Defending Their Mate, Part One: A BBW Shifter Werewolf Romance (The Last Pack) (2 page)

Nice, probably. Maybe even safe. "Okay. I'll try."

"You have to." He straightened from his leaning position against the door jamb, but only to open the refrigerator. The harsh light illuminated his even harsher features as he pulled a bottle of water from its shelves. "Think about Ashley and the baby."

Grace stilled, her heart stopping for one terrifying moment. Ashley was the only other female in the pack, a sweet and generous woman who had worked hard to make her feel welcome and safe. She was the reason Grace had snapped the last time—not to hurt her, but to
protect
her.

"I wouldn't hurt Ashley," she whispered, uncertain until the words left her lips. But they felt true in a way little else had, and her heart started beating again. "I know I wouldn't."

He shut the refrigerator and offered her the bottle. "How do you know?"

Because if things could continue like this, she might not have to hurt anyone else again. Ashley didn't scare her, and neither did Blake, her mate. He was so devoted to Ashley he barely noticed when Grace was in the room.

The others saw Grace. They watched her. And when her body became her enemy again, she'd need things,
them
, so badly the hunger would tear her up inside.

Pain and fear. And if they tried to soothe either, she might tear them to pieces.

Mac was still staring at her. Waiting, holding out the bottle of water. She reached for it and nearly gasped as her fingers curled around the chilly plastic.

She felt hot all over. She pressed the bottle to the side of her face, soothing her flushed cheeks. "Ashley doesn't scare me," she said finally. "It only happens when I'm scared."

"Makes sense." Mac took a step back. "Put the knife under your pillow and try to get some sleep, Grace."

She edged past him, forcing herself to take steady steps. Conflicting desires clashed inside her, the urge to rub against him and the equally strong temptation to bolt and see if he'd chase her.

She allowed herself neither. But she did stop in the doorway and glance back. "Thank you, Mac."

"Anytime."

Grace kept her easy, slow pace until she reached the stairs. Then she scampered up them, her thoughts whirling, her body tensed as if Mac would appear behind her at any moment, his big body curling around hers—

She reached her room and slammed the door behind her. Her heart raced as she leaned against the wood, and she closed her eyes and pressed the water bottle to her throat. It was already warming against her feverish skin.

She clutched the knife to her chest. Her nightmare was coming true. The heat, the intrusive thoughts. Imagining things she didn't want, like being chased, being touched. Like Mac's hands on her body.

Things she didn't want—or shouldn't. It was impossible to tell the difference now. Everything had become a confused tangle, one she couldn't unravel with exhaustion making her slow and stupid.

She set the water on her bedside table and crawled into bed. The knife went under her pillow, and it
did
help. Not just knowing it was there, but knowing Mac had given it to her. She wasn't a prisoner here. She had choices.

If things got too complicated, too
terrifying,
she'd make the choice to protect them all.

She'd leave.

At one time, the basement gym had been more than a luxury. It had been a necessity, a place for them to learn—not how to fight, but how to fight easy. How to moderate force and speed so that their attacks were effective, but not lethal.

Mac had needed it more than anyone. Too often, in the heat of battle, he could feel instinct rising, threatening to take over. The blinding rush was indescribable, something beyond rage or fear. Something primal, and no words existed to explain it.

But Lucas understood. He'd given Mac this outlet, taught him control—and he'd tried so hard to never, ever put Mac in any situations where his control failed him.

He'd tried, and that meant something.

Mac didn't bother wrapping his hands. Usually, he'd hit the speed bag for an hour or so, but tonight, he needed to drive his fists into something solid, feel the force of his blows directed back at him. So he headed for the heavy bag and cleared his mind.

The first blow carried with it too much of his frustration, and the bag swung with a wild shudder. He steadied it for a second blow, pulled himself under control, and hit it again and again, until the world around him blurred into the background, and all that existed was the coarse, primitive satisfaction of
action
.

"She's back in her room."

Mac's muscles were burning, and sweat dripped down the side of his face. He didn't know how long he'd been there, slamming his fists into the worn vinyl, but it had been long enough for exertion to dig its claws into him. Too long.

He punched the bag one last time, then turned and swiped his arm across his forehead. "For now."

Connor leaned against the wall, his expression mirroring Mac's fatigue. "For now, yeah."

Mac's hands were stiff, painful, and he winced as he flexed them. "I gave her a knife. That's probably gonna bite me in the ass."

Connor tilted his head. "Why'd you do it, then?"

Because being unarmed had driven her from sleep, from her room, in the middle of the night. Because she felt helpless, and beyond that lay worse things—suspicion that turned into obsession, and fear that crossed the line into paranoia. "I don't want her to wind up like Serena."

"Your instincts are good. I trust them." Connor pushed off the wall and crossed to grab one of Mac's wrists. "Except when it comes to taking care of yourself. Dammit, Mac, breaking your fingers won't help anyone."

It wouldn't hurt, either. No one but him. "I'm all right, Con."

Connor shook his head, but released him. "None of us are. Everyone's on edge but Blake, and we're going to be until—"

His words broke off, unfinished, but Mac knew. They all knew—until Grace went into heat. She was flirting with it already, flushed and aching. She smelled like she was ready—

But she wasn't, not by a long shot. Not if she still needed to sneak into the kitchen in the dead of night to steal knives.

