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I shoved my jeans over my hips and stepped out of them. He stared at me, nostrils flaring, skin twitching, while the scent of rage rose off his skin. But he was staring at my privates.
“Where are your panties?” he demanded harshly.
“Pocket.”
He grabbed me by the shoulder, then shoved his face in mine as he shoved his other hand between my thighs. My brain locked up. His palm cupped my still-wet sex, and he twitched his fingers like he was about to fishhook my pussy.
“He’s still dripping from you,” Searle snarled while he kept his grip tight. “You came back tothis denwith another male’s cum dripping down your thigh?”
The heel of his palm bore down on my pubis and clit, causing horrifying nerve shocks to snake through my hips. His fingers dug into my lips, almost pushing and folding my labia over up into me, while the offending semen continued to ooze over his fingers.
“Answerme,” he growled, grip tightening further.
How about…no. He crushed my privates, folding my labia upintome, his fingertips about to shove inside me like he was going to scrape every drop of semen out of me. The pressure sent shocks and throbs through my post-orgasm nerves, resulting in an awful pleasure/horror sensation.
He changed his grip slightly, fury building, and he shifted the heel of his palm, sending a jolt through my clit that tore a soft sound from me.
“Maybe I should,” he hissed, “maybe I should make you cum. Forme.”
I didn’t move or make a sound.
He released my shoulder and pulled his hand back, then smeared the wetness over my neck before he hooked my chin in his fingers. His scent burned like ozone and a wildfire.
The skin between my thighs crawled and ached.
He stared at me, seething anddemandingI fill the chasm with words.
You can go. I’ll be okay.
The silver scar on my shoulder danced.
You can go. I’ll be okay.
I whispered, “Poor little rabbit, afraid of the big silver wolf.”
He didn’t even flinch, but he did release me. “Shower. Now. And remember: there’s only one way I willeverallow you to fuck me, andhewon’t be the proxy for it.”
Cruor Alpha
The pages slid out of the copier.Swish swish swish.
I gathered up the small stack and took them to the large, battered work table at the center of MaryAnne’s office in the creepy old basement of the AmberHowl house. The basement had been finished years ago, and had a system in place to keep it from being humid, but it still had a smell to it that was best described ascreepy. Nobody liked being down here. Not even MaryAnne.
Me? I loved it. Mostly because it was the Archives, and down here, I was still Winter, because nobody was going to tell me different.
I settled on the stool and tried not to think about the stone grip of Searle’s hand on my crotch. It had been two days, and it rested in my brain like an unsettling, confusing dream. He acted like it hadn’t happened. I tried to tell myself it hadn’t happened.
I had already sorted the day’s mail, verified pawprints on registration documents, cross-referenced pack affiliations to make any pack roster updates that hadn’t been already sent in but revealed through other documents, separated out two bastard pup registrations, one territory declaration, and one pack application. The pack application was incomplete and incorrect, so I’d drafted the response to save MaryAnne the trouble.
MaryAnne was elsewhere. So that meant it was time to satisfy my curiosity.
I hefted the most recent Volume onto her desk—the one my father had always forbidden me to look at—and flipped through it, skimming the records for my biological father.
It was easy to find. There was a wall of BlizzardFall deaths recorded.
BlizzardFall.
BlizzardFall.
