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Pawn Among Wolves

By: SmileWhenYouMeanIt



"He. Is. Only. My. Flatmate," chanted Gemma carefully. She'd been stating it with various degrees of indignation, resignation or embarrassment all day, to no evident effect; Kate and Bethan obviously had their blood up and were revelling in teasing her. She'd hoped that they would be a bit more discreet on the open street, but no chance. Having restrained themselves to mere whispers on the bus, her two exasperating friends were now, as they walked up the road to her flat, reverting gleefully to full-volume outrageousness.

"Oh, yes?" drawled Kate, raising one eyebrow sceptically, "Haven't we heard that innocent tone somewhere before? What was it you said again? Something about Mike and platonic and mere friendship, wasn't it, just before he kept us all awake all night caterwauling romantically outside my window after the Christmas ball?" She sighed, before adding tartly, "Last time you get to sleep over."

"Methinks," chimed in Bethan on Gemma's left, "that the lady (so to speak) doth protest just way too much."

Gemma ignored them, pulling her coat tighter against the cool evening breeze and hitching her bag more securely over her shoulder, dipping her head to hide her burning cheeks behind the fall of her dark hair. Sometimes her friends were just so irritating.

"Mmm-hmm," agreed Kate, "Just makes you wonder why, doesn't it? But then, you don't have to look far for her reason. The eyes kind of get stuck on Mac as soon as they connect with him."

"He's only my flatmate," repeated Gemma resignedly. Thank god I'm nearly home, she thought.

"And she may be protesting too much now," Kate continued with a wink across at Bethan, "but I can't imagine her making any protestation when she gets home."

"He is only my flatmate." As you both know very well. Half a street to go. Gemma speeded up, knowing trying to shake them off was futile, but it would cut down harassment time before they parted at her door.

"Oh I don't know," Bethan replied across Gemma to Kate's, her long legs easily adjusting stride to the new pace. She abruptly changed her tone to a breathless coo, "Oh please, Mac, please don't," she panted huskily, "oh don't, oh, no, oh, oh, oooh, Mac, oh, nooooo."

Gemma stopped dead on the walkway and closed her eyes, clenching her fists, trying to block out her brain's suggestions as to what Mac might do to her to generate... she wrenched her mind away from that pointless path, well aware that her nipples were painfully peaked and the dampness was spreading against her panties. Again. Then she took a deep breath, pulled herself together and faced off against her so-to-speak friends.

"I thought you two had become accustomed to him FINALLY."

"Accustomed?" echoed Kate, "How do we become accustomed to that absolutely gorgeous male model adorning your flat?" she queried incredulously.

"He's a photographer, not a model."

Bethan swatted away Gemma's interjection with a careless hand. "Whatever. Look at him. He's so nice and tall," she sighed the last word in appreciation of a male who easily topped her own graceful height. Then she added, "Well, anyone is to you admittedly."

"And he's got that gorgeous mop of tawny hair," Kate joined in, her eyes beginning to shine at the thought.

"Deep, deep, green eyes that make any girl just melt away, mmmmm." Bethan cast her own eyes up in an expression of rapture.

"He's funny," sighed Kate.

"Thoughtful."

"Smooth, rippling muscles."

"Although we haven't seen the best of them," Bethan leered at Gemma, who rolled her eyes.

"Did you just see him in that shirt last night - rolled up to expose those forearms - the definition, the dusky tan, the lean strength, the welcoming smile in his eyes... mmmm." Kate was obviously off in a dream world.

"Divine," agreed Bethan, her voice now slightly husky.

"Muy, muy male. Mmmmm." Kate looked as though she was following her thoughts into heaven. Or more probably somewhere else entirely.

Gemma had had enough. Her whole body was trembling, simmering. She didn't need the reminders. "Okay, okay," she snapped out, "I will ask him never to wear that shirt again ..."

"Or only privately for her," Kate interrupted in a whispered aside, and Gemma glared at her supposedly intelligent blonde friend as she continued, "... as it turns the two of you into nincompoop trollops..."

"Nincompoop trollops? Nincompoop trollops!? Been working hard on your deadly insult list, Gem?" queried Bethan, grinning down at her.

