Rescued & Ravished: An Alpha's Conquest (A Paranormal Ménage Romance) (29 page)

“Where are you putting it?” he asked, watching her in disbelief.

“In my stomach.”

“Yeah, I know, but… damn.”

“Eyes on your own plate, Beaumont!” she insisted, pointing at his lunch. “Stop staring at mine! You’re
ruining
perfect fish!”

He smiled, and ate.

Once they were done, all the food gone, she laid her head on her arms on the table. Canada jays and white-throated sparrows were singing outside the cabin; the sparrows’
let-us-sing-about-it!
call was cheerful, regular.

“You can nap on the bed if you’re tired.”

She gazed at him. He was serious.

“Why did you let me come fishing, Hunter?”

He paused. “I admire your brass.”

“What brass?” She sat up, stretched. The terry pullover she’d borrowed from Cat was slightly too long, and bunched at her elbows when she raised an arm over her head.

“You have lots of brass, girl. Think about it: Coming here, after him. Refusing to stay put in his cabin. Finding me, giving me what I deserve. Always wanting to know what’s going on.” He gazed back. “Taking the whole bear thing a helluva lot better than most people would.”

“I’m not taking it that well,” she admitted, running her hands through her hair. She caught him watching her fingers move through the full, gingery waves—watching closely. “I’m scared. I really am.”

“Yeah, but not paralyzed. Lie down. I have to put the rest of the fish in the icebox and clean my rifle, anyway.”

She felt dozy, and, maybe insanely, safe—so she took him up on his offer, and crawled into his bed. Dane’s smelled like Dane: smoked wood, dry cologne. Hunter’s smelled like Hunter: sea salt, pinewood, and the faintest silver trace of salmon.

He’d woken her up in the late afternoon and told her he would walk her back to Dane’s territory. She’d slung on her parka and they’d started off.

It was another fine day. The wind off the water was brisk and salty, bracing. Hunter had taken them off-trail, to avoid other bears; working their way through a sun-dappled stand of red alders, he held up a hand for her to stop.

“Check it out, Ginj.” He pointed to a Garry oak. “Perfect climbing tree. Sea view.”

“I don’t climb trees,” she half-laughed, taking a step back. “No way.”

“No way? Not even if I help you? Believe me—the vista’s great.”

She gazed at the tree. It was thick with branches, including lots of low ones, but it rose high to the sky in a dense, intimidating triangle. “I mean…”

“I won’t let you fall. Give it a try.”

Give it a try.
Well… hell, why shouldn’t she? A sudden boldness seized her, stoked by the perfect confidence in his preternatural eyes. “Okay. Sure. If I’m going to die in a day anyway, why not?”

“You’re not going to die—now, or in a day. Come on. Just step where I step and grab what I grab.”

He hefted her into the tree, then swung up after her and started to climb—she followed his movements exactly. It was shockingly easy, as long as she didn’t look down. The higher they got, the fresher and stronger the wind was. When she was level with the tops of the red alders, she finally felt a buzz of nerves.

“Hunter?”

“It’s fine, honey. Don’t stop now. Keep going.” His voice was so calm that she did.

Finally, they reached the top. It was just like he’d said: the view was great.

The water was denim blue, rough-surfaced, and broad, dotted with stony-bottomed, forested islands. Birds cut through the air. Overhead, the big, blustery sky was full of rolling clouds flushed the color of pink lemonade. It was glorious.

“Gorgeous,” Ginger conceded. “You know all the best lookouts, huh, Beaumont?”

“Nah,” he threw off, modest. “Hey, look, Ginj—Pacific loons. See?”

He pointed to some bobbling specks, dots keeping close to the edge of Storm Isle. She could just make out their pretty black-and-white coloring.

“I see them!” She raised herself up on her handholds. “Do you ever hear them sing?”

“Sure. Plenty. I guess you can’t hear ’em up at MacAlister’s place. He’s too far off the water.”

Disappointing. I’d like to hear loons.
“Yeah. I guess.”

For awhile they were quiet, enjoying the wind and the calm. Gradually, she stopped looking at the landscape and started looking at him.

He looked at home here. Like he belonged out in the wild, up a tree, gazing out to sea. And he looked beautiful, too. Her eyes got lost tracing the bold lines of his profile.

“Had enough?” he asked finally—and when he glanced at her, she saw his surprise that she’d been watching him already. “What?”

“Just thinking about you.”

