Her Wanted Wolf (10 page)

Inexperienced as she was, Sabine recognized the heat and need in his
gaze.

She gave him a jerky nod and exited the basin, trying her best not to run
like a frightened rabbit.

She needed the oblivion of sleep, to blot out the images of a wet, naked
Lunedare in all his masculine glory.

Ishbel’s teasing laughter followed her down the hill as she stalked away.
She didn’t want to think about him, or about the precarious position they were
in anymore. She deserved a short period of respite and she was taking it. Come
tomorrow, nothing would be the same. She’d cling to the familiar for one more
night.

Chapter Eight

Aimee pushed back her lank, sweat-dampened hair from her forehead and
gripped the reinforced bars of her cage. She hated the enclosure, but as Micah
pointed out, it was as much to keep the male weres out as to keep her in. The
shortage of women made it open season on the unattached females. She almost
missed the cave.

Bardo had abruptly relocated his pack. She hadn’t needed to fake
feebleness as Micah had suggested. The debilitating effects of Milo’s
concoction lingered in her system. Micah had to carry her from the cave, over
countless miles through the forest on his back to rendezvous with the
windowless panel truck, which transported them to her new jail. Hoping to
facilitate in her rescue, she used up a lot of energy to shift into were form,
and she’d shed spoor as much as she was able on their long journey.

They’d driven for days on end to a city. The raucous cacophony of sounds
emitted by constant traffic grated on her frazzled nerves. At first, she had no
idea where they were, since she’d been so turned around.

The humidity gave her the first clue that they’d headed south. The
moisture in the air made the thin tank and cotton pants she wore cling to her
skin. The briny tang in the air, which mixed with the greasy aroma of engine
oil tainting the atmosphere, could only come from the ocean. It left a bad
taste in the back of her mouth. They were on a coast, and judging by the soft
drawls carried on the air, she figured they were in southeast. Micah finally
told her they were in Savannah, Georgia. And there they stayed and waited. For
what, Aimee didn’t know.

Aimee looked around the huge, overcrowded warehouse, and her contempt for
the Redmavens’ alpha went up several notches. They were jammed in the limited
space like sardines. The few women and young were huddled in a corner behind a
protective barrier made up of their mates, fathers, and brothers. They looked
downtrodden and, in spite of her situation, she felt pity for them.

The heat generated by the corrugated metal walls added a claustrophobic
uneasiness to the tension in the room. There wasn’t any electricity to power
the dust-laden ceiling fans, which would stir the stale air filling the room.
Worse yet, the single washroom with a toilet and sink were woefully inadequate
for their needs.

Aimee was puzzled. She was acquainted with the were whose marked
territory was nearby. The concentration of unfamiliar were spoor should have
alerted Royal Sinclair. She couldn’t understand why he or hadn’t any of his
pack hadn’t investigated infringement so close to his territory. He’d contact
Drew.

She bet that creep Milo had something to do with it. He strutted in and
out of the place every few days with a smug grin on his sunburned face. Guess
the warehouse wasn’t good enough for him. Aimee wrinkled her nose. Who could
blame him?

The restiveness of the Redmavens grew each day because of Bardo’s
unexplained absence. The room hummed with a leashed violence. It wouldn’t take
much for a full-scale brawl to break out.

She was trapped in a room full of horny, pumped up weres, and her
breeding cycle was about to begin. She’d barely noticed at first. She’d ignored
it, believing it was the stress from her captivity. Then the unusual heaviness
in her pelvic area grew each day. It was wishful thinking on her part that it
was going to go away. Very soon, she’d started to emit the scent to lure in a
mate. Talk about being screwed.

Having lived all of her life in the wide-open spaces of the Rockies, she
found being cooped up like this the nearest thing to hell she could imagine.
And her personal devil was staring right at her.

Rifkin.

He grinned at her and cupped his crotch suggestively, looking even more
intimidating in the fatigues and steel-toed shit-kickers he favored.

He scared her spitless. She licked her lips, but her parched tongue did
little to dampen them. She’d thirstily consumed all the fluids she’d had on
hand. Rejecting the water Rifkin offered earlier added to her tally of insults.
Her fear must have shown on her face, because Rifkin leered at her with a
lasciviousness full of unvoiced threats.

