet crook of her neck.

  Her pulse leaped against his lips. The elusive, tantalizing scent grew stronger.

  He breathed more deeply . . .

  . . . and detected none of the blood he’d expected to find.

  It should have been there—a raw, coppery base. No matter how many oils or potions her people rubbed into their skin, they all had it. The humans associated it with vampires, but they were so completely, hopelessly wrong.

  No, the undead might enjoy a sip now and then, but it was the magical houses who had built an empire on it. They traded on blood, both theirs and others, spilling it with little regard for the consequences.

  And that kind of stench never wore off.

  Dimly, he registered that the battering of his forearm had stopped. The female was still. Quiet.

  He lifted his head, dropping his hand from her hair.

  She jerked away without meeting his gaze.

  Thinking to force her chin up, he reached out to grasp her jaw. “Are you—”

  Something smashed against the side of his face, throwing his shoulders back and rocking his head to the side.

  A low, angry sob from the passenger seat had him swinging around a second later.

  The female huddled against her side of the car, her fist cradled in her lap. Her eyes were wolf blue, and the tips of her fangs peeked beneath full, pink lips as she drew in shaky breaths.

  She was beautiful.

  And terrified.

  And most definitely not a witch.

  His face throbbed. She’d clocked him on the cheekbone, going for his bad side so he couldn’t see the blow coming. He didn’t bother checking for a cut. Wasn’t worried about one. Even if she’d broken the skin, a punch in the face wasn’t going to do any more damage than had already been done.

  Her shoulders heaved, and she let out a shuddering sob.

  Damn. He’d made a mistake. Now he had a mess to clean up.

  He put out a hand. Her gaze darted to it, then back to his face. She winced and pressed harder against the door. He lowered his arm.

  Yeah, she didn’t want him touching her. Old bitterness threatened to rise in his throat. He shoved it back—along with his wolf. Some werewolves had a strong connection with their inner beasts and could even sense their animal half’s emotions.

  Bard wasn’t one of them. His wolf was a quiet sort. When he was a teen just coming into his transition, Bard’s mother had clucked her tongue and warned that his human half was too strong. “You’re too opinionated . . . too sure of yourself, Bardie,” she’d say. “You don’t listen to your wolf. One of these days it’ll stop trying to reach you.”

  That day had come and gone. It didn’t matter. The beast was there when he needed its strength. He certainly didn’t need its advice or companionship.

  The female stared, her back so tight against the door it had to be digging into her.

  He swiped his tongue over his incisors to make sure they’d retreated. Then he cleared his throat. “Female—”

  “I have a name!”

  The angry rebuke was at odds with her demeanor. Maybe she wasn’t as frightened as he thought.

  He tried again. “Haley Michaels.”

  She gave a curt nod.

  “You’re safe.”

  She stared, as if she didn’t understand.

  “I’m not going to kill you.”

  Still nothing. Then some of the tension eased from her shoulders. Her throat worked as she swallowed. “You’re not?”

  “No.”

  More tension leached from her body, but her gaze stayed wary.

  He couldn’t really blame her. He was twice her size and a dominant wolf. And she was alone with him in the middle of a mountain airfield.

  In an unfamiliar territory.

  He made his voice as neutral as possible. “Maybe we should start over. I’m Bard Bennett, Alpha of the Washington Territory.”

  H
er eyes flashed. “You could have said that from the beginning instead of . . . of”—she seemed to search for a word—“manhandling me.”

  Okay, so we’re not starting over.

  He raised the eyebrow of his good eye—one of the few facial muscles he could still control. “You’re bold to talk of manhandling. You struck an Alpha. I could have you punished for that.”

  Her jaw dropped. “You sniffed me! And threatened to kill me! And called me a witch!”

  “I said you might be a witch. And I told you I’m not going to kill you.”

  The blue eyes flashed again. “Oh, so I passed your smell test?”

  “Yes.”

  She let out a humorless laugh. “What, do witches have a certain smell?”

  “Yes.”

  Her arched brows pulled together, and her voice changed—as if she was curious despite herself. “What is it?”

