Claiming the Wolf

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Werewolf Christian Hart thought he missed the action of battling vampires—until an encounter with vampiress Danni Weber. She bites him during their fight, the worst fate imaginable for a wolf. His pack would banish Hart forever if they find out. Nevertheless, Hart finds himself drawn to Danni, his sworn enemy, a woman he knows is as deadly as she is beautiful.

Then the blood hunger hits. Hart refuses to harm a mortal, even as his desire for blood and sex becomes too overwhelming to fight. His solution: turn to Danni to satisfy his cravings….

Claiming the Wolf

Michele Hauf

www.millsandboon.co.uk

Contents

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Copyright

One

Blowing out a breath, Christian Hart watched it fog before him. He stood against the black SUV’s hood. He had parked beneath the streetlight posted behind the Lizard Lounge, Paris’s resident faery nightclub. Or at least, the club was the closest most would get to faeries without actually stepping into FaeryTown, where the real danger lurked.

It was unseasonably cold for October, but regardless, he didn’t wear a coat over the black T-shirt he’d tucked into black cargo pants. A leather holster was strapped across his chest and back, but the pistol tucked under his arm didn’t sport normal bullets: they were wooden, designed for stopping vampires. Wood wouldn’t kill them, but it would give the nasty longtooths pause long enough for Hart to take them out. If necessary.

It had been some time since vampires had bothered his pack. He missed the action.

Easing back his shoulders, he winced—he was feeling it now in his triceps. Shouldn’t have spent all morning with the punching bag. He smirked at his wimpy thoughts.

He’d foregone interior duty tonight, letting Tony take that detail, which included protecting their pack leader at close range. The principal, Remy Caufield, had a penchant for shagging faeries, and he would remain inside the nightclub that catered to the fey bits of dust and menace until it closed hours from now.

Fine with Hart. Some time alone to let his thoughts wander—hell, who was he kidding? He wanted to be inside, mainlining the thumping beat into his blood, eyeing up the sexy young pretties. He wasn’t particular about faeries; he could take ‘em or leave ‘em. As long as a wolf didn’t fall in love with one of the sidhe and attempt to make her his mate—they were ace for one-night stands.

Tony’s voice spoke in the two-way curled over Hart’s right ear. “Something’s going on in here, Hart. Be on the lookout for a tall figure in black.”

“What the hell?”

“I didn’t have time to assess. I think he planted something on Caufield. Tried to take a swing at him, too. Harm was intended. It’s dark in the back rooms. I didn’t see his escape. Can you catch him?”

Hart’s senses piqued as the club’s back door slammed open and out dashed a figure in black, pushing through the crowd of hopefuls who would never be allowed access inside, and hairpinning it to race down the alleyway. He couldn’t catch a scent, but he wouldn’t lose him visually.

“Got the bloke.”

Sliding behind the wheel of the SUV and revving the engine, he rolled onto the street. The assailant achieved good speed, forcing Hart to push twenty kilometers an hour, and navigate a tight Parisian alleyway, to keep up.

It was high time he saw some action. Hart couldn’t satisfy his need for adrenaline at the pack compound so he lived apart from the wolves he called family and spent a lot of time in his personal gym. What he needed was a place out in the country to let his wolf run free more often. His very nature demanded it. Yet Caufield was too citified, as was the entire Levallois pack. Though, they did have their darker pursuits.

Hart tried to distance himself from those matters.

Navigating a sharp corner, he saw the person he pursued look back. “Yes, I’m on you, idiot. What are you? Wolf? You should be able to run faster. I’d get out and chase you on foot, but this is more fun, eh? Watching you like a deer in my headlights.”

He chuckled to himself, but swore when the next turn found him driving right into three concrete bollards jutting waist-high and designed to keep vehicles off sidewalks. The SUV’s chrome bumper just kissed one of the columns. Swearing, he backed up and took the opposite turn.

Heading toward the Seine, he cruised slowly, eyeing up and down the streets. Couldn’t have lost him. He should get out and track him on foot, only he hadn’t picked up the culprit’s scent at the club due to the ridiculous thrill of finally seeing some action.

