Harlequin Nocturne May 2015 Box Set: Wolf Hunter\Possessed by a Wolf (33 page)

He nodded slowly. “Is that likely to happen more than just this once?”

“I don't know.” She wanted to give in to the pounding heat inside her, but wasn't sure she knew how anymore. She'd seen what he really was—a vision of violence.

She needed to know that he'd stay on his side of the lines. Regardless of what had just happened, she wasn't ready to let him past. Not even close.
And yet you're not willing to let him walk away
.

“You realize I'm a little confused?” he said as if reading her mind. His voice was mild, but he couldn't entirely hide the heat of emotion beneath all that control.

“You're angry.”

“I'm tired. What am I to you? Monster? Lover? Did I miss a memo?”

“I know, I know,” she said softly, tears crowding at the back of her throat. “I don't think this is going to be as easy as saying we're all adults here.”

Faran touched her cheek, the gesture gentle but not forgiving. “Let me know when you make up your mind.”

Lexie drew back with a quick inhale of breath, but there were no words. He was right. She didn't know what she wanted from him anymore.

And so he left. Again.

Chapter 9

F
aran was still thinking about the kiss when he returned with a backpack full of clothes. He'd been delayed at the Company Headquarters—like any bureaucracy, they wanted paperwork and explanations—and it was past midnight when he got back.

The night was clear and cool, and he took his time walking through the gardens to one of the side entrances closer to Lexie's rooms. Faran liked action more than reflection, hands down. Still, he had to figure out what he was doing with Lexie. For a long time he'd believed the end of their story was just that. But now she was acting as if she wanted more, and that set off a host of warning bells.

It also forced him to be honest.

Back in Paris, Lexie had been halfway out the door long before he'd introduced her to his four-footed alter ego. She had trust issues, especially when it came to men—something he guessed came from her family background, although she would never talk about it. For some reason, he'd thought revealing the wolf would prove she could count on him. He could protect her in ways no other man could.

Apparently that was the wrong move. Apparently he'd seen everything through the filter of his own needs and not taken the time to discover hers.

And yet something had changed. Was that scene in her bedroom tonight a sign that Lexie wanted him after all? Maybe. Or maybe he'd hung out with vampires too long and getting to work in daylight for once was making him unreasonably optimistic. Either way, if he wanted a happy ending to this drama, he'd have to go carefully.

Something moved in the shadows ahead.

Reflex made Faran duck close to the palace wall. He took in a long breath, steadying the sudden thrum of excitement along his nerves. He was on the south side of the grounds, not far from Lexie's room. A figure in dark clothing was standing about ten feet from the wall, his face tilted toward the windows above. Faran drew into deeper shadow, suspicion prickling the back of his neck. Whoever it was knew enough to avoid the patches of light spilling out from the windows, which made his features hard to make out.

Faran waited, perfectly still, barely breathing. Werewolves weren't psychic, but they had extremely good senses. He listened for the telltale squeak of leather and cloth that marked the rhythmic step of the palace patrols, but heard nothing. They should have been by every few minutes, but the minutes slid past with no one else entering or leaving the south lawn. Meanwhile, the figure—clearly male by his build—approached the wall, examined the surface judiciously and began to climb.

It was a daring move. Only an expert would attempt the wall without equipment.

A barely audible growl escaped Faran. There were only bad reasons why someone would be heading straight for Lexie's window. This had to end
now
. Faran dropped his pack and ran, shedding his jacket as he went.

The man's head turned toward Faran, and it became clear why his face was hard to see. He was wearing a tan balaclava beneath the hood of his jacket.

“Hey!” Faran cried. “Stop right there.”

The man dropped from the wall, landing in an easy crouch, and then sprinted away. Within seconds, he was out of sight. But now Faran was annoyed. There were still no guards in sight—an illuminating fact all on its own—and the figure had chosen one of the few blind spots where the security cameras didn't reach.
Not suspicious at all.

Faran stopped in the same blind spot and kicked off his sneakers. It took barely seconds to shed the rest of his clothes. Changing to wolf form was more a mental trick than something physical, much like switching to a different language. One moment he was bracing against the chill air and imagining himself in beast form, and then he leaped forward, landing on all four paws.

The world was suddenly alive with scents and sounds he hadn't experienced moments before. The grass was cool and springy beneath the pads of his paws, the wind sweet but for the pungent scent of human sweat. He drew in a deep breath, bunched his muscles and ran after his quarry.