"... and no, you are Not Coming In." Gemma stopped outside the outer door and flicked her wrist in disdainful dismissal, glaring back at them as she fumbled for the lock with her key. They had both stopped also a few paces back, and were grinning naughtily, happily, at her.

"Have a good evening, Gemma."

"Yep, study hard. Concentrate."

"Don't let anything distract you. No naughty thoughts."

Gemma stuck out her tongue at them, then smiled wryly as she pushed open the door and stepped into the entranceway. She caught Bethan's parting stage whisper as they turned on up the road toward their own flat, "Quick, girl, quick. He'll be going to work soon, don't miss out!"

"Idiots," she snorted, and shut the door somewhat forcefully behind her. Then she leaned back on it, and took a deep breath. Counted her stampeding heartbeats. Another deep breath. Another. Damn. She was on fire. The idiots had been at it all day, and her unruly brain had been indulging in more and more erotic fantasies until she couldn't even think through the fire in her veins and the aching pool of warmth between her thighs.

She had to calm down. That pair didn't have to deal with the fact that Mac was just patently not interested, whatever she might not be able to stop herself- or them -from fantasising about. After six months, she and Mac had settled comfortably into being really good friends and she didn't want to mess with that. He was way above her league, and something about the stillness, the sadness in him kept her from probing why he'd ended up in a student dive (albeit postgrad) when he was probably about ten years older than her and accustomed to sleek downtown penthouse apartments. It was like he needed silence.

She smiled at the thought. Mac often teased her that he'd moved in with her to get some peace - he didn't ever need to talk again, now, as the sole requirement of being her flatmate was being able to listen, incessantly, to cheerful burble. She usually swatted him when he made cheeky comments like that, he liked provoking her, it had become a game. She never could land a slap, and he would dodge easily around her taunting, "Slow-coach! Slow-coach!" as he tapped her on the nose or stole her hair grips. Smug male. Her heartbeat had finally slowed fractionally, and Gemma was still smiling a little sadly to herself as she started to climb the stairs.

It was strange that the door to their top floor flat was slightly ajar, but she guessed Mac had nipped back in for something he'd forgotten on his way out to work. He had a second job as a barman in the evenings to bring in regular income, and usually left around the time she got home. Sadly, thought Gemma wryly to herself, then grinned. OK, maybe sometimes a girl did hurry home a bit early in the hopes of seeing her living work of pornographic art drifting around their flat before he left, busted, sue me. Then as she pushed open the door she started to feel a tingle of apprehension down her spine, and her brain switched abruptly from vague sexual fantasy to alert. She could hear - well, she didn't know what it was really, sort of a snuffling grunt, and there was a very strange, faint tangy smell. It made her uneasy and she slowed silently in the hallway. The living-room light was the only one on, the door half open allowing a block of light across the hallway like a Hitchcock movie.

That's why you're feeling jumpy, Gemma told herself; horror lighting effects. She stepped into the living room doorway and froze again. Absolutely froze dead, heart pounding out of her chest and cheeks on fire, feeling as though someone had simultaneously poured petrol on the smouldering fire inside her and punched her hard in the gut, blasting out all the air. Mac. Mac was stretched out naked on the floor in front of the fire, and two girls - no, bloody well three girls, were licking lovingly over his naked, rampant cock and balls. Feasting, with those whimpering, grunty little snuffles of sexual delight, as they licked, nipped, suckled, and slurped with total joyous, lascivious abandon. And, well, bloody hell, no wonder. He was big. Magnificent. And shuddering. And absolutely, totally gorgeous. Drenched in soft light and sweat, all beautiful smooth muscle and toned flesh. As much as she could see of him past...

Suddenly, Gemma's brain clicked in. There was also a bunch of men, the closest, the one with the long, elegantly tailored coat and wide, arrogant stance, was standing with his back to her between her and Mac, shielding Mac's chest from her view, looking down at the man straining of the floor. And the reason Mac was stretched out was because there were two or three men pinning each limb to the ground, holding him down as the girls slowly, thoroughly, joyously suckled and licked over his throbbing, erect cock. Or actually, the guys were struggling to keep each limb pinned to the floor. Mac wasn't shuddering purely from arousal, this was a fight. And that tangy smell...

