Her Wanted Wolf (2 page)

Fuck! Ambervane. They’d called in the big guns.

If Justice took the time to leave his mate during her difficult pregnancy,
it had to be bad. The worst of his fears germinated, quickly took root, and
sunk thorny tendrils of dread into him.

Drew rose to his feet and whirled around to face his supreme alpha who
approached him on foot. Alone.

Expecting to hear the worst, Drew tensed and braced himself for bad news.

The hard planes on Justice’s face were grim, but Drew recognized the
feral gleam of anticipation in his amber-gold eyes.

They were about to hunt.

“What?” Drew demanded, his gruff question rife with the insidious terror
creeping through him.

A savage smile spread across Justice’s face. “A couple of rogue weres
with Aimee’s spoor on them have been scented.”

A maelstrom of emotions rushed through him like a tsunami. An icy fury
settled in Drew’s belly, and the wolf in him flexed violently, fighting to
break free to exact a bloody retribution. The man, light-headed with elation,
closed his eyes and fought back tears of relief. Shit, he wasn’t about to bawl
like a baby before Justice, or he’d rag on him for the show of emotion for the rest
of his life.

A new kernel of hope blossomed inside him, but he wouldn’t allow himself
to ask whether his sister’s scent was of death or life. Putting his dread into
words might make the unthinkable a reality.

Aimee had to be all right, for his sanity’s sake.

He didn’t need the additional confirmation, but he asked anyway. “Are you
sure it’s her?”

Justice nodded. “She’s alive, but that’s all we can say. Her scent hinted
at illness.”

Black, soul-eating rage blazed through him. Drew shook his head to clear
it. “Where are they?”

Justice let out a choked, deprecating laugh. “Would you believe it? One
of Jackson Roi’s cubs stumbled across them. They’re near the Ozark Plateau,
where we lost their trail.”

Drew frowned. “I searched that area with Jackson. How could we have
missed them?”

“Don’t know, but now that we have their scent-trail, we won’t lose them.
Jackson set a watch on them. They’ll wait until you get there. It’s your hunt
since the offence was committed against your pack.” Justice took the bottle
from him, sniffed at its contents, and grimaced. “I hope you’re not piss-faced
drunk out of your head because I’d have to kick your ass to sober you up fast,
Andy.”

To anybody else it would seem like meaningless banter, but it was
Justice’s way of gauging his condition.

“You can try. This is the first drink I’ve had in a long while. It’s
Gustav’s latest effort. It’s fine if you don’t have any use for the lining of
your stomach. And don’t call me Andy.”

Drew yanked the bottle out of Justice’s hand and poured the contents into
the ground. And he’d be damned if the grass didn’t appear to wither a bit.

“I ought to beat the crap out of you to test your mettle. You need to be
at your sharpest if you’re going up against Bardo and his pumped-up
fore-fighters.”

Drew lifted his eyes to meet Justice’s watchful gaze. “Relax, Mommy. This
isn’t my first dance.”

Justice’s expression changed. The humanity retreated and the primitive
wolf emerged in his eyes. It was Drew’s only warning. He skipped back just in
time to avoid Justice’s lethal claws raking his vulnerable stomach.

Justice grinned. “It seems like you still have few moves left in you. You
know this could be a trap baited especially for you.”

“You think? But I’m a slippery guy, or so I’ve been told.”

Justice laughed. “Well, that’s what the women complain about, anyway. How
do you want to handle this?”

“It’d be best if one wolf went in to do reconnaissance. I don’t want the
scent of my pack dispersed all over the area.”

Justice nodded in agreement. “Then what? I’ll sanction any reprisals you
wish to mete out.”

Drew turned to face the men who’d traveled up the mountain with Justice. They
strained forward to hear him pass sentence. Eight battle-scarred, hard-eyed
fore-fighters bristled with the same suppressed rage he felt. The Redmavens had
taken one of their she-wolves from under their noses and kept her hidden. It
stung, and there had to be some major payback.

Drew lifted his eyes to meet the expectant gazes of his men focused on
him. The concrete resolution he saw in them mirrored his feelings.

“There’s only one way this can end. We’re killing every last son–of–a
bitch who dared to lay hands on my sister.”

