Captive Wolf (Werewolf Erotic Romance) (Amber in Darkness #1) (3 page)

"It's fine, dear." Austin's eyes trailed down Scott's body. "We are in a bit of a rush at the moment, Mister Blackwood. But I would be delighted if you'd join us this evening."

Amber gasped. "You don't mean—"

He shook his head, his brow creasing with annoyance. "No. I mean the club."

She breathed a sigh of relief.

Scott glanced between them, his brows raised. "I'm leaving town this afternoon."

Austin frowned. "Surely you can stay one more night?"

"Are you going to be there?" Scott fixed his gaze on Amber.

She lowered her eyes and nodded.

His desire returned with a vengeance, brushing her mind like a rough lover.

"Possibly," Scott replied.

"Here." Austin handed him a card. "We'll be there around nine."

"I'll keep that in mind."

Austin gently hooked his arm around Amber's waist and steered her toward the main room. "I hope you do," he called over his shoulder.

***

Scott quirked a bitter grin as the two left. It was just as well that he'd ended up with more questions than answers. But that was life, he supposed. Plus he had bigger quarry to hunt.

The wounds had closed up soon after he left the bar, and now there weren't even scabs. Just bruises and knots of pink flesh that itched under his clean shirt. He could still smell his own blood though. That was a cloying, intimate scent which he knew all too well.

Strange day
. Though not his worst by a long shot. At least he had a motorcycle and a leather jacket to show for it.

He gathered the papers and made a brief stop at the copier. Then he trudged upstairs to the small group of secluded offices.

The graduate student was still hunched over his desk, making furious swipes with his pen.

"Thanks for letting me look this over." Scott plopped the files on the table, next to the tall stack of graded papers.

The man glanced up through his thick glasses, his young eyes accented by stress lines. "Sorry you missed Professor Bauersfeld. Hopefully you found something interesting in his ramblings."

"I think I did." Scott chuckled under his breath.

The man slipped his glasses off and cleared his throat. "No one's even asked about this nonsense since I started working under him. Curious that you're the second person to come looking for him today."

Scott arched an eyebrow. "Let me guess. Blond, pale, nice smile?"

"Yeah." The chair creaked as the student leaned back. "Why are you interested in this urban legend bullshit anyway?"

Scott cracked a grin as he turned to the door. "Call it morbid curiosity."

Outside, Scott carefully slipped the copies into his side bag, then mounted the large, cherry red motorcycle. But as he searched for his keys in the unfamiliar jacket, his fingers brushed the little card. Flipping it in his hand, he read the flowery script.
"The Feather Duster,"
complete with a stylized icon of a feather at the end of a whip.

It looked like some kind of fetish night at the local eighteen-and-up club. He couldn't deny the temptation. It was his scene after all, even if this was just college kids fooling around. God, the things he could show them—if he'd been here for pleasure, which he wasn't. Well, if nothing else, it confirmed that the strange pair were legal. He hadn't been inclined to ask, though he had to admit that part of him wanted to.

But he pushed that thought out of his head. He had a fresh lead and he didn't need more distractions right now.

The grad student had done him a big favor, though the man hadn't realized it. Scott was certain that it would have been different if the professor had actually waited for him. Some of those files were marked with bold warnings against duplication and privacy disclaimers. And yet the jaded young assistant had given them all to him without a second glance.

So, of course, Scott had copied them, at least the ones that seemed the most glaringly out of place: gene sequencing and what appeared to be information about a synthesized virus. He'd expected to talk to Professor Bauersfeld about legends and lore, maybe discuss UFO sightings and Bigfoot before they broached the subjects of shapeshifters and magic.

He hadn't expected to find records of bioengineering experiments, real data, and oblique references to werewolves—though they were obvious enough if you knew what you were looking at. But now he had another problem. His instincts told him this was a treasure trove at his fingertips, but the bitter, distrusting edge of his nature whispered "Pandora's box" in the back of his mind. And he wasn't knowledgeable enough to know which was true.