The perspiration coating her body brought on by the heat was replaced by
the cold sweat of terror. She dreaded the moment Bardo Redmaven rescinded his
order she wasn’t to be touched.

Rifkin had become her personal nightmare. She’d seen him transform into
his were-form to become a black mass of sheer power. He’d barreled forward,
knocking people out his way like ninepins. What horrified her most was the way
his grotesquely elongated fangs cut through the chest of his opponent like a
scythe.

Aimee had seen kills before. In the inherently violent society she
belonged, fights to the death occurred often. Yet, the image of the blood and
detritus that splattered everyone and everything in the room as he literally
shredded the hapless opponent etched itself permanently in her mind. The smell
lingered as a warning not to cross him.

Rifkin used Bardo’s absence to build a power base. He swayed most of the
malcontents and bullied the lesser betas into submission. Some of the few he
tried to persuade…Well, their pelts were riveted to the wall, the stench a
constant reminder of what could happen if you opposed him. Maintaining order
was his excuse. Every were who wasn’t one of his cronies was on edge.

With growing dread, she’d watched the balance of power in the Redmaven
pack shift subtly over the couple of weeks since they’d moved her here. By her
calculations, the one person who stood between her and Rifkin, Micah’s name would
come up for long-range patrol in the rotation soon. The fore-fighters he ran
with would go with him, leaving her vulnerable.

Aimee dragged her gaze from her nemesis to look over at to the single
exit with longing for the outdoors. Even if she managed to pick the lock on her
pen, she’d have to evade the Redmavens in her enervated state. She’d never make
it.

Aimee forced back her rising panic, and gave Rifkin a snarky, kiss-my-ass
smile, loaded with her disdain and contempt for him. She was a Lunedare, she
reminded herself.

We don’t take crap from anybody.

And since she didn’t, Aimee flipped him the bird.

His smirk twisted into a heavy scowl. How much longer she would have the
small pleasure of flashing him the finger, Aimee didn’t know, because she felt
her time was running out.

Rifkin sprang to his feet and charged in her direction.

Aimee scuttled back until her back hit the sun-heated zinc wall. If Micah
was here, Rifkin wouldn’t have dared, but her protector was out on a supply
run. She hoped to God he returned soon.

As if in answer to her prayer, the door swung open and Micah Redmaven
stood in the doorway, tension and wariness coming off him in waves. He looked a
little worse for wear. His lower lip was swollen and split, and a raw abrasion
glistened wetly on his cheekbone as it healed.

His eyes zeroed in on her, and his stance relaxed. Then he studied the
weres in the room. Micah’s gaze met Rifkin’s narrow-eyed stare for few a tense
seconds. Not at all intimidated, Micah quirked a brow.

Rifkin bristled and glared at Micah again as if he were a thorn in his
paw he couldn’t pull out. The animosity between the two weres was tangible.

Micah gestured to the door with his head. “The pickup needs unloading.”
He sauntered across the debris-strewn floor, passing through the path opened
for him by the weres in his way.

The smell of Chick-Fil-A wafted over to her. To her embarrassment, her
stomach gurgled like a drain. The grim line of Micah’s lips softened into a
gentle smile.

“I hope you remembered the ketchup. Fries aren’t fries without a good
dollop of Heinz.” Aimee peered down into the sack Micah held open for her. The
familiar white bag with its red logo and the bottle of vitamin water were there
as he’d promised. To her delight, he’d added a treat, a cellophane-wrapped
package of peanut brittle. She was tempted to eat dessert first. The short
container of coffee took her by surprise. Espresso worked like high-octane fuel
to weres. Since she was caged, there was no need for a boost.

“I live to please. There’s enough in there to dilute the grease soaking
the potatoes. There’s an additional treat in there for you.” He reached through
the bars and his knuckles brushed across her cheek. His green eyes skimmed over
her clouded worry. “Eat and drink as much of this as you can. You need to
rebuild your strength.”

“The grease will go a long way in padding my hips. Maybe you’ll stop
trying to fatten me up.”

His eyes dropped down to her pelvis. “I like full hips on a woman.”

Aimee caught his hand. “What happened?”

“Just a small difference of opinion between me and one of Rifkin’s boot
lickers. Nothing to worry about.” His gruff reply dismissed her concern.