He laughed. “What’s to think about?”
Lots.
“Come on. Follow me down. It’s harder, but you can do it. Just shadow me.”

“Hunter,” she asked suddenly, with a rush of boldness.

“Yeah?”

“Where’s your clan?”

He stared at her. The gold in his eyes burned bright, like the rim of the moon.

“Dead.”

Her stomach dropped; her grip on a branch slipped a little as her palms moistened.
Dead?

“I’m… I’m sorry.”

“It’s alright. Come on now,” he said, his voice carefully flat. She knew he wasn’t upset with her—but also that he wouldn’t answer any more questions. “Climb down after me.”

“Hunter, I shouldn’t have asked.”

He managed half a smile. “I called you brassy, didn’t I? Inquisitive? Well, you are—and I like it. So don’t apologize.” She colored a little, flattered, confused. “Now… put your hand where I did, Ginj.”

They reached the edge of Dane’s territory at dusk. She was finally starting to recognize the border.

“Here you go,” he said, hanging back from the invisible line. “MacAlister’s turf. You’ll be safe now.”

“Is that why you always walk me back?” she asked. “To keep me safe?”

He gazed at her in the grey twilight. “That’s you, Ginger. Asking the hard questions.”

“Hey, I didn’t get this journalism degree for nothing.” She swatted a confused crane fly. “I mean, I got it for forty grand, but who’s counting? Right? Eh?”

He laughed; her insides got hot. Since when had she started loving that sound?

“You can get home from here.” He put his hands in the pockets of his beat-up field jacket. “I’ll let you go.”

She bit her lip as he turned to head off; a weird, sudden fear gripped her at the thought of him leaving her.

“Hunter!”

“Ginj?” He paused, further down the path, and half-turned.

Hesitating, she stared at his shadowy outline; it was getting hard for her to see in the murk. But she had to ask.

“Am I gonna die here, Hunter?” Her voice came out softer and more afraid than she’d meant it to.

He won’t lie to me.

There was a hard, charged silence.

“No,” he said firmly, and she could see the flash of gold in his eyes even from ten feet away, like a firefly’s spark. “You’re not.”

She was nearly to the cabin when she realized something was wrong.

She wasn’t alone. The path ahead of her was blocked by a small, motionless collection of dark figures. They scared her. And, instinctively, she knew who one of them was.

“You can’t be here,” she heard herself say. “This is another man’s territory.”

“And you’re another man’s, aren’t you?” Gunnar hissed sibilantly. “Let me see you.”

“No.” She took a step back, wondering if Hunter would hear her if she screamed for him. But it had been almost ten minutes since they split up.

“Don’t be afraid.” Gunnar tapped closer, leaning on his staff. “You won’t feel my claws tonight. Let me look at you, girl.”

“No,” she repeated, but the handful of men—she knew they were men—who had come with Gunnar fanned out around her threateningly. She was forced closer to him to avoid their ring. “Don’t touch me.”

“Why? Aren’t you accustomed to the touch of ursine men?”

“Don’t touch—” she repeated, but then he
was
touching her. The loathsome feeling of his knobbly hand holding tight to her chin, forcing her to look at him, made her stomach turn.

“Well,” he hissed, “human you may be, but no man would deny your beauty. Still…” He turned her face this way and that, admiring it. “I thought better of MacAlister than that he would sacrifice his ambitions for a woman. No matter how lovely a woman she is…”

“You’re going against the elders,” Ginger managed to say, keeping her voice cold and still. She didn’t want to show him how afraid she was. Any moment he could skinchange, become a bear, rake her, bite her, murder her—

“How so, little bird? Am I attacking you? Has blood been spilt? No.”

“You’re in Dane’s territory. That’s against your laws, and you know it.”

Gunnar chuckled, and so did the other men, slavishly. “A man who has debased himself with a human woman is not a man who can claim and hold territory, girl. I do not respect his title to this land. He is no bear!”

He ran a hand through her thick, wavy hair, enjoying it. “Has MacAlister ever told you what he finds so lacking in ursine women, that he prefers a fragile, fangless thing like you? Has he explained this deviant preference?”

“Get out of my way, you walking pile of garbage!”

She didn’t know where the boldness had come from, but it blazed up—vocal and loud and irresistible.
He
is
a walking pile of garbage. Fuck him! He’s got no right!