This might be the one time he regretted all those years spent in humanities classes, and his contemptuous disdain for science. How could he have known that a professor of mythology, with an unhealthy fascination for paranormal studies, would lead him in this strange direction?

The other photocopy he'd made had the town of "Pitch" circled with red ink. The memo itself was vague but Scott surmised it to be the location of some kind of laboratory, maybe even the source of this data.

Pitch was two states away, but that could be covered in only a few day's ride. The closeness, the urgency, the tantalizing promise of answers, burned in his blood. Scott loathed to delay his departure.
That's not an option
, he told himself. But his thoughts were tricky, scheming against him, and they led his mind in a circuitous route: back to Amber and Austin.

Even their names had an intriguing ring, like the words would roll off his tongue if he said them out loud—which he wasn't going to do.
Why did she say I needed to leave before it was too late?

He shook his head and revved the earthshaking engine to life.
No.
No more distractions. He needed to get out of this godforsaken town.

As Scott wove the motorcycle along the winding highway, he organized the steps for his next move. He would be off the mountain in half an hour, checked out of the motel in fifteen minutes, a quick stop at a gas station and he could be on his way. If he drove non-stop, he could be there by tomorrow night. Then another seedy hotel and more days patiently staking out the town. His first goal would be to find the connection between the professor and the town. After that he'd have to play it by ear.

The bigger picture was murky and Scott couldn't shake the feeling that he had only one frayed piece of the overall puzzle. Maybe Grayson was right.

Scott frowned; he didn't want to rethink that decision. He'd left for a reason. Despite what the strange werewolf might have taught him about the secrets of the occult, or werewolves, or magic, none of that mattered. He couldn't give the one answer that Scott needed, the singular purpose burning brighter than all his dark memories. How to put an end to the curse?

Grayson, and his mate, Diana, had saved Scott from a nightmare scenario and the near-loss of his mind. While he didn't want to diminish the fact that he was grateful, that was as far as it went. Just one step beyond, and there was a line in the sand.

Scott ground his teeth. No matter what the old man had done, Scott was not about to trust a mystic. Manipulation of elements outside the bounds of perception was not something that sat well with him. It was too easy. Corruptible. Like cheating at cards. Or Rohypnol. Neither of which were his style, so he would have to do this alone.

The smell of lilacs flared briefly in his sinuses.

Scott clenched the brakes and the bike slid sideways, leaving a puff of gray smoke and black streaks on the asphalt. The car behind him swerved to avoid him as the driver leaned on his horn. But he ignored the minor annoyance. Instead his gaze fixed on a lonely road leading up from the highway.

Amber
. The girl with golden eyes that echoed her name: piercing, molten, but sad. Her smell had lingered on his jacket, tempting him with a primitive hunger that churned fast and thick in his blood. It took all his concentration to crush it, forcing it back into the furthest reaches of his mind. Even then, it was clear that she'd sensed it earlier, judging from her flushed face and the way her body had, just for a fleeting moment, molded into his arms.

He hadn't been with a woman in a long time, not since before the curse and a whole world of suffering. Sure he'd had girlfriends in the past, even one who still pained him when he remembered her smile. He'd loved her more than he had any right to.

But he'd always sought the company of men too; those hookups were usually quick and rough—enough to satisfy his dominant streak. The two aspects of his desires didn't harmonize well, so as life got more complicated, he'd spent more time with guys. Truthfully, men wore their needs close to the surface; they were straightforward and blatant, which made everything easier.

He'd seen that in Austin's gaze today, and under any other circumstances he might have pursued it. After all, the boy was his type: slender build, youthful masculinity, enthralling green eyes. But strangely, he hadn't given it a second thought. In fact, part of him had been relieved when the two of them left.

But now, faced with the memory, he recognized his dilemma. He'd been so close to leaving town without thinking of her again.

Scott didn't believe in coincidences. And he loathed the idea of destiny.

Yet her scent was here, sharp, in the middle of the road, like a siren's song calling for him to reconsider.

