The Werewolf's Wife

And she would never reveal that sometimes her dreams had her twisting between the sheets and moaning for the missing touch from the one man who had not only startled her but had also awakened her to new wants. He’d changed her in ways she was only beginning to grasp now. The obsessive lover in her? It was still in there, but she had been tamed and turned onto something less greedy yet perhaps a little more wanting. She wanted smoldering desire countered by a patient passion. Such wanting was intent to wait for the right man instead of Mr. Right Now.

She’d dated Miles Easton—the witch who’d tied her to the stake—for six months after the crazy notion to move to Vegas for a year, and had resigned herself to the fact most men were basic, functional and sufficient in bed. They put out no more than they expected back. And they expected to come every time they had sex, then roll over and snore. Boring.

But Ridge? As soon as the sheets were pulled away, he became a literal animal. And she wasn’t as frightened by the prospect of another go-round with his werewolf as she should be. For beyond the smoldering desire, her cravings whispered of wild, spontaneous sex. Hot, no-holds-barred sex. Make-me-dream-about-it-for-days sex. Make-me-shiver-when-I-think-your-name sex. Heck, she liked it a little rough, or so she imagined she would because she’d not yet found a lover to meet her pining desire to be held under control.

Ridge recognized her need for control. He was a smart man, but then again, perhaps she was overcontrolling, and who wouldn’t notice that? Ryan even rolled his eyes at her when she demanded too much from him for chores and homework.

At least she recognized her control fetish. And if the tables turned, maybe she’d finally get a handle on it and surrender completely.

But it was foolish to feed those fantasies. The werewolf wanted a divorce, and she wanted her son, safe in her arms.

And so she had steered her course directly into the fray. The River pack, if they participated in the blood sport, would present everything she did not want to deal with. As Ridge had said, when the wolves viewed the sport, they often shifted and impromptu matches were held between their own. They became enraged and hungry for physical fight by watching two vampires go at one another to the death.

She could stand before a gang of vampires without fear, and usually walk away without giving blood. Truth was, vampires still held a healthy regard for witches even though their blood was no longer poisonous to them. And she could hold her own against any witch who possessed earth, air, water or even fire magic. She didn’t mind demons, but ultimately, they were all idiots contained by their mortal shells.

But werewolves were half animal, and Abigail had a healthy respect for wild animals with big teeth. Much as her bad ole self wanted to burn magic through werewolf hides, she had to admit, she was glad to have Ridge along for the ride. He offered the instinct and strength she needed. Her magic was powerful, but facing an entire pack could overwhelm her, and then she knew she wouldn’t be able to direct her magic efficiently.

Which meant she was using Ridge as a means to an end. But it was more important to her to save Ryan than to worry about using one man. Ridge was tough; he could take it.

Besides, much as she should sign those papers right now and let the man off the hook, she couldn’t make it so easy to get a divorce. No, she must offer the man a challenge to prove his worth in the ending of their sham of a marriage.

You’ve got to stop thinking of him as a knight in shining armor, Abigail. Putting men upon a pedestal always gets you in trouble in the dating arena. Be smart.

And she would be.

“The last place I know where the River pack could possibly be holding a secret match is just ahead,” Ridge said. “That building down the road.”

Abigail straightened and surveyed the lights winking in the distance across the snowy field stretched before them. They’d turned onto a gravel road, which was lined with pine trees on one side and high snowbanks on the other. What she guessed were yard lights beamed across the soft blanket of snow, making it glitter as if a faerie stage. The beauty of winter offered a deceptive masquerade.

“I thought this was an old property the River pack had abandoned for digs in Wisconsin, but there are lights on everywhere. Hell,” Ridge said. “Could they really?”

“They’re obviously up to something,” she said.

She knew it pained him to consider any from his breed could still be involved in the blood sport. His naivety was odd, coming from one who had garnered much respect from his peers through his fierce mien and honorable manner.

“Do you know this vampire? What’s his name? What does he look like?”

“I, uh …” She didn’t know what he looked like.

Ridge flashed her a wincing shake of his head. “How are we supposed to find the guy if you don’t know what he looks like?”

“I’ve been told his name is Mac York. We just call out his name.”

“That’s your plan? If you were a vampire—any vamp—kept chained and starved by werewolves in a filthy cell, and you heard a rescue team call out a name other than your own, wouldn’t you stand and plead that is your name?”

“Oh.”

Ridge pulled the truck over on the side of the road and turned off the headlights.

“We can’t stop—”

“We are going to think this through,” he said firmly over her complaint. He cast a narrow, hard gaze at her that she could see, despite the darkness in the truck.

Abigail did not back down. Instead she lifted her shoulders and delivered an admonishing gaze right back at him. No one told her what to do.

“You can stare at me all you like, Abigail, but I can smell your fear. So just chill and let me think this through.”

“If I wasn’t afraid I’d be too cocky,” she challenged. “Fear is necessary when facing an enemy.”

