Releasing the Wolf (2 page)

Never easing his pace, he rose above her. His own eyes streamed with tears, filling hers with fresh ones in response. In her dreams, they didn’t just share sex; they shared loneliness. She really was breaking…

Inside, her ache for him grew to epic proportions. When she clenched around him, it felt as if her soul gripped his.

A sob tumbled out of her…

He fucked her harder, refusing to let her go.

“
Let me in, Lydia … let me in…”

~*~

She startled awake, the ache in her chest, which was always there, radiating from her like heat did from a burn. It was getting worse. Her heart pounded in her ears; her sex ached in a slightly different, but no less painful way.

“Oh, Christ,” she mumbled, still half asleep.

Then she realised the phone was ringing.

“Shit!”

She jumped out of bed, pulling half her sheets to the ground and lunged across her tiny studio apartment to the phone. Too late. The answering machine caught it half a second before she did.

“Crap it,” she mumbled, wiping the sleep from her eyes with one hand, while her other held the phone. Her face felt too hot. She should call in sick, but she needed the cash. Especially the tips – they paid for the bills alone.

The long beep sounded, and her father’s monotone voice filled the room. “Lydia. Just checking in. It’s Wednesday.” Pause. “Take care. ‘Bye.”

She sighed, rolled her eyes and dropped the phone back on the receiver.
Why do you even bother, Dad?

“Every blinkin’ Wednesday,” she muttered under her breath as she rummaged through her underwear drawer for a fresh pair. “Because of something that happened ten years ago.”

Her mother’s almond-shaped eyes flitted through her mind, and the ache in her chest deepened a little … which only led her to remember her night of dream passion.

Suddenly annoyed, she hurled her newly picked yellow knickers across the room, a cry of frustration leaving her lips. This had all started around the same time, hadn’t it? Her dream lover had entered her life as her mother had left it. Freud would have a field day with this one: lack of parental comfort or whatever, translating into dream-sex with some hot dude she could never remember on waking. Some
old
hot dude. She sensed he was middle-aged – that
had
to be something to do with parental issues, not that she had anything against mature men, but why dream about an older guy when she could dream about Channing Tatum? Stupid subconscious. Although, she had to give her subconscious points for dreaming up a damn fine body for her made-up man – yum.

You can’t carry on like this,
whispered her mind.

She cursed and stilled, pushing out all her chaotic thoughts and trying to focus solely on the breathing around her tightened chest. The dreams did this to her recently. She wondered if they’d end up giving her a heart attack. The loneliness – the void, as she called it – was getting too much. Maybe she
was
fucked because her mother had killed herself when she was fifteen, leaving her feeling confused and unwanted, under the care of a father who found it too hard to express his emotions.

Bravo, Lydia! Took you long enough to realise it.

Her eyes caught the open phone book that lay on her desk, a great big red circle around the number of a local therapist she’d found. She couldn’t really afford to see one, but if the ever-present ache she harboured would be healed by it, then maybe it was worth all her earnings. She didn’t want to spend the rest of her life feeling like some hard, cold object was embedding its way deeper into her heart, making the hole there bigger with every month that passed.

At lightning speed, she threw on her clothes, brushed her teeth, scribbled down the number of the therapist and stuffed it into her back pocket, and then headed out of her poxy bedsit to work.

Chapter Two

He tried to open his eyes, although the bruising around them didn’t make it easy.

Was it morning or night?

He’d dreamt again – of
her
. He knew that he’d dreamt, but it was always dark in here, and the minutes had become hours; the days … weeks?

He hadn’t a clue how long he’d been captive for.

Straining against large, silver chains entwined around the entire length of both arms, he winced, then grunted.

His ears pricked to listen for sound. Nothing shifted in the room.

Good, he was alone.

Although his arms felt like the skin had been peeled from them … slowly.

Fucking silver.

He swallowed, and his throat felt as dry as sandpaper.

They were going to leave him like this to die. His time was up anyway. He’d recently turned forty, and forty was the number of doom. None of his kind survived beyond forty when they were alone. Yeah, he had his pack—they’d be freaking out without him there, despite Lawrence’s cool steadfastness—but without a mate all wolves had a death sentence above their heads. He could feel it in his body – the way it was changing, disintegrating from the inside, very slowly, but very surely.

And The Trident were loving it, turning up every now and then to torture him anyway, despite his inevitable demise.

Well bring on your fucking worst.

He spat congealed saliva out of his mouth, pushing away the image of cool, clear lakes, and rain … hell, even the visual of muddy puddles had his stomach clenching with its need for water.

He shook his head to eradicate his thoughts.

They wouldn’t break him.

They couldn’t have his pack.

Never.

~*~

Lydia wrinkled her nose as the smell of cigarette smoke greeted her from the back entrance of the café. How anyone got into the smoking habit was a mystery to her – those things stank, and not in a good way.

Brendan stood with his back to her as he took a drag on an almost expired butt, his blond hair always managing to look shiny and clean despite the hours he spent cooking greasy breakfasts.

Since moving to the market town of Guildford four months ago, she had managed to land herself three waitressing jobs: five nights of the week, she worked in a prestigious theatre restaurant serving stuffy upper class (or wannabe upper class) folk. She hated that job, but it paid her the best and the tips were out of this world when the shows were on.