Another car swerved past him, honking with impatience. Scott shot the driver a look full of daggers. Then he eased the throttle, letting the rear tire spin the bike.

As he slammed one gear to the next, zipping dangerously around the cars on the thin road, he realized the gas gauge was on empty.
Of course
, he thought with a snort.
Just my luck.

As he raced down the last incline, the engine began to sputter but thankfully it got him down the hill before it cut out. Then he just let it coast up to the closest pump.

A young man in greasy overalls stepped out of the station, rubbing his fingers on a dirty rag.

"You almost didn't make it," he laughed as he stepped up to Scott. "Lucky, man."

Scott grunted and handed him one of the fifties. "I'll need the change back." He glanced down at the name printed on the patch over his breast. "Dan."

"Sure." Dan lifted the pump and popped the gas cap off the back. "Hey, this bike looks familiar. You buy it off Bob from the bar?"

Scott lowered his brows.

Dan raised his hands defensively. "It's your business. I don't need to know." Then he crossed his arms. "You should really wear a helmet though."

Scott growled under his breath.

Dan cleared his throat. "I'm just saying. I lost a lot of buddies on the road because they refused to put on a brain bucket. You never know when something unexpected will come out of nowhere."

With the last of his patience wearing thin, Scott turned his back and stared out over dense trees and scattered buildings. The motel was just down the street. All he needed was some gas, then he'd pack up his belongings, and be on his way.

"Well, even if you don't, at least remember to stop and smell the roses. You know what I mean?"

Scott closed his eyes and rubbed his brow. "Now why would I want to do that?"

Dan gave him a confused look. "You might not get another chance to." His brows raised as he stared back with tight lips. "You could be dead tomorrow."

Scott rubbed his chin as the man pulled the pump out and hung it back up. The light smell of lilacs wafted off Scott's fingers from where he'd touched her slender body, struggled with her, where she'd yielded just briefly.

"I'll get you that twenty bucks in change."

"Wait." Scott glanced over his shoulder. "Just bring me a ten."

The man smiled wide, his white teeth gleaming from the light of the setting sun. "Thanks."

As annoying as Dan had been, he was right. There might be times where a whole curriculum full of philosophy classes didn't have anything on the simple words of a gas station attendant. Sometimes you just had to stop and enjoy the moment.

And Scott knew, in a way that was fundamental and bone-deep, that he would never forgive himself if he left without finding out what was going on with those two. He had enough guilt as it was. He didn't need any more.

It wouldn't hurt to stay just one more night.

***

The engine growled like an angry demon as Austin punched the powerful muscle car up the hill. As they pulled up to the rambling old mansion, Amber gave him a smile. It wasn't like she knew anything about cars, but Austin's boat-like black beast was still the coolest one she'd ever ridden in. Angular, striking and loud, she guessed it might be older than both of them put together. Nothing like the boring, nearly-identical cars in the suburbs where she'd grown up.

And she knew he liked to show off for her.

With one foot resting on the dashboard, she spooned up the last of her ice cream and stared up at the towering house. It wasn't so easy to come back to, even though she didn't have anywhere else.

"Thank you for taking me out." She set the empty cup on the dash. "The ice cream was really good."

He chuckled and killed the engine. "I knew you'd like the Cold Stone."

There was the tiniest edge of something in his voice. Apprehension? And a thin hint of an accent she'd never been able to place. It never came out unless he was distracted or tense. Not that he would want any of that to show through his normally cool demeanor. But she'd spent enough time with him. She could tell.

The sun was setting over the hills, casting rays of orange light over the sky, bathing the old multistory building in elongated shadows. The pooling darkness reached for them, grasping, encroaching on Austin's car—the only vehicle that ever parked in the driveway.

"We're pretty late." Amber stepped out onto the worn cobblestones. "Will we get in trouble?"

"Doubtful." He frowned as he closed the car door. "They don't rise this early."

She let out a breath of relief. Every time they did this, her heart raced with anxiety. But after being cooped up in the dark for so long, their rare excursions were the only times she truly felt alive.