Rescued & Ravished: An Alpha's Conquest (A Paranormal Ménage Romance) (23 page)

“Well, I hope this girl doesn’t pay the price for both of you!”

“Ignore her, Ginj. Come on. We follow that footpath, there.”

The path they took went deep into the coastal wood, and it got very dark very fast. She could smell the rush of the sea, the freshness of hemlock; hear the water’s crash, the shivering of the forest, and—most bizarrely—the distant play of fiddles, mixed with human laughter.

“Don’t mind that,” Hunter had said indifferently. “Nova Scotians. Scotch-Irish. You know.”

Whatever
that
meant.

Off in the darkness between the trees, she sometimes saw lights: bright, fire-yellow lights.

“Bonfires. And that one’s a cottage,” Hunter explained. “Anyway. We’re almost there.”

This was a weird fucking place. But if it was where Dane chose to holiday, she didn’t care—all that mattered was delivering him his work.

Abruptly, Hunter stopped.

“It’s right up there. MacAlister’s cabin.” He snorted dismissively. “I won’t go any further. That’s his turf. You go. Just go up.”

“You know something I don’t, Hunter. Don’t you?”

“I know a lot you don’t know.” He turned to go back the way they’d come, along the footpath, but then hesitated. His eyes flashed in the dark; coloring, she realized she could smell him—a salt-and-sweat-and-pinewood smell. She had to admit it was a good smell. “If he’s—or if anyone… look, if you
do
end up in some kind of trouble… you can come to me. I stay by the Fishhook.” He grunted—embarrassed, she sensed. “But you won’t need to. I—G’night.”

She watched him go. What was his
deal
, anyway?

Harrumph
ing, she continued up the path.

She couldn’t see it very well in the chilly, spruce-whispering dim, but it was certainly a cabin: it had a pitched roof, it was made of logs, and it was slap bang in the middle of the wilderness. Flickering honey-colored light paned through the windows. It had to be Dane’s.

She crossed the clearing in front of it and tromped up the few steps to the door. It had been a
long
day. He had better let her stay the night. If he didn’t—

Before she could knock, the door was flung open. She froze, fist still raised.

“Ginger.”

It was Dane. Seeing him flooded her with hot, gooey relief—and a lightning shot of giddiness. He was beautiful—when was he
not
beautiful?—and he was here. She’d gotten to him, at last. All she wanted to do was fall into his arms and explain how hard it had been.

But his expression. She’d never seen that look on his face. Never.

He looked stricken. Horrified. Half-afraid, and half—well, half-angry. It scared her.

Grabbing her wrist—far too tightly—he yanked her into the cabin and slammed the door. She barely registered the details of the cabin’s main room—a grated, stone-bordered fireplace; a couch covered in a quilt; pine-boarded walls—before he gripped her arms and shook her.

“What are you
doing
here? My God! How did you
get
here?”

“Dane!”

“You can’t
be
here, Ginger! Not you!”

“You left behind—I was just bringing you—”

“It doesn’t matter what I left! How did you get here?”

“I—I flew to Victoria—and then—I took ferries—”

“No!
To this island
?”

He frightened her, and he’d never frightened her before. His eyes were too gold, his grip too strong, his strength too much. “I—a man named Hunter—”

His hands tightened on her even more—his gaze darkened even more—and she cried out. “Dane—
you’re hurting me
!”

Instantly, his hold softened—and so did his face. But he still wasn’t making sense. “I—I didn’t realize—but Ginger, you have to get out of here, you—you’re in
danger
here—”

Tears beaded in her eyes. Abruptly, she started to cry.

“Oh, Ginger. Ginger.” His voice lowered. She’d never seen this look on his face, either: Shame. Regret. Tenderness. Finally, he realized what he was doing—scaring her—and he gentled completely. “Don’t cry. I’m sorry. I didn’t mean… oh, Ginger.”

He gathered her into his arms. She’d always wanted to be held by him, although not exactly under these circumstances; it confused her, the pleasure of it, the hard, muscular wall of his chest, the warmth of his strong arms, the heat of his neck. She gripped his sweater, trembling.

“I know, Ginger. You were trying to do the right thing. I know.”

“I’m sorry,” she whispered, not knowing why she should be.