Chapter Two

Drifting between sleep and consciousness, Aimee caught bits and pieces of
a conversation. Harsh, unfamiliar voices raised in anger filtered through her
clouded mind. She shifted restlessly, trying to make sense of the words. Why
couldn’t she understand?

Fragmented memories and impressions of traveling long distances flitted
through her head. As hard as she tried to connect the jigsaw puzzle to form a
clear picture, the wispy images drifted away like smoke.

Everything was so heavy. To think was a strain. Her body, weighed down by
an oppressive lethargy, kept her floating. Something wasn’t right.

Sleep lured her back into sweet oblivion, but the menacing snarls and the
recognizable slap of flesh slamming against flesh, signifying a fight, pulled
her closer to full awareness. Frightened by the coppery odor of blood and the
presentiment of danger, Aimee clawed her way to consciousness.

Her eyelids fluttered open to searing brightness. Turning her head away
from the light, she blinked to give her sensitive pupils time to adjust.

God, she was so tired and thirsty. Tentatively, she licked her lips. They
were cracked and peeling, and dried blood tasted metallic on her tongue. Aimee
forced her eyes to stay open, and her breath hitched in her throat when
unfamiliar moss-covered stone walls came into focus. This was so wrong. She was
in the city, wasn’t she? Squinting at the light source, Aimee noticed that the
eye-searing beam wasn’t coming from a light bulb but a lantern.

The long shadows cast on the walls doubled, then tripled. They flickered
back and forth, doing an arrhythmic boogie. She let out a high-pitched squeak
when they sprouted arms and gaping mouths. Black bottomless maws grew wider and
wider the longer she stared into the images. She shut her eyes in an act of
self-preservation. The darkness she’d just pulled herself out of threatened to
swallow her up again.

They’re not real. They’re not real.

Aimee concentrated on what she knew was true. There were no such things
as ghosts. Terrified and exhausted, she opened her eyes again, fearful she
wasn’t imagining things. She sagged with relief when all she saw were the
chalky walls.

What the hell was she doing here? The last thing she remembered was
dancing in a club the night before. Was it the night before?

Groggily, Aimee pushed herself up into a sitting position. She listed
from side to side as if the world shifted on its axis. Hit by a wave of nausea
and dizziness, she swallowed hard to keep whatever threatened to come up from
spewing out. Dry heaves racked her body, sapping her pitiful reserve of energy.

Panic sent a gush of adrenaline pumping through her body.

Have to get away, have to get away.

The single coherent thought pummeled her. She rolled over onto her knees
and pushed up onto her feet. Crap. She wobbled on rubbery legs, and stepped off
the sleeping bag. The shock of the cold ground under her bare feet pulled her
out of the fugue state that held her in its grip.

Dragging dank air into her lungs in great gulps, she wavered, but managed
to stay vertical. Aimee’s heart raced like she’d run a marathon while hopped up
on speed. For a moment, she’d have bet good money she’d fall back on her ass.

A frigid layer of sweat coated her shaking body, but she gritted her
teeth. She took a faltering shuffle forward. The outdoors beckoned. She could
smell it. Tangy sap, loamy dirt, the scent of freedom, all encouraged her to
move forward.

Only a few steps more.

A cloud of musk filled her nostrils, and she stopped her slow sluggish
shamble forward. A male were’s scent, rich with his virility, flavored the
breeze. Her nose twitched as she drew in the fragrance to pinpoint its source.
Alien. Aimee didn’t recognize the were. The fine hairs on her body rose.

Her head jerked up, and she looked up into the face of Oberon come to
life. Dazedly, she gaped at the man standing before her. Who would have thought
that the king of the fairies could get a shiner? Naahh, a fairy prince would be
fair-haired, aglow in lightness, not dark and brooding. He wouldn’t be
muscular. He’d be leaner and dressed in a bejeweled velvet doublet, hose and
thigh high boots. And a codpiece. She heard a giggle, and looked around to see
who laughed. Did that come from her?

To her fuzzy brain, the man morphed into the were of her dreams. Only
hotter and better hung than anything she fantasized about. His shoulder-length
ebony hair caught the moonlight, framing a face with high Slavic cheekbones, a
firm jaw, and a beautiful mouth. His lips alone conjured up images of prolonged
foreplay. He’d nibble his way up and down her body, culminating with him giving
her core a long, hot licking. After all, this was her hallucination.

