Treeland Pack Tales 3: A Trace of Ivy (5 page)

He waved for her to precede him, followed her in, and then a
quiet snick from behind told her the double doors had locked. She searched for
another exit and didn’t see one.

Worse, the moment he let go of her, she craved the comfort
of his touch. Stockholm syndrome, anyone? Whatever. She was beyond sick, moving
toward pathetic.

“Please consider this your home for as long as you stay.” He
disappeared into the recesses of the apartment.

There were those courtly manners again, throwing her back
into the land of confusion. Monsters never bothered with such courtesy.

She stared at the twin couches forming a conversation area
between a wall of glass and another of marble surrounding a giant fireplace.
The beasts hadn’t lived this well either.

He returned before she’d finished gaping at the stunning
view of city lights. Lights she didn’t recognize. He opened one of a pair of
bottled waters and nudged it into her hand. “Drink. You need to hydrate.”

“Where am I?” She waved toward the unfamiliar city.

“Treeland.”

A long way from San
Francisco.

“You must be hungry.”

She took a long swallow and considered refusing food. Her stomach
had given up on nourishment hours ago. But then this was another house of
horrors, wasn’t it? The view and the posh decor didn’t change her prisoner
status. This time the jail had only one guard. He had to sleep sometime. She
needed strength to survive and escape. “Yes.”

“Do you eat steak?” He snorted as if amused. “Of course you
do, there are no vegan werewolves. I’ll get the grill started.”

Werewolf? Me? He’s got
to be joking. I’m not a monster—no matter what Kat and Tess think
. Surely
turning an almost normal person into a beast involved more than a tiny nip. Her
stomach lurched alarmingly. She rubbed the still-painful bite on her upper arm,
then casually slipped her fingers inside the sleeve, hoping she hadn’t bled on
his jacket. “Are you cooking the meat?”

Chet scowled at her question. “Of course.”

The rogues never
bothered
sat on the tip of her tongue. For once she kept her ugly thoughts
to herself.

He leaned against the wall, looking way better than any
normal man in jeans and an incredible pink dress shirt. “Is Ivy short for
Olivia?”

“Yes. Do you have something washable I could wear?” she
asked, afraid to explore his immaculate private space on her own for fear of
bleeding on something irreplaceable. The apartment’s unexpected luxury was
almost as disconcerting as rotting meat scraps and motorcycles in the living
room. A wave of nausea hit along with the toxic memory leak. She swallowed
against a tide of rising bile.

“First door on your right, help yourself to anything you
like.”

She lurched down the hall, hoping the first door led to
amenities that included a bathroom.

The bedroom, done in rich earth tones, was frighteningly
tidy. She didn’t have time to gape at the furnishings, yanking open the first
of a pair of interior doors.

Luck was with her. She sank to her knees in front of his
pristine toilet and retched.

Once her stomach was empty, she peeked through the vanity’s
drawers. The top left yielded toothbrushes still in their original packaging.
Obviously the man was prepared for spontaneous overnight guests. She stripped
one brush of its protective cover, applied toothpaste, and scoured her mouth.

But then he wasn’t a man, was he? She kept forgetting he was
her new jailor. No matter how delicious he smelled.

The subtle scent of verbena drew her to a glassed walk-in
shower. Body soap and half a dozen showerheads promised irresistible
cleanliness—at least on the surface. Nothing would clean away the monsters’
filth from her insides. She stripped. After folding her borrowed emergency
clothing—the blanket and his jacket—she set them on the closed toilet and
turned on the shower. Steam rose. She entered the enclosure. Hot water pelted
her from every direction, washing away the stink still clinging to her skin.
The citrus soap lathered rich and creamy and reminded her of Chet. Heaven.

She was in so much trouble. She actually liked her new
captor. And that made him more dangerous than any of the monsters.

CHET ROLLED UP his sleeves and scrubbed a couple of bakers
while the oven heated. He imagined Ivy raiding his wardrobe and grinned like a
sap. Unusual for him to tolerate a female in his unit. She seemed to fit in
with the rest of his favorite things. Perfectly natural for him to be indulgent
and allow her a few liberties, considering she’d been through hell.