“Abigail.” He clasped her jaw and turned her chin to face him. Normally she’d fling magic at anyone who touched her without consent, but his domineering manner quieted that urge. “This is going to be dangerous. I know nothing will stand between you and saving your son, but let me be your shield, will you? Don’t get in front of me. In fact, stay as far back as possible. Let me stand before whatever danger presents itself, or neither of us will survive.”

“But I can throw magic—”

“How far? And what kind? Are you going to geld them all like you did me? That’ll only make them angry, and you know they’ll all wolf out then. If they’re not already in werewolf form.”

“I didn’t geld you.”

“Close.”

“Whatever. I’m a master with air magic. I can toss a man through the air, send objects flying like a car, weapons, whatever you need me to do. I’ve also mastered fire.”

“Is that so? Tell me how a practitioner of fire gets herself tied to a stake with a circle of flaming fagots laid around her feet?”

Indeed, how? Had it been because she’d been so stupid in love—as was her frustrating mien—that she hadn’t seen it coming? “He overpowered me. I am a woman. That means there are some men who are stronger than me, no matter what my skills.”

“Exactly. So let me do the talking, right? And keep your flaming trigger finger holstered until I say so. No flames, Abigail. Deal?”

She nodded, but mentally crossed her fingers. She’d walked through more than a few wars in her time. She knew how to wield magic in battle. Real battles that had involved men on horseback brandishing swords and fighting for their king and country.

This witch could certainly handle a few werewolves.

Chapter 4

He had a very bad feeling about this. But he wasn’t a wolf to run with his tail between his legs.

Shifting into gear, Ridge drove the pickup, headlights out, up the long drive that preceded the River pack’s property. If the pack was holding a blood sport match, the grounds would be open to any wolf, even those from other packs. He’d attended a few of the games when the Northern pack had been holding them. He hadn’t a choice, because that was when he would have done anything for Amandus’s respect. From that experience, he knew they would be frisked and assessed before being allowed entrance into the private games.

Ridge also knew he would never be allowed entrance. Since he’d taken over the Northern pack he’d received a very clear message from the other packs that he was not welcome. He’d slain Amandus Masterson. Strangely, many had admired the old wolf. The many who believed they could do as they pleased and participate in a vicious sport that tortured vampires. Ridge had gone so far as to denounce the blood sport. And though there were packs that had agreed not to participate after the Saint-Pierre match had proved successful, those packs would not publicly denounce it, for fear of being detested by their peers, as well.

It was a fine line to walk, yet Ridge wasn’t about to cower to maintain a perceived standing of misplaced solidarity among the other packs. If they couldn’t handle him open and truthful, then he didn’t want to deal with them. A man was nothing without his integrity.

The only thing that bothered him was the few pack members who had left the Northern pack in search of the family he was unable to provide may have joined up with a pack involved in the sport. It hurt his heart to know the men he had once called brothers could participate in something so cruel.

Perhaps Abigail was wrong, and the River pack was merely holding some kind of party tonight, celebrating or something festive like that.

Unfortunately, intuition pricked his hackles like no full moon ever had.

Ridge exhaled, accepting what would come.

Abigail strode around the hood of the truck, fluffing the fur coat collar about her neck. The white fur framed her black hair and heart-shaped face, and for a second Ridge saw a snow goddess, pale and like porcelain, but possessed of a steely inner strength her outer appearance wanted to conceal.

A woman like her certainly did not need a man, or a husband, to survive. Hell, with fingers such as hers wielding magic, survival was a guarantee. Too bad. He could imagine protecting her and holding her close.

The clatter of tiny ice crystals on the surface of the snow sounded like a symphony at their feet. It redirected Ridge’s thoughts from holding her to eerie foreboding.

He held out a hand to keep her behind him, but when she instead clasped his hand, he sucked in a breath and tugged from her touch as if hit by her electrical magic.

“What’s wrong?” she asked.

Everything. He didn’t want to think about how soft and warm she was right now, even though it was her suede glove against his bare hand. How just beneath the fur rimming her neck were full, gorgeous breasts, rising and falling, tempting him to touch. He needed to stay alert and ultrasensitive to his surroundings.

“Can you stay behind?” he asked, knowing her answer before she would refuse. “If this gets tough, I won’t be able to keep an eye on you.”

“I’m a big girl, Ridge.”

“Big enough to stand against a pack of shifted wolves?”

When she didn’t reply, he almost lifted her over his shoulder to carry her back to the truck and shove her inside and lock the door. At least there he could be confident she wouldn’t get in harm’s way. But the scent of another warmblooded creature distracted him.

Ridge lifted his head and closed his eyes. The icy air focused every scent, yet also kept it close to the source, making it difficult to grab distant odors. Yet it lingered, teasing his nostrils.

It came to him on a whisper. Barely there, yet traveling the atmosphere on heavy particles. Blood. And not from a small animal that may have landed in a hunter’s trap in the nearby forest.

It was thick, and too strong, vibrant yet with life. Vampire. He hated that smell.

“Something is going on,” he muttered, his jaw tight. Heartbeat racing, he squeezed his hands into fists. “Follow me, and stay out of sight.”