Abruptly, the elegant one swung around and fixed his feral gaze unerringly on the girl standing frozen in the doorway. He was petrifying, there was no other word for it. Gemma's last breath grunted out of her on a desperate little squeak, frozen wide-eyed as he paced meaningly towards her. She heard a ferocious snarl from the pack on the floor and sensed a sudden heave of movement, just before the man reached her, and then her hair was twisted painfully in his grasp and he wrenched her head backwards, bending her over easily, effortlessly.

"I told you not to say no," he murmured softly, and Gemma, through the pain, anger, and terror, wondered what the hell he meant. She rammed a fist up at him at the same time as she felt a sharp implement scoring across her back, and she yelped as her coat, jumper, and dress were all shredded off her in seconds while she was wrenched further back into a spine-cracking, agonising arch. Her knuckles impacted on an unmoving wall of stomach underneath the sheer coat, and his thin lips twisted into a sneer. She heard another snarl from the floor as she struggled, completely uselessly, against the agonising grip and the knives scoring lightly along her skin. Her bra and panties were ripped off and abruptly, wearing nothing but her long boots and knee-highs, the elegant, feral stranger tossed her across the room to sprawl over Mac's lap. Stunned, shocked into shuddering stillness, Gemma saw a shimmer of movement as the pack dissolved, springing for the door and the windows at a speed her eyes couldn't comprehend, although she caught a sight of one stumbling as Mac, at full stretch from his prone position on the floor, cracked the gang member a phenomenal blow across the leg, before the panicked guy scrambled, terrified, leg dangling awkwardly, over the sill.  

Gone.

In the stillness after their abrupt exit, Gemma's first trembling awareness centred on the large, hard, pulsing cock throbbing demandingly against her soft stomach. Her pussy was seeping wet, and her heart rate, already fast from fear, skipped to erratic excitement of a different kind. And then there was the closeness of his musky scent, sending the tingling through her veins, ramping up the agony, demanding that she just rub her soft belly against that hard, thrusting muscle. Intoxicating, his scent, but tainted slightly, mixed with that smell of blood. Blood. Her head jerked around.

Mac's eyes were closed, his face twisting in agony, lips writhing as his face contorted again and again, snarling silently, continuously straining, fighting against something. Gemma's breath caught as her eyes landed on the spear, yes, spear, pinning him, through his lower ribcage, to the ground.

Ten men and a bloody spear, she couldn't help thinking as she frantically grabbed up his nearby shirt and leaned over to pack it gently around the seeping flesh where the silver-etched wood penetrated. Her unthinking twisting movement rubbed her belly against his rampant cock, and Mac sucked in air in an abrupt, tortured sound, as the heavy organ pulsed a bead of precum against her skin. They stilled, waiting, and then groaned in unison as his cock surged again against her softness. The air seemed to echo with their mingled groans as for one resounding moment they lay motionless together, savouring the sensation. Gemma had a feeling of sinking helplessly into heat as she struggled not to press herself against him again. She rested her head on his chest and whimpered, feeling hot liquid from her pussy leaking onto his thigh, conscious only of his heat, his scent, his strength, and his want. And hers.

Abruptly Mac snarled and, slamming a palm down beside them, levered himself sideways out from underneath her. He yelped a curse as his movement wrenched the spear from the floorboards, and surged to his feet, furiously snapping the protruding shaft. Gemma watched incredulously as slowly, implacably, face contorted with pain and strain, he reached behind himself and hauled the embedded part out through his back by the blood-covered spearhead, to a fluent stream of curses. I can't believe he just did that, she thought. I can't believe he could do that.

Standing tall looking down at Gemma where she was kneeling on all fours, Mac again fell still, tension shuddering through him, fighting what must be agony as the blood ran down his stomach. And still, despite the memory of pain and fear left by that gang, sympathy for the agony he must be in, and the frisson of knowing there was something going on here beside the obvious, Gemma couldn't help but be mesmerised by how absolutely beautiful he was. Her eyes were drawn back down his sweating, muscular chest to the large, throbbing cock straining proudly against his taut belly. Just above her eye level. She shut her eyes. Deep breath. Not now, Gem, she told herself sternly, and again reached gently forwards with the cloth. Then she noticed that his fiery gaze was fixed on her breasts swinging free, shimmering in the soft light from the fire. And something in that gaze sent a faint shimmer of apprehension back down her spine even as her blood sped up in her veins and another pulse of liquid seeped between her legs.