“Don’t be sorry. You don’t even understand what’s happening…
I’m
sorry. This isn’t your fault. You did nothing wrong.” He squeezed her tighter. “But Beaumont.
I’ll kill him.
”

“Beaumont?” She liked the way his chest burred when he spoke; slowly, helplessly, her eyes closed. She was exhausted. Mystified. Spent.

“Hunter. Hunter Beaumont. He did this to get to
me
. To undermine me. He doesn’t realize…” His hand found its way into her hair; her scalp tingled, with pleasure. “Come on. We have to get you back to the mainland.”

“
DANE MACALISTER
!”

She started; Dane didn’t. He held her tighter.

“Who is that?” she whispered. The voice was angry—accusatory—
animal
.

“Stay inside.” Gently, he pushed her away and strode to the cabin door; but, unable to listen—too concerned for that, and, dimly, too curious—she followed him. Still, when he stepped onto the front porch, she did stay behind in the doorway, nervously clutching the frame.

There were men in front of the cabin. Some held torches—she could smell the resin burning. Others wore shag cloaks over their flannel and fleece.
What century is this?

The one in front was strangely twisted, scrawny. His hair was long and lank and grey. One of his eyes was white.

But he frightened her the most.

“Dane MacAlister,” he rumbled, a surprisingly deep, robust voice for such a lean, warped little man. “There’s a woman here. A human woman. We smell her.”

“She’s mine,” Dane said, his voice hard. Ginger stared at his back.

“She can’t be yours,” the strange man hissed. “It’s forbidden.”

“She’s mine,” Dane repeated, with a note of scorn in his voice.

“You flout our laws?” the crooked man asked, with badly disguised glee. “Did you hear that, brothers? A
lawbreaker
. Yet this lawbreaker wishes to lead us! Who knew, all along, that he did have a mate? And it was
this
?”

“Leave, Gunnar.”

“You can’t make me, boy. You’re not Alpha yet.”

“You’re on my land,” Dane growled—a real growl, like a wild thing. Ginger gripped the door frame more tightly, terrified. What
was
all this? “My turf. I can
make
you leave. It’s within my rights.”

“You speak of rights? Lawbreakers have no rights! Especially a lawbreaker like
you.
A man who couples with a human woman is the lowest of the lo—”

“
Get out of my territory
!”

Ginger backleapt into the cabin, horrified—Dane had said that, but it didn’t sound like his voice. It didn’t sound like any voice at all. It was a raw, furious snarl—feral.

“Roar if you want, child, I am not scared!” Gunnar crowed. “It’s you who should be afraid. I will resurrect the old ways, boy, when
I
am Alpha! There will be
punishments
for defying clan edict. There will be no more softness, no more leniency—no more mixing with inferior races, like feeble, pathetic mankind. We will be great again—powerful! Consorts like
yours
will have no place. And weak men who
choose
such consorts will have no pl—”

There was a roar. A
real
roar.

Ginger screamed. She couldn’t help it. Because there, right in front of her eyes—her disbelieving eyes—just feet away, on the edge of the porch—Dane
changed
.

He was a man. And then, explosively, he was not. He was something bigger, something fiercer—he was thousands of pounds of woolly muscle, a behemoth—a
bear.

A grizzly bear. Five feet tall at the shoulder. Hump-necked. Flat-headed. Huge incisors; thick breath that misted the air as he roared, and roared, and roared. Powerful, pan-sized paws, sharp with four-inch claws.

A monster.

The grizzly that was Dane rushed at Gunnar, who also changed—Ginger screamed higher, louder—to become an unkempt, flat-backed, hissing little black bear. Dane swiped at him, a warning strike; Gunnar flattened to the ground, growling shrilly, spitting. He darted forward just as Dane took a lumbering step back, and nipped one of his forelimbs; the men Gunnar had come with gasped and pointed.

Dane raged. Snorting, blowing froth, he charged the twisted, mean-looking black bear, who darted unevenly away—right into the watching ring of men.

Ginger had seen enough. She slammed the cabin door, panicking, her mind blank; clumsily, she fumbled with the door lock—but it was too much, she couldn’t understand it, nothing added up, not even the door bolt—and she turned and ran for the inner rooms.

A bedroom. That would do. She slammed the door, and this time the lock made sense to her. She bolted it, then slid down against the door as if her weight would keep it closed. After a minute, she realized how absurd that was, and scrambled under the bed—even knowing that that was no less absurd.