He drew the cork from a French Syrah to let the wine
breathe, and set out a pair of goblets. A quick fridge inventory gave him a
green light to make a beet salad. After he’d set two places in the dining room,
Ivy still hadn’t returned. The apartment had top-notch security, but she’d only
regained consciousness a while ago. She might have fallen. What the hell had he
been thinking to leave her alone?

The door to the master bath stood ajar. Chet bolted through
the entrance into a cloud of steam. He turned on the exhaust fan. The mist
cleared, revealing a neat stack of immaculately folded wool on the toilet.
She’d taken such care with his things. He sighed, appreciating her
thoughtfulness. Another incident of sappiness on his part, not that he tracked such
nonsense.

After he dropped the pile in the dry cleaning hamper, his
focus locked on the naked female in his shower. Water beaded on the glass
doors, enhancing her perfection.

He yanked off his boots and socks, tossing them behind him.
A perfectly good dress shirt lost its buttons as it went the way of the
footwear. He undid the top two buttons, then skimmed the jeans and boxer briefs
down his flanks and kicked them aside.

His horny old wolf drooled at Ivy’s bare backside, and his
cock stood at attention, eager to play. There was no way to hide his erection.
Confident he had control of both his animal and his hard-on, he stepped into
the shower.

She stood under a torrent of water, facing away from him.
Wet blonde hair streamed down her back almost tickling her butt. She was all
long elegant bones and taut pale skin. He reached for the shampoo and poured a
generous dollop into his palm. “How about I wash your hair?”

“I’m not ready for sex.” Her voice quavered.

The sharp scent of her fear stung his nostrils and raked his
heart. He tamped the surge of rage for the torture the rogues had put her
through. This was not about him. She did not need to deal with his helpless
anger. He had to find the right balance between comfort and firmness or he
would have to leave. Plus he needed to stay calm and in control while he fought
his own instincts. He swallowed a sigh and cranked down his wolf’s suggestions.
She wasn’t furry, and neck nips weren’t likely to accomplish anything except
freaking her out even more.

“Didn’t think you were,” he said too gruffly and began
working the lather into her scalp, careful to avoid the slight bump at the base
of her skull. A different angle, a sharper rock, a bit more impact, and she
might not have woken up. She was still frightened, but she had not run or
cowered, so she trusted him at least a little. He massaged her head reverently,
aware what a rare gift he’d been given.

For long seconds she stayed iron-maiden rigid. At last she tilted
her neck to give him more access. “That feels incredible.”

“You do not need to worry. Nothing will happen between us
without your consent and desire. I do not believe in nonconsensual play.” He
continued the massage down her nape and across slight shoulders.

He held still, ready to leave if she asked. The biting tang
of fear gradually evaporated with the steam. Ivy leaned against his chest.

At last, the skin-to-skin, full-body touch he’d hungered
for, but wasn’t crazy enough to hope for, happened. Her perfect butt nestled
against his hard thighs and provided a cushion for his heavy balls. His wolf
settled back with a sigh of contentment.

He knew exactly when she recognized the pole pressing her
spine. She tensed. Fresh fear nipped his nose. “That’s nothing for you to be
concerned about. Werewolves are sensualists, easily aroused, but I’m not a pup.
I control my wolf and my cock.”

She flinched, putting distance between them. His wolf howled
while the man clamped his jaw. His reassurance hadn’t erased her fear. The
brief sensual spell had been broken.

Peter and the Wolf
played from his jeans pocket. Chet ignored Daniel’s rotten timing and wielded
the hand sprayer, rinsing every bit of shampoo from his female’s hair. Even
without the body contact he craved, he enjoyed caring for her more than he
would have believed possible. Both he and his beast approved of her natural
scent layered with his favorite soap. He swallowed a possessive growl,
remembering how she’d stiffened in his arms earlier.

Her toes began to prune from the water, so he turned off the
shower, grabbed a bath sheet for her, and swathed his hips in terry. Once he’d
snuggled her in the fluffy towel, he sat her on the closed toilet and used hand
towels to rub her hair dry. When her heavy locks were only damp, he dug out a
wide-toothed comb and began working out the tangles, starting from the ends.
The long mane was streaked with dozens of subtle shades of natural blonde and
brown. He wondered if her wolf would have the same tawny coloring.