"Go," Mac growled, the word barely recognisable through his clenched jaw, and he closed his eyes again, lifting his clenched fists to press against the lids. Gemma sucked in air as she took in his lacerated forearms, the tortured, ripped purpling skin where he had fought against their grip. Drawn both by heat and sympathy she ignored him, stepping forwards to Mac, her flat-mate and friend, pressing half the shirt against the open wound on his chest, reaching an arm around him to pad the other end against the exit hole, murmuring on a soft note of pain, "They hurt you so much".

Fingers twisted again in her hair, but gently this time, and Mac urged her head back so he could glare down into her eyes. The gaze was strangely glittering, and he bit out each word very carefully, "You need to go. Go. Now."

Under that black shimmering glare, feeling the heat off his skin, Gemma was trembling against him, aware, very aware, of what he meant. And also that she didn't understand. She could feel the blood surging in him; feel the need and the barely contained power, the wild, animal lust. She knew she couldn't handle this, not as a first time, he scared her, but also - her breath speeded up - excited her. She bit her lip hesitantly and as he let her go, she dropped her head so she needn't meet that demanding gaze. The heat was shuddering through her and although she could feel the danger, the fire was just so delicious, so warm, enticing, it was tempting her in, together with the intoxicating musk drifting from his muscular chest, sleek with sweat. Just a taste, fluttered across her heat-swirled mind and she bent forwards swiftly to press a soft kiss on the siren pulse beside his collar bone.

A sound between a groan and a snarl escaped Mac and abruptly, forcefully, his mouth was over hers and his tongue was thrusting down her throat, astounding her with the power of the silken glide. She had barely time to lose herself to the demanding invasion before he drew back and nipped her lip, breaking the skin precisely. He licked gently across the drop of blood and Gemma moaned, feeling a jolt of further heat melting her, even as she was swept back onto the rug, on all fours, pressed down with a hand between her shoulder blades and the other arm wrapped around her thighs.

What? stuttered across her mind at the speed of his movements, and the implacability of his grip, before she whimpered again on a surge of intoxicating feeling, reaching, reaching for something as that hard tongue speared between her thighs from behind, delving into her wet pussy, tasting, tempting her towards whatever that delicious goal was.

And then suddenly he was leaning over her and her breath escaped in a sharp cry as his hands gasped tightly around her thighs and he thrust home, no warning, his large cock searing through her tight pussy and plunging deep, shocking her through sudden pain into stillness. Mac snarled in satisfaction, and began to pump, mindlessly uncaring now of anything except the sweet glide of the tight wet pussy over his straining cock and the need to spurt as deeply as possible. His hands left her thighs to lock his arms over her shoulders so he could fuck into her hard as he grunted with the pleasure of each thrust, hearing her soft whimpers as he rutted the little female below him. The pleasure tripled with the sweet, boundless joy of being uncaged.

Gemma couldn't - she just couldn't - anything. Mac kept pounding, slamming thrusts into her, he was holding her so she couldn't move, could do nothing except accept the force of his relentless cock slamming home, no thought, no respite. There was an aching pain, fading then burning anew with each stroke of him inside her, and she could hear herself whimpering but there was also a haze and a sweet melting of her limbs, something building in the fire of pain and lust. Her brain just wasn't capable of following - well, thoughts flickered occasionally, but he kept up those searing, deep penetrations, pounding, and she just couldn't gather herself in the fire, couldn't connect, coalesce. Ow. Oh my god, he was moving so hard, and it burned so much but felt so good. Raw. Alive. So damn good, so much power.