Muted through the layers of pine board, she could hear baying and roaring and shouting. She curled up in a ball and waited for it to end—if it would ever end.

The night was still. No sound but the cabin settling, woodily, and the hushed, muffled creaking of the trees in the wind.

She wasn’t sure how long it had been. Everything smelled like timber and dust and mattress must and sweat. She tasted salt—she’d bitten her lip deep enough to break the skin.

Footsteps. She knew they were footsteps, quiet and dull as they were. She froze against the floor.

The footsteps were slow—searching. Discerning. Like they were looking for something—someone—her.

They stopped outside the bedroom.

She held her breath.

A light knock.

“Ginger?”

Dane’s voice. Dane.

“Ginger. It’s me.”

Stiffly, very slowly, she wriggled out from under the bed—but she didn’t open the door. She half-sat, half-crouched on the bed; it sank under her, the mattress squeaking.

“You’re in there. I know.” The doorknob turned, but the bolt was drawn. “You locked the door?”

“What are you?” she asked, her voice flat.

No answer. Then: “Please let me in.”

“What are you?” she repeated.

“My clothes
are in there, Ginger.”

“Tell me what you are!” She lost control, grabbed a carved bear off the nightstand, flung it at the door. It hit hard.

“I’d ask you not to break my things. Please.”

“Answer me!
What are you?
”

“What am I?” A silence, heavy. “A skinchanger. A shapeshifter. You saw that.”

“A shapeshifter?”

“I have two forms. You’ve seen both, now. There are no more.”

He sounded tired. For the first time, she wondered if he was hurt. Hadn’t Gunnar bitten him?—
Bitten
. It was all so surreal.

“Are you going to kill me?” Her voice broke. Why was this happening? She just didn’t want—she didn’t want him to lose the Amazon account—she—she…

“God, no. No, Ginger.” He sighed. “Will you let me in?”

“Why should I?”

A pause. “It’s my bedroom… and I’m cold.”

She gripped the bedspread. What were her options?

None. There were no options. It was obvious now that if Dane was a skinchanger—well, then everyone else on the island was, too. Hunter, Catríona, the unseen fiddlers. Gunnar, of course. She was surrounded. And if she couldn’t trust Dane, then she’d never get off of Storm Isle alive.

Because if she was prey, then she was prey—she’d never outrun them, or outfight them; she couldn’t hide from them; she’d never manage to steal, much less steer, a boat. No. She needed his protection.

And if she couldn’t have that, if he was going to attack her—no.
No
. She had to trust that he wouldn’t. She just had to.

Stiffly, she stood, crossed to the door, and unbolted it.

He opened it, gently. Slowly.

Instinctively, she took a step back. He didn’t step after her, but stood in the doorway—as if waiting for some sign from her, or for her to invite him in.

For a moment she was frozen, staring at him; but once she was convinced he wouldn’t lunge at her, she let her eyes wander up and down his body.

There was blood, but not that much. Not so much that she needed to be afraid for him—just minor bites, messy and raw on his naked skin. He was dirty, soily, especially his feet and hands. His smell was sweaty, earthy, with a bite of copper—the blood.

There was no real sign he had ever been a bear. No proof.

A bear. It just seemed so impossible.

“Ginger.” His voice was soft.

Hesitantly, she raised her eyes to his again. They burned the hottest gold she’d ever seen.

“Sit on the bed, Ginger,” he said, quietly. “I’ll explain everything you need to know.”

She frowned, but finally, uncertain as she was, she sidestepped to the mattress and sat down. Her fingers gripped the bedspread, white-knuckling as she clenched the quilt.

Dane moved to a dresser under a window—a finely made thing, cherrywood—and opened a drawer. She couldn’t help but admire the steely muscles of his thighs, the hardness of his hips—and, lasciviously, the size and girth of his manhood, even soft. Her brain filed the image away to fully appreciate later, when she wasn’t so exhausted and so frightened.

Gracefully, he stepped into a pair of loose pajama bottoms—just for decency’s sake, she realized. For her sake. As if his nudity could further upset her. It was the only nonupsetting thing around.

Instantly, despite everything, she wanted to grip the waistband and pull the pajama pants down—pull them
off
.

“There are a lot of us, Ginger, and more than one kind,” he said, pulling on a shirt; her mood soured even more as his muscular chest and deep-cobbled abs disappeared under thin grey cotton. “More than one clan.”