Suddenly the passenger door opened and a slender figure in black leaped inside. Before he could react defensively, a fist connected with Hart’s jaw. He tasted blood and the SUV swerved, but he managed to get it back on track. He was driving parallel to the river, and the traffic before and behind prevented him from stopping.

“So that’s how it is, eh?” He gripped the man by the arm, but his clothing was slick, like Gore-Tex, so his hold slid instead of gripping. “You have a death wish, bloke?”

The man kicked, landing the heel of what looked a narrow and feminine boot on the steering wheel. Hart fought to control the vehicle while trying to grab the pistol from under his left arm. His fingers wrapped about the handle, and as he swerved into the line of traffic, he pressed the gun barrel to the man’s face where more Gore-Tex fashioned a skull-fitting mask.

With a grunt, the man elbowed Hart’s wrist. The pistol went flying and knocked him on the temple. As he shook his head to clear the stinging pain, he noted the three words tattooed on the man’s wrist—thought the wrist was bloody thin—then groaned.

“Oh, hell no!” Was it a female? Had to be with such a delicate wrist. But what breed? And to have the audacity to take him on? “Listen, duck, if you’ve a bone to pick with Remy, I suggest you take it up with him. I’m not trained for relationship rescue.”

A heel to his right thigh brought a wolfish growl from between his tight jaws. He grabbed the woman’s throat. Before him, a car slowed and he bumped the tail with the front of the vehicle. Adjusting his speed, he yelped when he felt teeth sink into his hand and tear away.

As Hart shook his bleeding hand, the attacker ripped off the black face mask to reveal a shock of candied red hair and bright blue eyes. Gorgeous, was his first thought. What the bloody hell, was his second.

She lunged toward him, one hand grabbing the steering wheel and jerking the SUV sharply to the right, toward the river. Then Hart felt the searing, icy pain of fangs sink in at his neck.

No, no, no, no! Not a bloody vampire. And not biting him. The last thing he needed was...this problem.

Dropping the steering wheel, Hart gripped her by the head and yanked. Her fangs tore his muscle and flesh and he yowled and swore. She lunged for him again, attaching her mouth to his bleeding neck like a leech.

“Bloody longtooth!”

He managed to elbow her in the kidney, which detached her just in time for him to feel the impact of the SUV hitting the river guardrail and soar into the air. But he couldn’t process the fact that he was airborne and in worse danger than from a mere vampire bite, because the horror of having been bitten flashed red and angry in his brain.

When Hart got brassed off, his werewolf took over. Instinctively, he began to shift. His T-shirt tore at biceps and across the chest. Fingers lengthened, and he kicked off his shoes to make room for his changing feet. His spine cracked and shifted.

The SUV’s nose hit the water’s surface, jarring them and sending the vampiress flying into the backseat where iron piping left over from a plumbing project at the pack compound clattered. The werewolf he’d become gripped her leg as his hands shifted and talons curled into her flesh. Icy water poured through the open windows, and Hart howled a long and rangy cry that was drowned by the dirty river water.

Now in half-man, half-wolf shape, his brain switched to survival. Trapped within a murky metal box, his limbs shivering from the cold water bath, he slashed a taloned paw outward. The glass windshield cracked as the light from the surface was completely snuffed, save for the small red and blue LEDs glowing on the vehicle dashboard.

Twisting his body, the werewolf pounded again toward the glass and this time the clear sheet sucked inward and the vehicle dropped swiftly. He caught the crackled sheet of glass against his paws and, with a heave, forced it out through the metal frame. Pushing from the seat with his powerful feet, he soared toward the surface.

A paw broke through to the cool night air, and his wolfish head followed. Gasping, he eyed the shore, sniffing. No mortals in the vicinity. Kicking his legs, which were encumbered by the mortal pants that hadn’t fallen away, the werewolf instinctually shifted as he knew he wasn’t designed to swim in this shape.

Sinking in the murky depths, Hart quickly reverted to were-form with a howl that drank in the dirty Seine. Breaststroking, he swam toward the surface and, by flinging himself halfway onto the sanctity of a hard surface, landed on the cold sidewalk.