How do I survive, flickered across her whirling mind, as the heat in her belly built, surging higher and higher through her in increasing waves of painful, intoxicating flame, stoked with each thrust. Her nipples felt like aching bullets and the whimpers were increasing. Power. Heat. Building. Lost in the overload of pleasure and pain as he relentlessly continued to hammer into her, Gemma slowly became aware of a change. He was deeper, dammit, that hurt. Each thrust, her whickers were now even louder, gasping groans, mingled with breathless begging pants for him to stop, to continue, harder, softer, please, softer, as the sensation of being pushed towards a precipice grew, tightened.

"Good...god... good...unh....", eyes closed, she could hear breathless moans escaping her lips, mingling with each pleased grunt that blew across her neck as he repeatedly sheathed himself deeper, deeper. He had speeded up the pounding, his thighs slapping forcefully, rhythmically, inexorably against hers and then, as he shifted in closer and tilted for a deeper angle, there was something else, larger, pushing into her already overstretched pussy --ow, ow, ow. Too much, too much. Gemma let out a scream as he forced it home and her arms gave way, but simultaneously she felt huge jaws clench across her shoulder and the side of her neck, and he held her up with his grip as he continued with short, jabbing thrusts to force his buried cock deeper. The flames searing through Gemma exploded in a sudden wave of unstoppable pleasure, and she screamed again as her body arched into exquisite convulsions, rippling and shuddering around his pounding member under his clenched jaw as the intensity peaked again, again, and again.


Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 02



Gemma curled herself carefully back among the bedcovers, eyes unfocussed on her book as she listened for the click of front door closing behind her parents. There. Gone. A morning alone. Well, almost. Her 19 year-old brother Adam had been left on nominal nurturing duty downstairs, but he was on his PS3, so unless she really shouted, this counted as alone. As good as. Good enough.

Time to think. It wasn't that she hadn't needed, didn't appreciate all their care, but there was never time, space to think over -. It wasn't something she could bear her parents watching her think about. Or listen to her dream about. So she'd blocked it all out, to the best of her ability - and she was quite impressed, somewhere, internally, how good the mind actually was at blocking things out.

Initially it had been a huge relief, not remembering, not dwelling on it. It wasn't that she didn't know what had happened - she thought - but the black and yellow warning "not now - do not enter" mental tape she'd stuck over the memories had worked, had held - mostly. Now the barrier was fraying, and the images and questions that shot through when she was unprepared were driving her nuts. Had that really happened? If it weren't for the wound on her neck and the other sore or raw spots, she'd begin to think she'd just imagined it all. Let's face it, she must have imagined it.

Lurid, ludicrous imagination? You should be ashamed of yourself, girl, she thought. A light tingle of unease down her spine followed her self-sarcasm. She suspected this was a bit too far-fetched even for her own fantasies. Suspected - that some of it was true. All?

She had denied rape to the police. And she hadn't appreciated the look in the female officer's eyes when she'd given the quick, nervous negative, but the assault charge had been bad enough to deal with. Gemma had had to describe that dark, elegant, predatory stranger she'd found in their flat to the authorities, and explain that Mac - it had been strangely hard to say his name - had been injured too. She hadn't mentioned a spear. Or asked if they'd found strange hairs on the rug.

And the weirdest thing was, for a split second when they initially asked how she'd got the wound on her neck, she honestly couldn't remember. Mind blank, she'd tried to find a reasonable reason. Neck? That hadn't been the centre of attention at the time, and it had all happened so fast. She'd thought she must have banged hard against something - it wasn't like she hadn't been - banging- hard-. She blushed, sitting alone huddled in her bedclothes. She still didn't really believe how good she remembered that feeling then, either, considering how that part of her had felt after.

Good? Good? Come off it - understatement of the century - it was-. She cut off her own thoughts.

Describing the stranger had been difficult, as the clearest things she could recall were the feral grace and that wild glitter in his eyes -- like in Mac's. Black eyes. Another memory that didn't make sense, Mac had green eyes, but she clearly remembered the hollow black glitter when he'd told her to go. Green usually, except when -, she slammed the mental brakes on again. She did this wearisomely often at the moment, especially around her parents. Better not to think about - stop it.

The cuts on her back and inner thigh, where the stranger had ripped her clothes off, they were healing fine. The police described them as knife wounds, but after thinking back through all the happenings of that night, Gemma had her doubts. She'd seen the claws on one huge paw only inches from her face, and they had looked fairly sharp and lethal. She shivered, and tucked the covers slightly closer around herself.