Speed and power came at will, obstacles merely turning the chase into a game. Faran's human half wanted to question and punish, but the wolf in him would get to enjoy the capture. He caught sight of the runner on the other side of an ornamental pond. He had to stop him before he got into the maze—someone could hide in there for hours. Faran sped toward the pond, letting a snarl rip from his chest. The runner looked behind him and gave a cry of surprise.

A normal crook would run. This one stopped.

Alarm sang through Faran's veins as he saw the figure pull a long weapon from underneath his hoodie. Already crouching to spring, Faran sailed across the pond toward him, feeling the sharp pull as his wound tore open. The pain skewed his landing, and paws splashed when he fell short of the other side.

His bungled landing saved him. Faran jerked as a bullet whizzed inches from his nose. There had been no muzzle flash, no crack of the gun. Just a faint pop and whine and a thump in the soft ground—the bullet tearing past right where his skull should have been. Summoning all his speed, Faran burst from the water and disappeared behind the corner of a hedge, heart pounding.

That was no cat burglar's weapon. Whoever this was had killing in mind.

Faran crouched, belly to the ground, and peered beneath the branches of the box hedge. Hot blood was trickling down his side, mixing with the cold pond water dripping from his coat. His quarry was three bounds away, weapon poised. Faran could try for a frontal attack, but he didn't like his chances. The question was whether the man would decide to play hunter himself, or cut his losses and escape.

The figure looked around slowly, but human eyes weren't up to the inky dark near the hedge. “Come on, come on,” the man muttered in French. It was hard to tell from two words, but the words sounded more polished than the rough accent of Marcari's streets. It wasn't much, but it was a clue.

Faran forced himself to stop panting, but cocked his ears forward to catch every sound. Cloth rustled as the figure lowered the weapon, then put it away. Feet scuffed the grass as the man turned and jogged toward the main path.

Faran rose silently, trotting behind the man but weaving in and out of the bushes and statuary like a ghost. His side burned, but he ignored the pain. The job ahead wouldn't be long or difficult. All he needed was the chance to take his prey by surprise. The figure reached the main path that led out of the palace grounds and settled into an easy jogger's stride. Faran quickened his pace, knowing there wasn't much time before they reached a populated area where black-ops werewolves couldn't go.

Opportunity came when the path neared the croquet lawn. It was a patch of open ground surrounded by stone benches. The pale strip of the path looped around the corner of the lawn, but like so many, Faran's quarry cut across the grass to save time. Impatient and all too aware they were nearing the traffic-clogged street, Faran burst from cover and bolted, meaning to take the man from behind.

But to Faran's horror, they weren't alone. Shadows and wind direction had played him false. Another figure was rising from one of the stone benches, looking on in blank surprise. It was Maurice, unmistakable in eyeliner and a long caped coat. He yelped in surprise as Faran all but barreled into his feet.

Faran wheeled and raced ahead. Yet the cry had alerted the runner, who veered off course. Faran's next pounce caught nothing but empty air. He gave a disgusted woof and spun to try again, but the prey was gone, vanished around the curve of the path. Faran scrambled forward and stopped with a growl, muscles quivering in frustration. He could see the dazzle of headlights and hear the babble of late-night tourists. The balaclava lay by the side of the path, but there was no one in sight.

Faran mentally recited a litany of curses, some not in any human language.

“Whoa, boy!” said Maurice. “Where are your manners?”

Faran suddenly felt a hand patting his head. As an oversize apex predator, this was not a common occurrence. He turned with an offended whine.

“You shouldn't chase joggers. It's bad karma.” The tall, gangly man crouched in front of him.

Faran snorted. Maurice regarded him seriously, elbows braced on his knees. He'd changed his nail polish to silver sparkles and something feathery hung from one ear. “Where do you call home?”

Instinctively, Faran backed away. Home was a complicated puzzle, and Faran had given up trying to solve it long ago. But at least there was a place he was supposed to be. Somewhere he was needed.

With a faint rumble, he spun and loped across the lawn, back toward Lexie.

* * *

Lexie was in bed with the door shut when she heard Faran come in. She had her laptop open on the covers and was just starting to download yesterday's images from her camera. She'd known it was Faran just from the way he'd rattled the door handle. There was a rhythm to his movements—footfall and thump and the way the room key hit the table—that was unmistakably his. Faran always sounded like a man in a hurry to join a party, even if the party was just her.