He lay there panting, spitting out the disgusting water, wincing when he realized his left ankle had been twisted and broken during the crash. Already healing, the knitting bone and sinews hurt like a mother.

“Longtooth,” he muttered, then lifted his head to scan the river. “Where did you go?”

He suspected vampires were better swimmers than werewolves simply because they didn’t have to deal with any shifted body parts, but he watched the deceptively calm surface, mirrored with frail moonlight, for a long time. Nothing broke the water, nor did he spy anyone surface across the other side, or down as far as he could see. They’d plunged in at city’s edge. Hell, he suspected it would be a while before rescue vehicles got the call someone had driven into the river.

“One dead vampire is no skin off me,” he muttered, then slapped a palm to his aching neck. And yet... “She bit me.” He could still feel the open wounds, which meant it was deep, because a small injury should have healed within moments.

If she hadn’t surfaced, she must be dead, Hart decided. On the other hand, drowning wasn’t going to kill a vampire. And something he’d seen while struggling with the crazed vamp returned to his thoughts.

“That tattoo,” he murmured. But a flash second had shown him the detailed and finely wrought words: come what will.

Hart lifted onto his elbows and fiercely stared toward the spot where he presumed the vehicle had settled. She was down there. Alone. A just punishment for what she’d put him through.

Shaking his head like a dog to whip the water from his short hair, he growled and smashed his fist against the sidewalk. She was alone. And the tattoo bothered him. Recent? Some weird part of him answered, yes, it’s new ink. Which meant...

Hart stood and dove into the water.

* * *

Danni struggled with the steel pipe that pierced her gut and pinned her like a giant bug to the back seat of the submerged SUV. Upon descent, she’d instinctually started breathing through her nose. She couldn’t think how wrong it was she was still alive and struggling. Yet another cool thing about vampirism she had never asked for.

No matter how she tried, she couldn’t dislodge the pipe, which had come from the rear cargo area and had wedged in the dashboard. Stuck here forever. Literally.

When would she die? God, she didn’t want this. She’d never asked for any of this! The idea of tears made her choke on the water and she wished she could drown and get it over with and done.

When she felt the hand on her leg, she kicked, but instantly regretted the move. Help? Yes, please!

The hand returned and moved along her leg, groping over her limbs. Even with her heightened vampire sight she could only make out shadows and the tiny LEDs on the dashboard. When the hand moved over her hip and slapped against the pipe embedded in her body, she knew whoever it was had determined her dire situation. She landed her hand on his face, stroking her fingers down the side of his jaw and neck, where she felt the serrated skin.

It was him, the werewolf who had condemned her to this watery grave.

You did too, eh, Dan the Man? Would have never landed in the river if you hadn’t bitten him.

He tugged at the pipe, and each jerk felt as if her insides were being rearranged by a flunky surgeon. He touched her arm, moving his hand down her skin past her wrist. Placing his palm over hers made her feel as if he were trying to convey something. He swept away, and suddenly she was alone.

He was leaving her? Danni protested with a yell. Stupid. No sound down here, save the gurgling of bubbles still rising from the settling vehicle. And her frantic heartbeats pounding in her veins and ears. She deserved it, she supposed. She had tried to kill him. But only in self-defense.

The hand slapped over her ankle again and he pulled himself inside the vehicle by moving along her body. Fingers pressed gently to her cheek, reassuring, and she moved her hand over his, squeezing. Must have gone to the surface for air.

Now the pipe moved, she could feel every inch as it slowly tugged at her skin and muscles, and hell—who knew—it might have pierced a kidney or her liver. She was still alive by some impossible means that made her want to kick and scream and yell. But she wouldn’t. He was helping her. All that mattered now was that she cooperate.

Slowly, methodically, he managed to move the pipe toward the rear of the vehicle. He’d hooked a leg about one of hers, which held him down and his powerful muscles flexed against hers. Another pause, he pressed his palm flat to hers again, and she knew before he left he had to resurface to take in air.

Wolves couldn’t breathe underwater? A girl learned something new every day.