The unmentioned rawness at the mouth of her vagina was also easing, the pain not so noticeable now, the third day on. But although they'd asked her again, she still hadn't found a satisfactory explanation for the nastiest injury - the raw contusion on her neck. The doctor was pretending not to be worried, but after two days it had started to fester. And he was clearly a bit bothered that she 'couldn't remember' how she got it.

Gemma herself was a bit bothered - understatement again - remembering how she actually had got it. What she thought she did recall. The "real" version had come back to her immediately after she'd told the police that she wasn't sure what'd happened and had suggested that maybe she'd been hit with something.

Something with teeth. It's not like they'll believe me any better if I tell them what I do remember now.

No-one had commented that it could be a bite mark - it would've had to be a pretty ludicrously big dog to get his jaws that wide, and Gemma hadn't mentioned any - pets.

Enough. She shivered again.

It was all so ridiculous. Unlikely. Impossible. The police and the doctor and her mother had all spoken to her about counselling, but what was the point when the counsellor would clearly think she was a lunatic? Gemma wasn't absolutely sure she hadn't just been injected with some strange hallucinatory drug. The needle entry point could be hidden among the cuts and scratches - it was feasible. Much more feasible than the idea that -, her mind threw up the last, the clearest image. That white wolf on the hearthrug.

Hah! she scoffed inwardly. An uneasy, automatic reaction. As if.

But why wouldn't her neck heal? It wouldn't even close over, the nurse re-taped it every day and it looked and felt worse now than it had two days earlier - swollen, seeping, fiery red and aching, despite the palmful of antibiotics she was bolstered with every mealtime. The blood samples they'd rushed through had so far come up completely negative.

Should I tell them to look for werewolf saliva? How?

Gemma huddled deeper into the covers as she thought things through again, yet another fruitless search for sense, reason, rationale -- in the effort to hit upon what her reaction and response should be. She was so out of her depth here. She was staring blankly at her palms, trailing her inattentive gaze idly along the lines, her book dropping unnoticed to the floor.

What was she supposed to believe nowadays? That was what was most bothering her. Was it true? Was it all true, what she remembered? And the other legends - the stories about werewolves - about - victims - after. What about what happened to people bitten by werewolves -?

Despite huddling in her duvet, Gemma felt cold, with a deep inner tremor that wouldn't go away. It was impossible. But the whole thing was impossible. Was she going to become a danger to her family? To her friends? All humans? Did she need to leave, now, before it happened, to protect them from herself? And go where? Why the hell was she even thinking this?

What the hell had Mac done to her?

The image of him wouldn't be banished this time. Him trembling, straining, sculpted, growling "Go." Yeah, so the fact that I didn't go - does that mean it's all my fault it turned out my flatmate was a - a - werewolf-. Gemma snorted to herself in disbelief even as she stuttered over the word in her mind, and I've been bitten and think maybe I'm turning into a - rabid maniac? Hah. How come he wasn't a rabid maniac himself? Usually. I'm sure I'd have noticed if he disappeared once a month.

Stupid legends.

It was ironic. She could see that her mother couldn't voice her inward concern, her worry that Gemma might be pregnant. Gemma couldn't care less about that right now, but she felt some sympathy - she couldn't voice her own overriding concern either: that she might be becoming a bloody rabid werewolf. Her hand strayed to the aching sore on her neck. Fingers hovering protectively, millimetres above the fresh gauze. OK, yeah, so I kissed him. But I don't think the punishment fits the crime - the sex, yeah, that was down to me too. But this?

Hah. There's no chance your idiotic wolf fantasies are true. Don't get so hysterical, girl.

Yet this morning, when she'd woken abruptly, she had known her mother was outside the door before she even opened it. And she could smell her across the room. Alright, so her mother wore what she was beginning to realise was an overpowering floral perfume, but she'd never been knocked over by it from yards away before. An overactive imagination? Psychosomatic smell enhancement? What - if anything - was happening to her? It was all idiotic, but it was also driving her nuts. She had to keep the window open because of the smell of the carpet freshener, and it had never bothered her before. And the cold air from the window didn't seem to bother her much either. She hated this. It wasn't real. It couldn't be.