She slid deeper under the covers and stared at her computer screen, not wanting to make a noise. It would be easier to avoid him than to engage, especially after that kiss. She'd set rules and she should have stuck with them. Now there were questions and possibilities hanging in the air like treacherous mist.

Silence availed her nothing. A light tap sounded on the door. “Lexie?”

She should have turned the light off, but it was too late now. She wished the bedroom door had a lock. “Yes?”

“Just checking. I ran into something outside. Wanted to make sure you're safe and sound.”

“What? Why?” she asked.

He sounded tired. “I'll tell you in the morning.”

She heard him move away from the door, and then the sound of a knapsack unzipping. Lexie stared at her laptop screen, not seeing the image in front of her. She should wait until morning, when there wasn't the temptation of the darkness, or beds, or the suggestion of what happened in beds. Of what might happen if they were both in the same bed. Waiting was the sensible way to go.

Lexie lasted one minute, then two, then five. She got tired of pretending to work on her pictures and put her equipment away. She thought about reading and discarded the idea. Eventually she heard water running in the bathroom. Faran was going about his business. Good.

But surrender was inevitable. With a grunt of disgust, she slid out of bed, pulling on a robe. Curiosity was her worst enemy.

She whipped the bedroom door open. “Okay,
what
did you run into that was so alarming?”

She barely got the words out before her brain registered what she was seeing. On the table was a clutter of first-aid supplies, toiletries—including condoms, good luck with that—and a thriller novel. Standing beside it was Faran, wearing a toothbrush and nothing else. She'd seen it all before, but there was a lot of hard, muscular real estate to admire. The corn-silk gold of his hair darkened as it traveled down his flat abdomen, interrupted only by the fresh-looking bandage covering his right side just below the ribs. As he tensed in surprise, the movement of muscle under skin was wildly distracting. She made a noise somewhere between a gasp and a prayer.

The toothbrush clattered to the floor, and suddenly there was a wolf with a mouthful of minty-fresh toothpaste foam. For once, the sight of the beast, almost as large as the sofa, didn't alarm her. It had been too long a day, with much worse to worry about.

“You look rabid like that,” Lexie said. She stalked back into her bedroom, closing the door firmly behind her. Crawling under the covers, she switched off the light and turned her face to the wall.

A minute later, the door creaked open. She rolled over enough to see a human Faran outlined against the glow from the sitting room. “Someone tried to climb up the outside wall to your window,” he said.

She sat bolt upright, turning the bedside lamp on low. “What?”

He shrugged. To her relief, he was now wearing loose sweatpants, though they rode perilously low on his hips. “I chased him off, but he got away.”

“No clues?”

“All I got for my trouble was another encounter with Maurice.”

Lexie spluttered. “
The
Maurice?”

“Is there more than one?” he asked dryly. “I kind of hope not.”

“He's a huge star in Europe and some kind of relation to the royals. I took his picture at Fashion Week.”

“Oh.” He sounded displeased. “Isn't he a little sparkly for your tastes?”

Lexie made a noise of disgust. “Why are we talking about him instead of the nut job climbing the wall?”

“Because I've nothing to add. I didn't see his face. I'd know his scent again, though.” He said it so casually, it almost sounded normal.

“So he, um, didn't smell familiar?”

“Not necessarily. I don't always pay attention. You don't remember every outfit you encounter in a day, even though you see them perfectly well.”

“Just asking.”

He shrugged again. “Never mind. I'll be on the alert from now on. I think it was someone from the palace.”

Lexie wrapped her arms around her knees. “Why?”

“He's familiar with the security arrangements.” He took a step into the room, then stopped dead. “May I come in?”

She shrugged.

“You burst in on me.” Irritation in his voice, he took another step. “Fair is fair.”

She swallowed hard. “Please, Faran.”

“What do you think I'll do?” he asked, his voice dropping. “We
lived
together, remember?”

“That was...”

His cheeks flushed. “I know. Before you knew about the wolf.”

“It changed things.”

“Drama aside, I don't know why.”

“Faran...”

His words were angry, as tightly controlled as a hunting dog straining against its leash. “I never raised a hand to you. I always put you first. I told you what I was—even though it went against all the Company's rules about civilians. If they had their way, your memories would have been wiped. Taking you into my confidence put us both at risk. Maybe you could bend just a little.”