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It’s clear as fucking day.
When we run in packs with Angelic commanders, we don’t operate the way a lycanthrope might in the wild. But I’ve heard that the free packs, like the one in Austin, have started doing things differently. They have designations supposedly ‘fated to be’, with some as alphas, some as betas, and some as omegas. I don’t know where theygotthis info, but a few wolves in my last unit said we came from ancient lycanthropes far across the stars.
It’s a lot easier for me to just roll with the punches than to think too hard about the fact that it’s very likely I’m an alien werewolf. The Angels have always told us they protect as from our coarse natures, which is great and all, and for a long time, I liked having a pack—even if I couldn’t transform.
But now we’re unleashed.
And Charlotte has made my instincts even more powerful, finally allowing me to take my true form.
I don’t even want to bathe when her scent is all over me. I just want to bask in that glow, to curl up in bed with her and stay here for days while I fuck her silly. And in the state she’s in tonight, she might just enjoy it, and not insist on getting back on the road. She seems just as horny as I am, even without the power of impulse behind her desire.
I’m doomed. Because how the hell can I tell her that she’s mymatewhen she’s been raised her whole life to hate the Blessed?
How can I tell her I almost bit her?
How can I tell her that even if she’s starting to like me, I’m still a monster?
I towel off my hair as I walk toward the bed, the fire burning down to embers. I have no way of knowing what time it is, but I’ll want to snuff that out before daybreak; once the sun rises, the smoke will be a sure signal of our presence. So I throw a bucket of water on the coals, plunging the room into darkness outside of the moonlight peeking through the boarded up window.
Last time I was here, I was with my pack. I was just a kid, and it feels like a lifetime away—but the memories are keen and sharp, surrounded by the debris we left behind. Somewhere in this house is a pile of blood-soaked rags I used to try and staunch my brother’s wound, and his body is buried outside.
Charlotte doesn’t need to know that.
The loss of a pack isn’t something someone just recovers from.
I’m keeping so many secrets.
I selfishly let her touch me without telling her who I really am: a man who’s been running away from my fate for a long, long time. I’ve done horrible things—worse than she could dream of.
But I can’t stay away from her.
I pull on a new set of clothes before I crawl into bed with Charlotte, letting myself curl an arm around her ribs and nestle her close to my chest. Her stomach is soft under my fingers, her round ass against my hips. I’m weak and can’t resist, so I bury my face in her honeyed curls and inhale her, drenching myself in the scent of my mate as a surge of possessiveness rips through me.
The part of me that’s just a man knows I can’t keep her with me if she doesn’t want to stay, but there’s another part—a beastly part—that wants to keep her locked in this old bed and breakfast and fuck her every night, impulse raging through me.
Even now, I resist the desperate need to mate her, to bury my knot in her cunt and lose myself in the sheer bliss of that bond. To bite her, to have her bite me, to dive into that well of pleasure…
I tamp down my feelings, my fingers curling against her sternum as she cuddles into me with a tired sigh. I need to let her sleep; I told her that we wouldn’t do this tonight, and we won’t, not when she needs a clear head to think it through. I’m a selfish, bad man, but I only fuck women who ask me to.
And theyalwaysask.
?
I drift off in Charlotte’s scent at some point in the night, and I don’t wake again until sunlight is peeking through the slats on the window, a beam shining right into my eye. I bury my face in the pillow and hold Charlotte tighter, and she sighs as she stirs, nestling closer to my chest, her back still to me. We must have stayed like this all night.
“Good morning,” she says, her voice thick with sleep. Her hand finds my hip and drags up along my ribs—a bold move for someone who just last night told me she’d never done this before.
My body jerks of its own accord—because, as I’ve told her, I’m ticklish—and I chuckle into the crook of her neck, holding her tight as she stretches against me.
“I’m assuming this means you haven’t changed your mind,” I murmur, my lips against her ear.
“Either that, or I haven’t quite gotten over my concussion,” she says. “I’m just…I don’t know.”
I kiss her neck and she shudders, her fingers curling against my skin. “Talk to me, Sunshine,” I rasp.
“I feel…impossibly hot,” she says. “And not because it’s too warm. Because…” She takes the hand I’ve wrapped around her middle and splays it low on her belly, her hips rolling back against me. “It’s like the heat comes from right here, and it’s been winding tighter and tighter ever since last night.”
Fuck, I know exactly how that feels. And if this were any other girl, and any other morning, I might just suggest we bang it out right now and enjoy the afterglow for the rest of the day.