She made little cries of contentment like a pup with a full
belly and a patch of sunny grass for rolling. A pleased-with-her growl escaped
his lips.

“Tell me that was a happy noise,” she teased, but her eyes
were full of wary glints.

“Absolutely.” He started to grin and then worried his smile
was too feral. He ducked his head and concentrated on undoing a troublesome
knot.

“I guess werewolves are a lot like regular people—some mean
and dangerous and others kind and gentle.”

He thought about letting her speculation go with a nod, but
lying, even silent lying, wasn’t a good basis for anything real. And he found
that he wanted real with her very much.

“Werewolves may look like ordinary people, but we’re
fundamentally different, and we’re all dangerous.” She didn’t start screaming—a
good sign. He kept combing.

“Are you allowed to tell me what makes werewolves
different?”

“Staying off the grid is our general rule one. So if you
were human, no.”

“You seem certain that I’m…not altogether human. Why?” Her
big, moss-green eyes held a lot of worried puzzlement.

“My nose tells me you’re a Beta.”

“Your nose is never wrong?”

“Not yet.” He smoothed the silky sections he’d untangled.

“Then this is a first for you. I haven’t grown fur and
started howling yet, and the monster bit me more than a day ago.”

“You don’t turn into a werewolf because a rogue bites you.
In order to shift, you have to be born wolf.”

“I wasn’t, so that’s never happening.”

“How well do you know your parents?”

She was quiet for so long, he wondered if she was going to
answer. “I don’t know my father. My mother died when I was a toddler, but they
were human.”

Her tone had been defensive and worried. He kept his own
voice carefully neutral. “Who raised you?”

“An excellent nanny and a series of exclusive boarding schools.
At twenty-one I received access to a trust fund that ensures I will never want
for anything, so don’t you dare pity me.”

“Wouldn’t think of it.” Her childhood might have been less
frightening, but it sounded every bit as lonely as his.

“And forget about me keeping quiet. I didn’t swear any pack
loyalty oath.”

She was still scared and giving him attitude anyway. Damn,
he liked her. “Staying off the human radar isn’t an oath. It is a matter of
survival. Humans have a long history of hunting and killing what scares them.
Rogues are scary—no argument. Hunting them to protect humans and the pack is a
big part of what enforcers do.”

“Is that what you are?” The odor of her fear grew, making
Chet blink back tears from the sharp sting. He reminded himself she was scared,
and she hadn’t grown up in a pack. Most likely her only exposure to werewolves
had been bad books, worse movies, and abusive rogues. She had no idea what
being wolf meant.

Where to start? With
the good stuff, dolt
. He gave himself a mental shake.

“Werewolves live longer. We’re much faster, stronger, and
healthier. Werewolves have keener senses, especially smell.” He finished
undoing the last snarl and took his time putting away the comb to order his
thoughts.

“How much longer do you live?”

“Depends on the type of wolf.”

Ivy met his eyes in the mirror. “What kind of wolf are you?”

“Alpha.” He admitted, already uncomfortable with where this
was leading.

“As in Alpha male?”

“Yeah, but there are Alpha females too. The designation has
more to do with personal power than physical size.”

“The pack leader is an Alpha, right?” She cocked her head.

“Always.”

“But that’s not you?”

“No.” He hurried on to more general topics. “Our political
structure is different—more like a feudal system than a democracy. Packs are
run by an Alpha. In turn those pack leaders answer to a sardar.”

A gentle chiming interrupted his monologue.
Fuck, I shouldn’t have ignored Daniel’s
call. He’s going to try to take Ivy away from me. I can’t allow that.

The doorbell pealed again. It was too late to beg Ivy to
refuse to leave, which was the only thing he could think of that would make his
Alpha back down. He was royally fucked.

Ivy tucked the terrycloth more securely over her slender curves
and lifted her gaze to him. “Are you expecting company?”

“I should have been,” he muttered. “That’s the pack leader,
Daniel. His mate—wife—Scarlet will be with him.”