  “Blood,” he said bluntly.

  “Blood.”

  He nodded.

  For a moment she regarded him with a mix of disgust and bafflement. Then she looked out the windshield and muttered, “I’ve landed in crazy town.”

  “You’ve landed in my territory. I’d like to know why.”

  She looked at him, a frown wrinkling her smooth forehead. “You don’t know?”

  “Do you think I’d be asking if I did?” As soon as he said it, he realized how absurd he sounded. Alphas were supposed to have a finger on the pulse of everything that happened in their territory. Boundary lines were especially sacrosanct. Under werewolf law, an Alpha could kill a trespasser on sight simply for stepping one foot over a territorial border without permission.

  Of course, that assumed someone wanted to enter a territory in the first place.

  “I don’t understand,” Haley said, her gaze clouded with confusion. “I came to meet Benjamin Rupert. His mother sent a letter to Max—” She stopped herself and cleared her throat. “Maxime Simard. The Alpha of—”

  “The New York Territory.” He raised his eyebrow again. “I do know that much.”

  Pink entered her cheeks. The color was an alluring contrast to her skin, which had a glow about it. Olive toned, people called skin like that. Or maybe sun-kissed. Wasn’t that the look females were always going for?

  Whatever the case, it worked on her. So did the loose, light brown waves that fell around her shoulders and the wide blue eyes that were as clear as the sky during a mountain sunrise. Her face was heart-shaped, with a wide forehead and tapered jaw that was somehow both delicate and stubborn.

  The color in her cheeks deepened.

  Shit. He was staring.

  And the car was suddenly hot.

  He leaned forward and adjusted the temperature. “You said Glenna Rupert sent a letter.” He sat back. “Benjamin’s mother.”

  Haley had tracked his movements, and now she pulled her gaze from his hands and met his eyes. “Uh . . . yes. That’s right.”

  “And what did this letter say?”

  “She . . .” The pink drifted down, covering her neck.

  Not going there. He’d done enough to her neck.

  She put her chin up—a move he was starting to recognize. “She invited me here to meet Benjamin.”

  “To meet.” Something she’d said before clicked in his memory. “Earlier you said you were supposed to go on a date.”

  “Yeah.” She tucked her hair behind her ear—a nervous gesture if ever he’d seen one. “Meet. Date. Whatever you want to call it. You really didn’t know about this?”

  “No. But I’m asking the questions. Not you.”

  She bristled, the blush fading from her cheeks.

  And he didn’t miss it. Not one bit.

  “How did you know to come get me?” she asked, ignoring his edict about him doing the questioning.

  He faced forward and yanked his seat belt over his shoulder. Immediately, pain bolted down his left thigh. His quad spasmed, and he clenched his jaw.

  “Are you okay?”

  Without looking at her, he fastened his belt. “Buckle up. The mountain roads are rough.”

  “We’re leaving? I need my suitcase!” She turned and fumbled with the door.

  “Child locks,” he said.

  She stopped her fussing and glared at him.

  Unbidden, a surge of amusement burst through the pain fogging his brain. Whatever else she was, Haley Michaels was no pushover. “Wait here,” he told her, then got out before she could say anything.

  Wind tore at his clothes and whistled against his jacket as he limped to the plane. He hadn’t thought to ask Joel about her luggage. He’d been too pissed off at being woken from a deep sleep after a fourteen-hour shift.

  Haley’s bag stood upright at the rear of the plane. And bonus, it had wheels. The weight was no problem, but balancing the suitcase with his leg in such bad shape would have been a challenge. He popped the Tahoe’s rear gate and tossed the suitcase inside, then climbed back into the driver’s seat.

  Haley watched him, a frown in her eyes.

  “Buckle up,” he told her, reaching for his own belt.

  She didn’t move. “Are you taking me to the bed and breakfast?”

  “No.” He fastened his belt, put the SUV in gear, and headed toward the road.

  “What?” She leaned forward, putting herself in his line of sight. “Why not?”

  “Fasten your seat belt. I don’t want to hear the damn warning bell ding the whole ride home.”