Those minutes she lay in the darkness were the longest in Danni’s life. Six months ago she’d never imagined this for herself. She wouldn’t let this be her end, she was stronger than that. Curling her fingers about the end of the pipe, she felt but a foot left to go, but she couldn’t move it herself. Even with the infusion of blood she’d taken in the car, exhaustion coiled about her bones. She couldn’t hold her eyes open and let the lids fall shut.

The next time she opened her eyes it was to thin moonlight upon silver waves as she was being pulled ashore. Her body landed on a hard surface and she choked up water endlessly.

“Gotta get out of here,” a male voice with a British accent said near her head. “I can hear sirens now. I’m sure neither of us wants to talk to the police. Trust me, eh?”

Danni’s eyes closed as she felt her body lifted and tossed over the burly wolf’s shoulder.

* * *

He walked the half mile home with the vampiress flung over one shoulder as if she were a sodden sack of laundry. He only encountered a few odd looks at the half-clad, soaking wet man as he went along the way. He growled at an elderly gentleman who’d suggested he take his antics to the privacy of his own home. The French were such snobs.

Hart dropped the vampiress onto the ceramic-tiled floor inside his apartment, not wanting to lay her on the suede sofa. Without a glance behind him, he aimed for the bathroom, striping off his wet pants and the few remaining shreds of his shirt. Walking right into the glass-walled shower, he turned on the hot stream. “Bloody yes, I needed that.”

Ten minutes later, he grabbed a towel and wandered out to the living room to find the vampiress alert, crouched against the door and flexing to stand as he approached. She put up her fists, as if ready to go a couple rounds with him.

That gave Hart a mirthless chuckle. “Feisty longtooth, aren’t you? Here.” He tossed her the towel, and she pressed it to her gut, which didn’t bleed anymore, but then, he hadn’t expected it to. “You healed?”

She nodded.

Anger returning in a whirl of energy, he fisted the air as if he’d just laid the punching bag flat. “What the hell are you about? Going after my principal, then nearly drowning me? And this?” He slapped the side of his neck where the bite wounds had finally healed, yet had marked him forever in ways no wolf could comprehend.

“Just doing as I was ordered.” She straightened, lifting her chin defiantly.

Despite her bedraggled, wet-rat appearance, her eyes were bright blue and her thick lips were jeweled with water that dripped from her candy red hair. The dark clothing clung to a long, narrow frame defined by lean muscle.

Hart’s first assessment of her stood: gorgeous. Yet deadly. And too cocky for a vampire standing before a wolf who could shear her head from her neck with one flick of his wrist.

“Why did you do it?”

“Do what?” Hart snapped, pacing before her, unsure yet if he should get out the stake he kept in a kitchen drawer—he’d lost the gun in the Seine—or shove her out the door and wish her good riddance.

“You saved my life.”

He flung a hand outward, dismissing the heroic deed. “Wasn’t like you were going to die.”

“No, but I would have been stuck down there forever.”

“Yet still alive. So there. I didn’t save your life.”

She heaved out a sigh and nodded. “Either way, I owe you one.”

“I don’t need a favor from a longtooth, thank you very much.”

“I know. You hate me. I’m supposed to hate you.” She lifted the clump of her wet hair and squeezed the water out onto the floor. “What’s your name?”

He snarled, thinking she had some nerve. By rights he should bring her in to the compound to let the pack serve her the justice they saw fit.

I’m supposed to hate you. Like she wasn’t sure whether or not she should?

“Hart,” he offered briskly. He never used his first name; Christian was too sissy. “You can take the towel with you. Just get the hell out before I decide to serve you as chum for the pack.”

Wrapping the towel about her shoulders, she opened the door. A sigh preceded her darting glance at him. Sadness wafted through the air and permeated Hart’s chest. He felt the hit directly and sucked in a breath.

“Name’s Danni Weber,” she said. “Tribe Zmaj. I know it doesn’t change things, but...sorry about the bite. I was in survival mode.”

With that, she closed the door, and Hart let out his breath.

“Sorry? About changing my life forever?” He grabbed the nearest thing—a pillow on the couch—and hurled it at the door so hard the seams split and out spilled thick white stuffing.