In some ways she wished she could talk to Mac. At least he could bloody explain. She wouldn't be shocking him with her questions - she hoped, or she truly was insane if she really had just imagined it all. Was that worse than the memories being true? But when she'd selected his number in her phone, she'd just stared at the picture on the screen: Mac grinning happily, flourishing her birthday cake, and then quietly closed the handset. No. She couldn't deal with him. No.

Green eyes in the photo, she'd noted absently, sadly.

This was why she felt so alone in her parent's home. In their care. Because this thing was separating her off from them. This thing in her. It might do so permanently if the legends were true and-- no, she bit the word at herself, savagely cutting off the thought.

But her mind kept circling back. Inevitably.

If the impossible was happening - if she was turning into - one of them - how long did it take? She'd had to know, and had looked up the next full moon on the internet. Two weeks. Did she have two weeks before she'd go insane? More insane than now, anyway. She suspected she was fairly nuts already the way her thoughts just kept spinning in her head.

The hairs on the back of her neck were prickling.

Scared of yourself already? Gemma thought sarcastically. Then slowly became aware that her attention wasn't entirely focussed inwards any longer. Something, something that was nothing to do with the self that she knew, was pulling it away.

Her heartbeat was picking up and skin starting to tingle. This new, unwanted, inhuman sense was telling her that something was coming. Outside.

Like, yeah, you now have extrasensory perception.

Edgily, annoyed at herself for being so - irrational - and despite her own, internal, sarcasm, Gemma lifted her head and scanned the hillside outside her bedroom window. Nothing.

Told you.

Her goosebumps weren't entirely laid by the empty view, however. She was feeling - anticipation? Eager anticipation? What on earth -?

See? she snapped at herself. This is what comes of sitting in your room brooding over idiocies. Frustrated, Gemma decided to go down and sneak herself the golden opportunity to make her own sandwich for the first time in three days, while Adam was preoccupied stealing cars or whatever on his machine. Normal life.

A feeling of tension started to filter into the anticipation. Fear -? What was this? Where was it coming from? What did it mean?

The tension was growing stronger; fear and happy anticipation, melding into an incomprehensible churn in her stomach.

Stop being such an idiot. It doesn't mean anything.

These new feelings were so annoying. It was like being two years old and first falling two feet out of a tree - the rush of gravity's pull, not knowing what it was, how to react, screaming, embarrassingly, for fear that it might be really bad. How did she judge what these stupid new instincts were shouting at her - was she just being hysterical? A minute ago they had been telling her to dance with joy. Now they were telling her to run. Run fast. That way. And dance with joy. She was quivering on the bed, trying to make sense of it, trying to hold herself still. She was being bludgeoned by a new bit of herself that she didn't understand, couldn't interpret, rationalise or control. She hated it, it wasn't her.

The fear ratcheted up another notch, making her muscles tense and sending her eyes darting, combing every inch of the opposite hillside. Her heart was beating faster, faster, but there was also a strange shimmer of - delight? - starting to quiver in her belly. What on earth was she thinking? Or not thinking, actually, just feeling, being, blindly?

Furious, she decided that this was stupid. She was letting her own thoughts terrify her, unnerve her, bewitch her. Sitting brooding on the bed. Shivering. Do something, she ordered herself.

"Adam!" she hollered abruptly, mouth dry. Pride had its place, but this wasn't it, she wanted her annoying little brother in here bugging her, teasing her, allaying all these irrationalities by being incorrigibly irritating. Normal. Human. Then a twinge of fear spiked at the thought of Adam in here too. What had she just let him in for?

The door opened, just as she caught a flash of movement in the trees at the top of the hill. Straining to see, Gemma lifted her chin off her knees, scowling out of the window. Then, sharply, her skin prickled to an urgent warning and her head snapped around to the figure in the doorway as that new awareness screamed a warning in her ear. The wrench shot a jolt of pain through the wound on her neck but she barely felt it as her eyes focussed on the figure in the doorway. Her heart stopped.

Lean, elegant, horrible. Him.

What the hell? What is he doing here? