Marked by Moonlight (8 page)

 

Claire stared out at the sea of familiar faces, doing a quick roll check. The students chatted, the drone of conversation comforting in its normalcy, helping her forget that only two days ago she had stabbed a knife into her parents' table, mere inches from her father's nose. Here, in the bright fluorescent glare of her classroom, her world felt familiar again.

“Hey, Miss Morgan!”

Claire looked up from her attendance folder and smiled warmly at Nina, a pretty, bright-eyed girl who had transferred early second semester. “'Morning, Nina.”

Nina neared the podium and whispered conspiratorially, “Still looking hot, Miss Morgan. You gotta tell me who does your hair.”

Claire smiled, the girl's syrupy sweet breath making her stomach growl. “Come by after school. I've got the business card in my purse.” The peal of the first period bell shook the air.

“Okay.” Nina hesitated before taking her seat, her perfect white teeth gnawing her bottom lip. “Have you heard from Lenny?”

The question caught Claire off guard. She had convinced herself she was the only one who cared, the only one hoping to glance up and find him sitting in his seat like any other day.

“No, I haven't.”

“He didn't show up for his SAT.”

“I know,” she replied vaguely, inclined to keep Nina from worrying.

“Something's not right, Miss Morgan.”

Claire hedged, dropping her gaze and bending the attendance folder in her hands. “I'm sure he will be back. Wait and see.”

Her stomach churned at dishing out such garbage. The same garbage Jill Tanners had spewed to her. The same garbage that had ticked Claire off and prompted the ill-fated trip to Lenny's apartment.

“Last time I saw him, he just walked right on by. Like he didn't even see me.”

Claire's gaze shot back up, irrational hope hammering in her chest. “You saw him? When?”

“A couple weeks ago. At Woody's. He was with these creepy-looking older guys. He walked past me without even saying hi.”

Claire's shoulders slumped. Nina hadn't seen Lenny. Not recently. Unable to think of a suitable reply, she gestured to Nina's desk. “Let's get started.”

Nina nodded and took her seat in the front. Claire sighed, sensing Nina's disappointment and feeling she had somehow let her down. Just like Lenny. She pushed thoughts of Lenny aside, sealing him in the far corner of her mind. Finished checking roll, she placed the folder in the pocket outside her door just as Raymond Jackson strolled into the room with his loping gait. He gave her his signature nod, indifferent to his tardiness.

“Raymond, it's Wednesday. Sure you're supposed to be here?” she asked with an edge to her voice. A few of the students chuckled at her uncustomary sarcasm.

Raymond showed up once a week, usually on Friday, to provide weekend party supplies for his clients. She wondered if his
business
—an enterprise of which the faculty and administration were well aware but lacked proof to stop—had brought him here today.

He answered with a shrug as he dropped his six-feet-plus frame into his seat in the back—no backpack, textbook, or writing instruments anywhere on his person.

Pointing to the blackboard, she began reviewing the day's agenda aloud, stopping to glare at the back of the room where Raymond engaged in a lively conversation with the boy in the row across from him.

Her silence finally drew his attention, and he gave her a belligerent glare of his own, lifting both eyebrows in challenge. But even in that glare, his confusion was unmistakable. Claire never bothered him. All year she had ignored his disruptions, finding it easier than confronting him. She had suffered his presence in her room, telling herself it was only once a week. Yet the sight of him lounging lazily at his desk, carrying on a conversation while she tried to teach, made her blood burn.

“What?” he sneered.

“I'm waiting.”

“Waiting for what?”

Something snapped inside her and she heard herself say, “Waiting for you to shut up.”

The words flew out of her mouth at missile speed.

Dead silence filled the room. The voice of the teacher in the neighboring classroom seemed unnaturally loud through the partition wall. As did the squeaking wheels of the janitor's cart somewhere amid the school's halls.

The other students exchanged looks, some incredulous, some uneasy, all uncertain.

“What'd you say, bitch?” Raymond demanded. The harsh rasp of his voice scratched the air, reverberating over the gentle hum of the air conditioner.

She moved from behind the podium and strode down the narrow aisle with predatory precision, stepping over backpacks and purses without once looking down. Heads swiveled to watch her progress to the back of the room.

Stopping in front of Raymond, an odd rush of warmth filled her as she leaned down. Her skin simmered, heated by the blood coursing beneath. Impossible as it seemed, she felt herself expand, growing larger and taller than her diminutive five feet two. With hard hands, she grasped the edge of his desk. The simulated wood creaked beneath the pressure of her fingers and she felt certain with only a little more force she could splinter the desk with her bare hands.

Lowering her head, she locked eyes with him and watched in satisfaction as the challenge faded and melted from the dark liquid pools. He dropped his gaze to the top of his desk, shrinking in his seat, the plastic chair creaking from the shifting of his weight. His cockiness evaporated on the air like a wisp of smoke.

His earlier words still ringing in her ears, she growled, “Care to repeat yourself?”

He shook his head, still avoiding her gaze. She reveled in his fear, could smell it, could taste it even, its warm, coppery sweetness flooding her mouth and filling her with a strange hunger. The hunger to hurt.

And that made her stop.

As if burned, she released the desk and looked around at the faces of her students. She read the shock in their eyes and bile rose thick in her throat. Her anger had moved beyond the walls of her parents' house. Today she had an entire audience to witness her behavior. And this time, she hadn't wanted to stop. She had wanted to push further, harder.
Wanted to hurt
.

Digging deep, she fumbled to recover the old, familiar Claire. The orderly, unassuming woman buried somewhere deep inside. The little girl with limp curls in her Christmas sweater. Where had she gone? And most important, how could she get her back?

In a crisp, businesslike tone she instructed the class, “Open your books to page four seventy-six.”

 

Claire sensed Nina's approach, smelled the sweetness of her vanilla perfume even before she felt the slight pressure on her shoulder.

“Miss Morgan?”

She lifted her head from the desk located at the back of the room, where she had collapsed after the student exodus following the seventh period bell. Claire ran her hands over her face tiredly.

Nina stared down at her, the smooth caramel skin of her brow creased in worry. “It's all right.” Her fingers flexed on Claire's shoulder in a comforting squeeze. “About time someone showed that jerk up.”

Claire briefly closed her eyes and shook her head, not bothering to voice her whirling thoughts. Nina was just a kid, a student. She had no concept of a teacher's duty to treat all students with respect despite how they treated you. And it wasn't Claire's place to burden her with a lesson on professional responsibility.

She stood, the legs of her chair scraping the linoleum floor, chafing her already frayed nerves. “It's after four. What are you still doing here?”

Hurt flickered across the girl's expressive face, and Claire instantly regretted her sharpness. She had been a teacher for almost ten years now, and in that time certain students had undeniably touched her heart. Every year there were a special few, ones she never forgot—ones like Nina who sat forward in their seats with shining eyes, hungry to learn. Students like her were a gift and didn't deserve coldness, even if Claire only craved solitude.

“I had dance practice,” she said in a small, wounded voice.

“Oh.” Claire glanced down at the shiny purple tights covering Nina's slim legs. Softening her tone, she asked, “Aren't you going to miss the late bus?”

“I got a ride waiting,” she replied, her deep brown eyes studying Claire.

“Hello, hello,” Maggie chirped as she strolled into the room, coffee cup in hand. Claire knew it had to be her twelfth cup of the day. Coffee was the only thing that kept her friend going until she could escape work for a cigarette.

Despite her cheerful tone, her eyes appeared guarded and uncertain as they assessed Claire. Nodding briefly to Nina, the concern in her probing gaze was unmistakable. Maggie knew about today. No surprise. Students talked and Maggie had a good rapport with the kids.

Nina picked up her backpack where she had dropped it on the floor. “I'll see ya later, Miss Morgan.”

“'Bye, Nina.”

Maggie waited until the girl left before asking quietly, “You okay?”

“Yes,” Claire lied. “Fine.”

Clasping both hands around her mug, Maggie gently announced, “I heard about today.”

“Figured you had.”

“Want to talk about it?”

Claire forced a smile and began straightening the papers on her desk. “Nope.”

“Hey, we all have those days. One kid goes too far, says the wrong thing, and bang.” Maggie snapped her fingers. “It happens to the best of us.”

“Right.” Claire snapped the day's homework assignment she needed to grade with a large binder clip.

“Only—”

Claire looked up, hearing Maggie's hesitation.

With a small, apologetic smile, Maggie admitted, “
You
never have those days.” Sighing, she shook her head and stared into her cup before looking back up. “At least, never before.” Her voice softened to ask, “What's going on, Claire?”

Claire sank into her chair and ran her hands over her face. “I don't know, Maggie. I don't know what's wrong with me.”

“Did you really face off with Raymond Jackson?”

Claire released a humorless crack of laughter. “Yeah, I did.”

Maggie lowered herself into the desk nearest Claire's. “You think that was smart?”

What could Claire say to that? How could she explain that she hadn't stopped to think at all? Just acted. Folding her hands neatly in front of her, she went for honesty. “No.”

“A kid like that might want a little payback, Claire. He's gotta save face.”

Oddly enough, that didn't worry Claire. Not like it should have. She wasn't at all concerned about her own safety. What worried her was how
she
would react if he did challenge her.

“School will be out soon,” Maggie murmured. “You got enough days saved up. Maybe you should take a leave. Come back in the fall. Refreshed.”

Claire studied her friend's face before saying, “You think I should?”

“Yes.” Maggie nodded slowly. “I do.”

Claire drew a deep breath.

A day like today couldn't be repeated. Her students deserved better than a teacher who could no longer control her temper. Snapping at students, taking on bullies…all without conscious thought. A stranger to herself, what guarantee did she have that it wouldn't happen again? She couldn't take the risk. Her job required patience and a cool head. Two things she sorely lacked lately.

Today marked the first time in her career she had incited fear in a student. The fright in Raymond Jackson's face replayed itself in her mind like a terrible car crash that she couldn't shake.

She swiped at eyes that burned with unshed tears, hating to admit that she was so changed, that something was wrong with her, that maybe there was something to the ravings of Gideon March after all. That maybe the guy wasn't totally crazy. The possibility rattled her. Because if he wasn't crazy, then neither was her attraction to him.

Even the most aggressive dog knows when to turn tail and run.

—Man's Best Friend:
An Essential Guide to Dogs

C
laire slid her key into the lock of her apartment door with practiced speed. In a flash, she was inside, the hard feel of the door at her back reassuring her, closing her off from the rest of the world, sealing her in. Her racing heart steadied. But not by much.

She hadn't seen him, but she felt him, sensed him the whole drive home. Gideon March was close. Her nostrils flared, convinced she smelled the woodsy musk of him. But that was impossible. How could she smell the man when she could not even see him?

Whether he was out there or not, her gut told her she wasn't rid of him. Too many days had passed since their last run-in.

Pushing off the door, she hurried into her bedroom and pulled her suitcase from beneath the bed. Shedding her work clothes, she slid on shorts and a T-shirt. Stuffing garments into her suitcase, she marveled at her impulsive actions, replaying the phone conversation with her mother moments before. As unpleasant as it had been, she had endured her mother's fussing. When she explained she was taking a leave of absence from work, her mother supported the idea and readily agreed to Claire's request to stay at the family lake house.

As she grabbed the needed toiletries off the bathroom counter, she caught a glimpse of her reflection in the dresser mirror and jumped, for a second thinking a stranger stood there.

Wild, honey-hued hair. Flushed cheeks. Strange, glowing eyes. It would take time to get accustomed to the new Claire. Both inside and out. Ready to step out of the shadows, to explore her new self, she slammed her suitcase shut and zipped the top. She was almost out the door when she remembered the cat.

“Molly!” Dropping her suitcase, her gaze scanned the living room. “Here, kitty, kitty, kitty!” No response. Not surprising. Normally affectionate, the tabby had treated her with uncharacteristic hostility lately and spent most of her time hidden away.

Dropping to her hands and knees, Claire peered beneath the bed. As she suspected, her cat glared back with unblinking eyes, baring its fangs in a warning hiss.

“Come on, Molly. Enough. We gotta get out of here.”

The tabby responded with another hiss. She tried the serene, soothing voice she used to reason with an obstinate student—well, the voice she formerly used. “You can't stay here. You'll starve. I don't know when I'll be back.”

Reaching beneath the bed, she grabbed Molly's collar to drag her out. A pair of sharp fangs sank into her hand. Claire cried out and let go. Sitting back, she stared at the bite mark on her hand, a haze of red clouding her vision. Rage consumed her, blocking out all reason. Before she knew it, she'd wedged herself back under the bed, her curses filling the air, intent only on wringing that cat's neck.

She was crammed halfway under the bed when his voice penetrated her haze of rage.

“Cats don't care for canines.”

With a screech, she wiggled out from under the bed. Once free, she toppled to her side and looked up at his towering figure. Heart hammering, she eyed the man filling her bedroom doorway, Molly forgotten.