Hart slapped a palm to his neck. The wound was achy and hot. He would have preferred death over a bite, any day.

Two

Danni stood naked before the mirror mounted on the back of her bedroom door, inspecting her smooth stomach. Gliding her fingers up the skin, taut with underlying muscle, she frowned at the absence of a scar below her ribcage. That her body healed at an insanely fast rate did not cease to bewilder her. It was unnatural. Wicked. Perhaps even demonic.

Truth was, it was vampiric. And thinking the V-word ignited a wrenching twist in her gut. She hated what she had become. Or did she fear it?

A little of both, for sure.

Pressing a palm to the mirror she opened her mouth and watched as she willed her fangs lower. It didn’t hurt, but accompanying their descent, she felt a strange tingling for fulfillment, to satiate her needs with blood and sex. Another wicked, demonic thing that had become a part of her life.

It was all Slater’s fault.

She’d not called him this morning to check in. Revealing her incompetence wasn’t so much a risk to her status in the tribe as it would be to her brother’s neck. Literally. No, she had to avoid Slater for a few days until she could again put herself near the pack leader, Remington Caufield. And this time she wouldn’t screw things up.

The sticky tracking device had slipped off her finger before she’d gotten it on the principal. And the device being miniscule, she hadn’t a chance to find it in a dark nightclub. She’d fled in a panic. The pack wolf who had pursued her—Hart—had been a surprise.

This lurking about and spying business wasn’t her thing. Though tribe Zmaj seemed to think it was. As a former soldier, Danni could reconnoiter a site, sneak up on the enemy, and had even begun training to scout out landmines. Getting close to a werewolf to plant a tracking device? So out of her comfort zone.

But she had to do this. She must not fail a second attempt. Or David, her brother, would suffer for it.

She tapped her fang and sneered at her reflection. “I won’t let this happen to you, David. If it’s the last thing I do.”

Hart plowed a right hook into the punching bag, held by fellow pack member Tony Santenolli. The wolf grunted and let go of the bag, stumbling backward.

“Hart, I think you’ve got it. You got something anyway. Why so angry?”

Angry? Light on his feet, Hart dodged side to side, fists wrapped in tape up by his face in defensive position, before he swung again, and sent the bag flying toward Tony’s growling face. He wasn’t angry. He was...

Hungry. For something he couldn’t quite name. Not food, that was sure. The hunger had been gnawing at him for days, since he’d woken the morning after his swim in the Seine. And yet, that deep, dark twist in his gut and curdling at the back of his throat did have a name. It coiled in his nostrils, drawing in Tony’s musky, metallic scent from beneath his skin.

Blood.

“I’m cool,” Hart huffed. He delivered another iron blow to the bag and felt the sting in his forearms. The best way to avoid the truth? Beat on something.

“Yeah? Well, I’m wrecked, man. You’re beating me bloody.” Leaner, and not as dedicated to the gym but still a powerful force, Tony shoved off from the bag and swiped a hand over his sweating brow.

“I don’t see any blood on you. Come on, bloke!” Hart delivered a high kick to the bag with his bare foot. Mixing in Muay Thai with standard boxing moves was his thing. He loved the martial arts workout and never missed a day. “Give me a challenge!”

Tony waved him off and grabbed a water bottle from the weightlifting bench.

It had been three days since Hart’s plunge into the Seine. He’d thought to walk it off, get on with his life. He’d detailed his chase after the vampire assassin to his principal, but had left out the part about her being a female—and biting him. Pack Levallois would banish him if they knew he’d been bitten. Which is why he had a workout towel draped about his neck right now. The bite mark had scarred and had not gone away as most wounds did within hours.

And every day he felt it more. The gnawing hunger. The deep, gut-clenching desire to sustain himself on a substance no sane wolf would consider. Werewolves didn’t need blood. His breed lived alongside mortals, and to each his own. But consume their blood for survival? Hell no.

The day Hart started drinking blood was the day he gave it all up. He had a good life. He worked hard to protect the pack and in turn was surrounded by the family his soul required. Someday he hoped to take a mate and begin his own family. It was all he needed.