"We'll deal with it," he said flatly. "Just like everything else."

"We will." Connor sounded a little more confident. "Hey, I know it's scary because she's not happy and trusting like Ashley. But she's not like Serena, either. Serena was...fractured. You
know
that's not Grace's problem."

The people around here sure seemed to
know
a lot of things, and with a certainty that confused the hell out of Mac sometimes. "Serena didn't seem that bad at first, either."

"No," Connor agreed quietly. "But we didn't know what to look for back then. Now we do."

That was true enough. Mac's next words burned in his throat, but he forced them out anyway. "Lucas may be the only one who can make her feel safe enough to mate."

"Mac." Connor nudged him with an elbow. "If you didn't make her feel safe, she wouldn't be cuddled up in her bed. You figured out what she needed."

"For now. The next step is the tricky one." Mac turned to face his packmate. "The next step is that she either uses the knife or doesn't. And that's the killer, isn't it?"

"How long does she have? Could you tell?"

"Depends on how long she fights it, I guess."

Connor paced away, his restlessness finally showing through his calm facade. "And we can't tell her not to fight. So we have to watch her hurt."

"Yeah." Mac snatched the first off the stack of folded towels waiting by the wall. "The one thing guaranteed to drive a house full of werewolves stark, raving nuts."

"Yeah." Connor took a half-hearted swing at the heavy bag. "Lucas'll have to replace half this equipment by the time we're done beating ourselves up in here."

As if they'd be limited to burning off their helpless frustration in the gym. "We've got a fight coming, Con. Can't you feel it?" He draped the towel around his neck. "Even if the Great Lakes pack doesn't want Grace back, they'll still want vengeance for their fallen brothers."

Connor shrugged. "You're right. But no, I can't feel it. I'm pretty far from the wolf right now."

Tension wafted from him in tangible waves, and Mac gave in to the urge to soothe him. He rubbed Connor's shoulders and pressed his forehead to his. "Your wolf is there when you need him. That's what counts."

"Maybe Grace feels it," Connor suggested, "and that's what the knife is for. Not us. Them."

"Sure," Mac replied easily, but the truth gnawed at him.

Grace wasn't afraid of retribution from the pack that had held her captive. She was afraid of herself, of what she was, of her needs.

And she was afraid of him.

Ashley liked to have tea in the afternoon.

Grace had found it odd at first. Tea was so quaint, something for old ladies and rich people and TV shows about lords and ladies who lived in fancy houses. But she'd gone along with it because Ashley was something Grace had never stayed in one place long enough to have before—a friend.

Three months into Ashley's pregnancy, Grace suspected that
tea
had become something else—a chance for Ashley to escape Blake's overprotective hovering for a while. With Mac's words still fresh in her memory—and his knife still under her pillow—Grace wondered if maybe Blake shouldn't be hovering now.

But Ashley was all smiles as she poured the tea. "Blake finished the crib. Do you need anything custom done before he puts all his tools away?"

Grace's room was already full of sturdy, comfortable furniture. She wouldn't know what to do with anything nicer. "No, I have more than I'm used to already. Though if Connor keeps giving me things, I'll need new shelves."

The woman's smile turned rueful. "Then you may as well go ahead and ask for more shelving."

Bringing up Connor was a mistake. The itching beneath Grace's skin only grew worse when she thought about him. He was worse than Mac in some ways, because the earnestness in his eyes made her want to soothe him. Touch him, the way Ashley touched Blake when he was anxious. And that was wrong, all wrong. Because Mac could handle her if she turned mean, but Connor...

Connor was
sweet
.

Ashley was watching her, so Grace covered her awkward silence by sipping her tea. It had already begun to cool—or maybe she was so hot, she couldn't tell the difference.

Denying the truth was pointless, but admitting it was hard. "I think it's starting."

Ashley hesitated for only a moment before nodding. "You've been through it before."

"Once." The teacup wobbled, so Grace set it down before it could betray her shaking hands. "I didn't know what was happening. No one told me."

"But you know now," Ashley said gently. "Enough to recognize the mating heat?"

"Yes." And she knew how bad it would be when she didn't give in to it. When she
couldn't
give in to it, even if she wanted to. "It was hard last time. I don't know if I can—I'm not ready."

Ashley reached across the table, just shy of Grace's hand. "If you need more time, Lucas can help you. He can suppress it somehow. I don't know how long he can give you, but he's there if you need him."

She closed the distance and curled her fingers around Ashley's. "They think I'm afraid of them."

"Are you?"

"It's not that simple." And it would never get clearer unless she tried to untangle it. "I don't think they're going to hurt me. But the—the wolf side of me is different. I don't always know what she'll do."

Ashley slid the sugar bowl closer to Grace. "So it's her you're afraid of."

"I don't want to hurt them." Grace choked on a laugh. "They just
look
at me when I say that, like it's impossible. Like it can't happen. And
that
scares me."

"You don't trust them to appreciate the danger?"

The Great Lakes pack hadn't, not until she'd cut up enough of them to make the threat she posed crystal clear. "No."

Ashley sighed and stirred her tea. "But you know how they made their money. You know about the fights."

She knew, but she'd never let herself linger over the implications. At first, it had just alarmed her—an entire pack of underground fighters, men who had gotten rich beating other men into the ground.