Nothing, her left foot. Something had happened, and it was bad. She
glanced over at the weres Micah led with a silent unspoken command. The
grimness on their faces told a story. They were ready for a
no-holding-anything-back fight.

She looked up at Micah’s face and sighed. Slashing black brows highlighted
his green eyes with a ring of black ring around his iris, revealing his were
blood. His stubborn jaw had a slight dusting of stubble, making him look even
more like a disreputable pirate.

Aimee inspected him hungrily, love and concern taking in every new nick
and bruise. He was in as much danger as she. Fate was a contrary bitch. Aimee,
daughter of the Lunedare pack, was head over heels in love with a Redmaven,
their sworn enemies.

Micah reached into the bag she held and tapped on the coffee cup lid. “Save
that until I say when.” He stroked her fingers, and she looked up to meet his
gaze. Aimee drew reassurance from the slight contact, but frowned up at him in
confusion at the silent insistence in his stare. She stifled the questions on
the tip of her tongue and nodded to signal she’d do as he asked.

“What the hell took you so long, Micah?” Rifkin’s raspy voice intruded
into their preoccupation with each other.

Micah didn’t turn around to acknowledge Rifkin. Keeping his back to him
was an insult. No were would turn his back on another if he considered him a
threat. “I went to get supplies. What’s your problem?”

“Don’t have one. I just wanted you back in time for you to take up your
post here so I can patrol the outer perimeter.” The hair rose on Aimee’s arms
as Rifkin’s thin lips spread in a smug smirk.

“I know what needs to be done, and I sure as hell don’t need you
breathing down my neck.” Micah took hold of her hand to calm the tremors.

“Bardo left me in charge.
You
need to remember that.”

“No, he left you to see to the safety of this compound, like a
rent-a-cop.”

Micah delivered the insult with a twist of his lips.

Aimee’s mouth dropped open. Micah never, ever went out of his way to piss
Rifkin off. He ignored him most of the time. What was he up to?

Rifkin let out a throaty growl. “He trusts me to keep you all in line.”

“Trust you? Shit, man, he doesn’t trust any of us. If he did, he’d have
told us what he’s hunting back at the caves. Have you wondered what he has Milo
mixing with his little chemistry set?”

“Milo? He’s not fore-fighter material, so he’s no threat.”

Mica turned around. “You’re oblivious, aren’t you? Something is cooking
and he’s keeping us out of the loop. This tells me Bardo’s not sure of either
one of us.”

The people nearby began to surreptitiously backing away, creating a
clearing space between Micah and Rifkin.The animosity between the sparring
wolves rose with each word exchanged.

“Do you ever wonder what will happen to you when he realizes you’re
positioning yourself to challenge him?” Micah asked Rifkin casually.

Rifkin’s sly smile gave nothing away. “Who says I am? It’s all
conjecture. However, if I ever become alpha of this pack, you’d make a passable
primo.”

“Kiss my ass.”

“I’d rather kiss hers.” Rifkin puckered his lips in Aimee’s direction and
made a loud smacking sound.

Micah turned to slant his head up at the shrinking hides on the wall.
“I’m sure you would, but you won’t get the chance.”

Rifkin’s eyes shimmered with malice. “It’ll be interesting to see what
Bardo will think of how attached you and the she-wolf he’s marked as his
breeder have become. Maybe your pelt and hers will join my collection on the
wall. I’ll offer my services to scrape hers clean. It keeps the stench down,
you know.” Rifkin’s taunt elicited a reaction from Micah.

The muscles in his back bunched. Aimee pressed her palm against Micah’s
back. His transformation into a were began with the emergence of his fur, but
just as quickly, it receded.

“Cause her any harm, Rifkin, and it’ll be you and me.” Micah’s baritone
dropped into his chest and his words rolled out like a thunderous threat.

Rifkin widened his stance and puffed out the upper part of his body
aggressively. “If you weren’t Bardo’s bitch, we’d have gotten into it already.”

“I’m nobody’s bitch,” Micah replied, his tone bland. “But if you think
you can take me, come on, bring it. Right here, right now.” Micah stepped
forward and the crowd shifted again with a clear line of demarcation. The bulk
of the pack still stood behind Micah.