Gideon leaned against the doorjamb, arms crossed over his broad chest. With his mussed hair and several days' growth of beard shadowing his jaw, he looked like he hadn't slept in a week.

“How do you keep getting in here?”

He thumbed behind him, the gesture somehow weary. “Sliding glass door. Easy to jimmy. Miss me?”

“No,” she snapped, her lips—and other places—suddenly tingling in memory, refuting her words.

His gaze shifted to the suitcase on the floor. “Going somewhere?”

“No.”

“I can't let you leave.” His words rang ominously. His vow to kill her if she didn't cooperate echoed in her mind.

He stepped fully into the room, his shadow falling over her. His pale gaze slid over her bare legs splayed on the carpet. The air thickened. A ripple of awareness crossed between them and she watched the dark centers of his eyes dilate. The pulse at his neck beat faster. Their gazes locked. A loud drumbeat filled her ears.
His heart
. She knew this, just as she knew it was impossible to hear the pounding of his heart across a few feet. And yet she somehow did.

He advanced until he stood between her ankles. His eyes glowed green fire down at her. He extended a hand. She hesitated a moment before placing her fingers in the warm grasp of his. He pulled her up in one smooth motion, bringing her flush against him, flattening her breasts into his chest. Her nipples hardened, throbbing against the hard wall of him. The corners of his mouth lifted in a knowing smile. Her heart contracted at the sexy curve of his mouth, wanting, craving it on her own, remembering the taste of him.

Cocking an eyebrow, he wrapped one arm around her waist, holding her to him by the small of her back.

“You're hot for it,” he mused, his voice a husky rumble.

She shook her head in fierce denial, her hair brushing her cheeks in soft strokes.

“No?” His hand slid around her waist, inching up her stomach and ribs, singeing her skin through the thin cotton of her shirt. Warm fingers closed unerringly over one nipple, testing, measuring, caressing the distended tip through her shirt and bra. She choked back a sob as his fingers played with her, his touch growing firmer until he was rolling and twisting the aroused peak between thumb and forefinger.

“What about now?” he rasped.

Mouth watering, she shook her head, refusing to surrender even if her body already had.

“No?” His hand dropped from her breast. She bit her lip to stop her cry of disappointment.

In one deft move, he popped the button free on her shorts and unzipped her. The backs of his fingers brushed her navel, scorching like fire as he delved inside her panties, his touch swift, sure, taking. He probed between her curls, playing with her, brushing the spot hidden within the folds of her sex. She jerked at the contact, moaning, and parted her legs wider.

He groaned, dipping his head close, long strands of dark blond hair brushing her face. Finding her clitoris, he rolled it between his fingers, exerting enough pressure to make her shudder against his hand.

“Definitely hot for it.” He thrust a finger deep inside her. Her head fell back, a silent scream lodged in her throat.

“God, you're tight,” he muttered, easing in a second finger, stretching her, the pleasure a sweet pain that built the tension inside her.

“See.” His voice rolled over her, drugging, hypnotic. “You don't want to go anywhere.”

His words sunk into her brain, a wash of cold where there had been nothing but heat before. She jerked away, his hand slipping from her gaping shorts. The backs of her knees bumped the bed, stopping her from total retreat.

The hand that had caressed her fell limply to his side. For several moments she could only stare at those fingers that had wreaked total havoc on her, longing for them to do so again. Horrified at herself, at her reaction to him, she squeezed her eyes in one tight blink.
Get a grip, Claire
.

“I can't let you leave,” he repeated, regarding her with grim resolve, reminding her that while she might have been caught up in her body's reaction, he was still a nutcase who believed she was a werewolf.

Instinct gave way then.

Her leg lashed out with lightning speed, striking him directly between his legs. He hit the ground like a slab of stone. Snatching hold of her suitcase, she ran for the door, not allowing herself a moment of regret.

His groan reverberated on the air and she winced, wondering if shooting him would not have perhaps been more merciful.

 

Gideon downed the last of the tepid 7-Eleven coffee and wadded the paper cup into a ball. With a curse, he tossed it to the passenger floorboard.

Where the hell was she?

When he got his hands on her…

It was his own damn fault, he reminded himself. He let his guard down, forgot what she was. Her sexuality overwhelmed him. Made him forget everything save burying himself in her body. Her lycan instincts were no less at her disposal just because she was unaware of their existence. Her bolting-fast reflexes and powerful kick could attest to that—as did four packs of ice and half a bottle of extra-strength Tylenol.