  Her voice climbed an octave. “Mrs. Rupert’s letter said I could stay at the bed and breakfast.”

  “That doesn’t surprise me. She owns it.” He gripped the wheel harder. “Which is why you’re not staying there.”

  She was silent a moment. Then, “Where are you taking me?”

  “Pack headquarters.”

  “Where’s that? In Elder Lake?”

  He glanced at her. “Everything is in Elder Lake.”

  “Is the bed and breakfast near pack headquarters?”

  The passenger seat belt alarm started dinging. Before he could say anything, she cursed under her breath and pulled her belt across her body.

  They reached the fence around the airfield, and he took a left onto the dirt road that led into town. The SUV hit a rut and dipped. Fire shot down his thigh into his knee. He grimaced and tightened his grip on the wheel.

  “Do you hurt?” Haley asked.

  “No.”

  Her voice softened. “Now who’s lying?”

  Dammit, he didn’t need her poking her nose into his business. He steered the car around another rut.

  Her stare had a weight to it. He couldn’t see her—not without turning his head—but damn if he couldn’t feel her. Waiting. Watching. Probably wondering why he didn’t speak.

  Well, she could keep right on wondering. He didn’t owe her his life story, and he certainly didn’t care to hear hers. As soon as he figured out what the hell the Ruperts were up to, he was sticking her on a plane and sending her right back to New York.

  She sighed. Fabric rustled, which probably meant she’d settled in her seat. “Do your Hunters live at the pack headquarters?”

  “No.”

  Ah, she was staring again. The weight pressed against his bad side. An edge entered her voice, and she pronounced her next words carefully, like she was speaking through gritted teeth. “Where do they live?”

  Now he turned his head enough to catch her eye. “I don’t have Hunters.”

  The blue gaze widened. “Every territory has Hunters.”

  He faced forward.

  “But . . . who helps you? Protects you? Who watches over your borders and your family?”

  The lights from the airfield faded, and he switched on his high beams. “I don’t have a family, Miss Michaels. And I need neither help nor protection.”

  “But—”

  “We don’t have Hunters in the Washington Territory. End of discussion.”

  The weight grew heavier. “If you don’t have Hunters, then who
lives at the pack headquarters?”

  Dammit, she was a nosy female. No wonder Simard had sent her packing. “I do.”

  “With your Beta?”

  “No.”

  “Where does he live?”

  He bit back a sigh. “I don’t have a Beta.” He was also starting to seriously regret promising not to kill her.

  She sucked in a breath. “But—”

  “Enough buts.”

  “But—”

  “My territory, my rules.” He turned so she could see his good eye. “Got it?”

  Her blue gaze was wide—and filled with a hundred questions. She opened her mouth.

  “No more,” he said. “Not tonight.” He looked ahead once more. “I’m too tired. Anything else you need to know will have to wait until morning.”

  She was quiet, but the weight of her stare remained.

  He focused on the road. When Joel called him tonight, the last thing he could have imagined was being stuck with such an exasperating, persistent female.

  An alluring female. One whose floral scent was still teasing his nose.

  “I just have one more question,” she said. “Then I’ll be quiet.”

  Well. There was that, at least.

  “Until morning,” she added.

  He bit back a sigh. “What.”

  “Who else lives at the pack headquarters? Besides you, that is.”

  The road stretched ahead, lofty Douglas firs on either side as they neared Elder Lake. Here and there, lights from pack members’ homes winked through the trees.

  Bard knew what she was asking—and why.

  He also knew he couldn’t put his answer off until morning.

  He didn’t look at her when he replied. It was a chore to turn all the way toward her, sure, but doing so also meant having to see the look on her face when he told her news she probably wouldn’t welcome.

  “Me, Miss Michaels. For as long as you’re in Elder Lake, you’ll be staying with me.”

  5

  Haley’s stomach lurched, and it wasn’t because of the crappy dirt road.

  She grabbed the armrest built into her door to steady herself, then focused all her attention on Bard. “I’m sorry, did you just say I’ll be staying with you? Alone?”