Saturdays, she worked in a bar in town that got overcrowded with university students – that job was fun sometimes – and two mornings a week, she worked here in
Barry’s
, a biker’s café nestled at the edge of the woods that formed a very tiny part of the Surrey Hills. She liked it here the most, even though it paid the least. She had yet to meet an unfriendly biker around Surrey. Everyone always came here to chill out, meet friends, share their motorcycle passion, and enjoy a hearty – which was surely bad for your heart – fry-up.

“Hey, Brendan.”

The assistant manager, who was also the chef and co-owner of the family business, turned, smiled and extinguished his cigarette against the wall. “Lydia! I was starting to think you were ignoring me.”

“What, because we shared one night of passion a week ago? I can deal. Can you?” She was never one to beat around the bush with small talk. Always best to get straight to the point.

He shrugged. “You said it meant nothing from the start. Fuck-buddies, right?”

“Yeah. That still cool?”

“Sure. Can’t say you suck at fucking.”

She laughed and he grinned, his blue eyes, much lighter than her own, crinkling at the corners.

“So are you out here to tell me my break’s over already?”

“Yeah, your dad wants you back for round three of fry-ups.”

He nodded, but stopped as he walked past her. A biker himself, he had a pretty lean body. She was good at picking up on body language, and she didn’t miss the suggestion in his stance.

“You know—” he began.

“Don’t say it.”

His shoulders stiffened. Because she was already rebuking him. “You psychic now too?”

“I’m not looking for more, you know that. I don’t do relationships. It was one night – we both needed to let off steam. And, heck, it was good. I’d do it again. But not more.”

He contemplated her for a second, then his eyes softened and, thank god, he let it go. “Well, if you change your mind…”

“I won’t,” she sang out after him as he retreated through the back door.

But then he swung around again. “Is it because of Ryan?”

The question froze her to the spot, and that familiar stabbing in her chest announced itself. “How—”

“You said his name in your sleep.”

I talk about him in my sleep?

She shouldn’t have been surprised. She had even felt a stab of guilt getting into bed with Brendan – no wonder dream-boy had reared his head…
You chase off every man that’s ever been interested, and you do it without even trying…

Abruptly, she laughed, and it sounded mildly manic to her own ears. “No, Brendan, it’s not because of Ryan. It’s because I’m fucked up.”

“Right,” he nodded, an unreadable expression falling over his face. Then he grinned again. “I like a challenge.”

He disappeared through the door, and shut it behind him.

This was too much – her dreams were taking over her entire life. With shaking hands, she pulled out her phone from her back pocket, along with the slip of paper she’d written down the number on. Just about managing to press the small buttons, she waited for someone to answer while her heart hammered in her ears.

“Hello, Dr Allbright’s office.”

It was stupid, but she’d picked this therapist because her name sounded all chirpy and happy. “Hi. Um … I’d like to make an appointment, please?”

“That’s fine. Is it your first one?”

“Yes.” Was it that obvious? Did she sound that nervous?

“You’ll need to come in fifteen minutes early and fill out a form.”

“All right.”

“She’s had a cancellation for tomorrow afternoon at two o’clock. Does that suit?”

Oh, god – so soon?
“Yes, that’s fine.”

“Can I take your name?”

“Lydia Martin.”

“I need to tell you that because of the short notice, you still have to pay the full fee if you cancel.”

She scowled. “Fine.”

“Okay, Ms Lydia Martin, you’re booked in for 2 p.m. Please arrive fifteen minutes early.”

Something in the receptionist’s voice irked her. Did she have to say her whole name like that?

“I will,” replied Lydia, forcing herself to smile into the phone.

“Thank you.”

The receptionist hung up, leaving her breathing into the silence and mildly irritated.

“
Lydia!”

She jumped and spun around. Barry, Brendan’s father, poked his head around the door. “Love, I know you still have five minutes, but the hoards are in already.”

“I’ll be right there,” she nodded.

“Thanks, sweetheart.”

The door swung shut again.

A hot flush racked her body and she thought she might faint. Her eyes pricked hot. Shit. She was usually good at fighting colds – this one had taken hold of her and not let go.

Get it together, girl. Just a couple more hours, then you’re done. You can go have a lie down until your evening shift at the restaurant.

Keeping herself in check, she made her way back inside through the kitchen. The smell of frying bacon hit her stomach hard, making it growl loudly –
really
loudly.

“Whoa!” exclaimed Brendan. “Did you have breakfast before you came here?”

“Yeah – sorta.”

“Coffee doesn’t count. Sit down when you’re done serving and I’ll bring you a proper breakfast.”

She didn’t feel up to refusing. Besides, the pressure behind her eyes was getting worse, and that bacon smelled too good. She smiled weakly. “Thanks.”

“You okay?”

“I have a cold.”

He grimaced. “You shouldn’t be here then.”

“I need the money.”

“Take tomorrow off. I’ll make sure you still get your share of tips.”

“Brendan—”

“No buts.” And that was that. He went back to his cooking, and she left the kitchen behind her for the coolness of the small hallway that separated that and the eating area. Without really thinking about it, she leaned her forehead against the wall, the cold of it instant relief to her hot head.