“You’re beautiful,” she blurted out. “I could chew on your mouth. It’s a
work of art.” Aimee grinned sappily at him. “I didn’t know I could wax poetic
about a hot guy.” The disjointed thoughts went straight from her brain and
popped out of her mouth. She frowned at him. “Did I just say that out loud?”

“I’m afraid so.” Fantasy man’s mouth lifted up on one side, forming a
sexy half-smile.

“Oh, well, no matter. This is a dream, right? Or is it a nightmare? Have
you come to save me?”

“I will keep you safe, no matter the cost.”

As Aimee’s jumbled brain tried to grasp the significance of his words,
she frowned at him, confused. She reached for him, and his huge hands clasped
her icy, trembling ones. They warmed her chilled fingers. Hot hands, cold
heart? The random thought danced through her head. Aimee shook her head to
clear it.

I will keep you safe.
The melodious bass of his voice echoed in
her head like thunder as her knees buckled. He gathered her close to stop her
from falling flat on her face, and she burrowed into his warm chest, drawing
heat from him.

“Don’t leave me,” Aimee pleaded as her vision clouded.

“Not while there’s breath in my body,” he promised, and lifted her off
her feet.

“Ah, you’re a prince of a were after all,” she mumbled as the world went
black.

* *
* *

Aimee opened her eyes and blinked wearily. She tried to keep them open
but her eyelids slid shut to stop the world from spinning. Her head felt like
she’d had a really good time last night. The problem was she didn’t remember
anything, much less enjoying it.

The little man with the anvil was pounding away in her head. This was no
ordinary hangover. If she found out someone had slipped something into her
drink, she was going to hunt them down and practice doing maritime knots with
his dick.

Okay, she could do this. How hard could it be to keep her eyelids up?
Aimee grimaced with the effort.

She eased her eyes open millimeter by millimeter, seeing no point in
rushing it. This smallest of tasks took a lot of concentration.

The memory of waking up before came rushing back. Erotic images warred
with the nightmarish. Had
she dreamed of cuddling up to a hot fantasy
were? The vague, disturbing memory of a needle pricking her arm before she
plunged into oblivion flitted through her head. It didn’t make sense.

Sucking back a quaky breath, Aimee took in her surroundings. The walls
were damp with lichen and lacy roots dangled from the ceiling. She was in a
cave. That would explain the gritty, uneven surface biting into her backside through
the thin bedroll.

“Ah, you’re finally awake.” The pleased chirp dragged her from her
observations.

Aimee’s eyes shifted over to the man who’d spoken. The owner of the voice
looked like a cherub. He was short-limbed, a little on the plump side with lint-pale
hair, guileless blue eyes, and the pinkest softest cheeks she’d ever seen on a
man.

She sniffed him. He smelled like a were, musky with a hint of the forest,
but he lacked the long, lean, predatory physique of one. Using her
scent-memory, she attempted to determine which pack he belonged to, but she
couldn’t place him.

The dank moldiness of the cave, mixed with other vapors, filled her
nostrils. Aimee sifted through the mix of odors, seeking a familiar scent, like
a pack brother or sister. Nothing in the air gave her a hint of who brought her
here, or where she was.

Comprehension scattered the last remnants of fog from her brain. She was
far from home, with strangers—therefore, in deep shit.

The odd little were took her wrist to test her pulse. His fingertips were
as smooth as a baby’s cheek.

Terrified, but determined not to let it show, she eased her forearm away
from his too-soft touch. “Who are you?”

“Me? I’m Milo Redmaven, but they call me the Chemist.”

Aimee’s stomach lurched with dread. “Did you say Redmaven?” She inched
away from him, using her palms to push back. The effort left her breathless and
sweating.

“Yes, don’t struggle. You had a bad reaction to the cocktail of chemicals
we shot into your system. You’ll experience some residual weakness in your
limbs, and hallucinations, but I think you’ll recover quickly. Bardo has plans
for you.”

“You son-of-a-bitch.” Aimee struck out at him, her claws easing through
her fingertips sluggishly. He caught her fist with a strength that belied his
benign appearance.