It had taken him a good while to pick himself off her bedroom floor. Good thing NODEAL agents weren't the settle-down-start-a-family types because he seriously doubted his future ability to father children.

It had been one week since he had picked himself up off Claire's bedroom floor. Panic threatened to swallow him whole at the prospect of not finding her again. That he might have set a lycan loose on the population made him slightly ill. Clearly, this was a lesson. And physically painful as far as lessons went. He should have destroyed her that first night. He should have said something when Cooper placed him on call—five days wasted on cleanup duty when he could have been tracking the lycan who had infected Lenny.

But he hadn't expected her to run, had assumed to find her still in denial, going about her life in blissful ignorance.

He thumped the steering wheel with his fist. That first night had been ideal. Quick. Neat. Painless. Why didn't he pull the trigger then instead of reholstering his gun and going against everything he believed in, everything he had been taught? In one simple act, he had turned his back on the very code that had been drilled into him. The code that he lived and killed by.

Destroy them at any cost.

Sitting outside her apartment, he told himself this wasn't a useless venture. Someone would have to see to the cat she had left behind. She hadn't left out enough food, and he knew enough about Claire to know that she was too responsible to forget about her cat.

Gideon had no idea if her parents lived in the area. It would take him the better part of a year to contact every Morgan in the greater Houston area. And time was the thing he needed most. Aside from Claire Morgan.

In minutes Gideon could have her complete file in his hands. But at what cost?

Typing her name into NODEAL's database would wave a red flag for Cooper. If Gideon ran a search on her name, she would automatically be listed on the end-of-day activity report Cooper reviewed. Then he'd have some explaining to do. He wasn't ready to admit that his own stupidity had cost him a lycan. Nor was he about to sic Cooper on her. If she had to die, he would take care of it. It was only right. She was his responsibility.

“Shit,” he swore under his breath. The new moon had come and gone. Time was running out. If he didn't find her soon, he'd have no choice but to access the database.

From day one, everything had gone wrong. He could see that now. His first mistake had been identifying with the target, connecting with her. He had let her become more than a nameless animal. He had gotten a glimpse into Claire Morgan's life. A life, for whatever reason, that provoked memories of his parents and disturbing
what if
questions. She wasn't like the others. That much he accepted. Otherwise, she would already be dead.

And now she had bolted like a rabbit into the brush. Too late now, but he wished he had taken more aggressive measures to convince her. If he got a second chance he wouldn't screw it up, he would—

He sat up alert in his seat as a woman parked in front of Claire's apartment and stepped out of her Ford Ranger. She rifled through her purse as she shut the door with her hip. She was small, like Claire, and carried herself with a quiet timidity. He caught a glimpse of her profile and instantly recognized her from the photos on Claire's walls. The mother.

He hopped out of the Jeep and followed her to the door of the apartment, where she sorted through a ring of keys.

“Hello there,” he greeted, making his presence known.

With a squeak, she jumped and dropped the keys. He bent and picked them up, pasting on his most charming smile. He knew women appreciated his looks, never having a problem gaining female companionship when the need arose. But those were only temporary diversions. An agent's life didn't allow for commitments. Still, he thought it appropriate to exercise some of that charm right now.

“Sorry, ma'am. Didn't mean to startle you.” He looked beyond her to the door, striving for a guileless expression. “Are you a friend of Claire's?”

“I'm her mother.”

“Really?” Faking a look of shock, he went for the kill. “I thought maybe you worked together. You don't look old enough to be her mother.”

Mrs. Morgan blushed, her hands fluttering self-consciously to her frosted hair.

He continued in a smooth voice. “I dropped by to see if Claire wanted to go to lunch.” He shrugged, a gesture meant to illustrate both his disappointment and his understanding if this was to be a day reserved for the two of them.

Mrs. Morgan's gaze roamed his face and body appreciatively. “You and Claire are dating?” she asked with undisguised shock.

Had she seen her daughter lately? Yet he couldn't help wondering how much of that magnetism was truly Claire and how much belonged to her lycan blood. The way her gaze devoured him, the way her body moved—if he didn't get to her quick she'd probably end up pregnant. The lycan instinct to seek a mate and procreate demanded it. She wouldn't even know what drove her. But he did. He did, and he needed to stop her before her trouble multiplied. Literally.