Gunnar chortled wheezily. She could see the filmy white of his sightless eye even in the dark. “Mouthy. Interesting.” He leaned close to her, inhaled the scent of her neck. “I can smell the fear on you, little bird—like salt. Delicious.” Another dry chuckle. “Don’t pretend I don’t scare you. I do scare you. I should scare you. I’ll be Alpha of the West before the week is out, and you’ll be dead. You, and—if all goes accordingly—your man, too.”

“Catch on fire!” Ginger hissed, repulsed and terrified, her heart hammering.

“I hear your heart,” Gunnar breathed, close to her ear. “Do you know what it reminds me of, girl? A fawn’s. A fawn’s heart. The way its little heart speeds as I stalk it, slink close to where it’s hiding, thrust through the leaves—”

“Get off of me!” She tried to shove him away, but he was surprisingly strong. He threw his staff to the ground—did he not really need it?—and put both hands on her, one in her hair, one on her waist.

“Mind yourself,” he breathed, pulling her hair. “Although… I confess… I do love your nerve. A woman like you… a man might even be tempted to
turn
her… to claim her for himself…” His hand slid up over her breast and squeezed it, far too hard. “Fertile. Supple. Spirited. Mmm… how would you like that, girl? Would you prefer to be my consort?”

“I’d rather be roadkill’s consort,” she hissed. “Someone should turn you into a rug.”

He laughed—but the laugh became a growl, distorted, animal. He sprouted fur; his face lengthened and broadened; his hands on her became big, heavy paws; he rose over her head, taller and taller, a snorting black bear with burning eyes. The men in the ring laughed and laughed.

She screamed.

She screamed the loudest she’d ever screamed in her life. The sound of it shattered the quiet of new night.

The bear chuffed and groaned and snuffled her hair—it licked her face. Its breath was swampy, reeking of rotten fish. Claws dug into her shoulder, through the nylon of her parka. She wanted to run, but she knew that if she did, it would maul her. She just
knew
. It was playing with her.

“Gunnar—watch out! He’s back!” one of the men shouted.

Hunter?

An immense grizzly bear crashed suddenly out of the ferny undergrowth, snapping yearling red maples as it came. It barreled toward where she stood locked with Gunnar, roaring like a jet plane. She’d never seen a more terrifying sight.

The men yelled in fear and scattered, some of them changing into bears to lope off into the brush, whining and howling. Gunnar let go of her, swiveled toward the grizzly, and snarled, his scruffy neck fur bristling.

The grizzly was not intimidated. It reared up, bellowed, and cuffed Gunnar across the face with one enormous, long-clawed paw. Blood sprayed—some of it splattered across Ginger’s front.

Gunnar moaned and hissed, cringing; then, striking fast as a snake, he tried to land a bite on the grizzly’s thick, muscular neck. The grizzly batted him again, roaring thunderously—its breath smoked in the dark like volcanic steam.

Finally, Gunnar gave up, and, beaten, cut away from the fight—he ran clumsily and quickly into the forest, barking. The staff he’d thrown down was still on the ground, next to Ginger’s foot.

She was frozen.

The grizzly in front of her was gigantic, primordial. A swipe from one of its massive forepaws would be enough to take her head off—easily. She stared into its panting, slavering face, her breath coming in mouse-shallow gasps.

Who was it? She couldn’t tell.

It growled, a slow, rumbling sound.

“W…who?” she made herself ask, haltingly.

The grizzly burred and
woof
ed, then pressed its big dark muzzle against her middle. She whimpered—she could feel the raw power behind the bump of the snout—but all it was doing was nudging her. Nudging her… nudging her back up the track, toward the cabin. It pushed and prodded her until she started to walk.

Quickly, it herded her up the trail, chaperoning her to the front porch of the cabin. It growled and snapped, shaking its head—she understood that it wanted her to go inside, so she did, slamming the door behind her and standing trembling in the dark.

Dane was in right after her, filthy and sweaty, his eyes molten gold. If the moment had been different, she would have enjoyed the way he looked: as naked and grimy and muscular as a feral god.

But he was in a mania. He shoved her up against a cabin wall, one hand crushing her arm, the other tight on her waist.

“Jesus, Ginger! Do I have to lock you up?” His voice was hoarse and angry, raw. Loud. “Didn’t I tell you to stay inside?
Didn’t I tell you? Didn’t I say he would hurt you
?”

“Dane—”

“He’ll kill you, Ginger! Why don’t you believe that?”