A dozen vehicles were parked in the snow-plowed area before what was actually an old barn that had been reconditioned and made to look new with a fresh coat of red paint. A rooster weather vane sat still at the roof peak above the double doors.

Ridge sensed the wrongness of the place as soon as they emerged on the cleared parking area beneath a shelter of high-trimmed northern pines. The blood scent traveled his system and formed a tight knot in his gut. Aggressive male shouts from inside the barn prodded at his inner beast. No chickens or cows on this pseudofarm.

It was difficult to maintain stealth with the ice pebbles coating the snow. It had misted fine sleet earlier in the day, and the delicate ice beads crushed like glass beneath their feet and skittered across the glossy, iced surface, no matter how carefully they stepped.

He scanned the parking area, taking in the cars and finding no one inside any of them. He saw an old farmhouse, one that had been added to over the years, as if someone glued two houses to each side and had painted each with a few tones darker paint. It was lit with a soft inner glow, but he didn’t see figures moving inside behind the pale curtains.

A couple of wolves carrying blue plastic cups wandered around behind a dented SUV to take a piss. He pressed Abigail behind him where they stood in the midnight shadow of a pine tree with branches stretched out over the car in front of them.

“Shh,” he said, and sensed her heart beat a rapid pace.

She’d said fear was good. That was true. But doing the right thing was also a good reason to stand tall and proud and never let them see you sweat.

Times like this, he wouldn’t ask to be anywhere else. Sure, he felt it best to avoid confrontation. But if this pack were involved in the crime of blood sport, he wanted them to answer to his wrath.

Glancing to Abigail, he conveyed a warning. She nodded and pointed at the ground, studiously placed her feet together, as if to say, “I’ll stay right here.”

Not completely satisfied she would stay in the shadows, but unwilling to argue with an opponent who could win with a flick of her fingers, he stepped out beyond the car bumper. Here, where the tires had rolled over the packed snow, the ground crunched like Styrofoam under his boots.

One of the wolves scented him, his head lifting and breath exploding in a foggy cloud before his face. Eyes narrowed, the ski-capped wolf turned to sight the new wolf walking casually toward them.

“Chilly night, eh?” Ridge offered. “The match already begin?”

“Yeah,” the one who was zipping up said, as Ski Cap approached Ridge cautiously. “Beer’s inside, and on the house. Or should I say on the barn? Ha!”

“Martin, shut up,” Ski Cap snapped. “Who are you?” he asked Ridge, his pale eyes narrowing. “We’ve closed for the night. Full house. And I don’t recall you checking in earlier at the gate.”

“I’m late. And I didn’t see a gate.” Ridge splayed out his hands, opening himself in an attempt to appear as nonthreatening as possible. His fingertips tingled though, his talons aching for the shift even as he told himself the situation was a bad one. “I brought a roll of cash for wagers.”

The one in the back, Martin, chuckled and lifted his cup in a toast. “Benjamins!” He was already wasted, which was not so much a good thing as a warning.

Ridge stepped up and the one in front, taller and slimmer than Ridge, but not lacking in bulk for his arms arched out from his muscled form, took a step forward, as well. He wore no coat, but instead a thick, insulated plaid shirt over black leather pants. He scented the wolf’s aggression, and tried not to put out his own surging rise to anger. He must remain calm if he wanted to gain admittance.

“What’s your name?”

“Richard Addison,” he answered. Few wolves knew him by his birth name.

“What pack you with?”

Now that was the question he couldn’t honestly answer without shutting down this reconnaissance adventure faster than a speeding bullet.

“I just wanted a look at the fight,” he said. “Won’t bother anyone. Come on, we’re all brothers, yes?”

He saw the fist swing toward his jaw, and caught it smartly with his open palm. The loud smack echoed in the still winter night. A bird fluttered out from high in a pine tree.

Martin the beer drinker wobbled, but he observed their interaction with keen eyes.

“Now that wasn’t very nice,” Ridge said. “I was being polite and all. Why’d you have to do that?”

“I know who you are.” The capped wolf bounced in preparation to deliver another fist. “You’re the one who killed the Northern pack’s principal. Think you’re all high and mighty now, do you? Did you come to preach to us against torturing vampires?” He swung again.

Ridge dodged the slow fist. The man’s breath reeked of beer but he wasn’t as inebriated as the other, who stood watching, his jaw hinged open and beer dribbling out of his tilted cup.

“I’m not a preacher by any measure of the word.” Ridge lifted his fists in defense. He liked a good fistfight. No high kicks or martial arts moves for him. Keep it simple. Nothing fancy. A well-delivered fist trumped a kick to the jaw any day. Pummel your opponent’s weak spots and organs until he puked. “You know the blood sport has been outlawed.”

“Yeah, yeah. Every decade or so the Council sends out a new list of stupid rules. We’re wolves, man. Don’t you want to live like one?”

“We don’t need to kill to survive. And we certainly don’t need to celebrate the deaths of others. That kind of gang mentality makes all the rest of us look bad. Why don’t you think for yourself?”

“I do, and I take great joy watching vampires tear out each other’s veins to get to the blood they crave.”

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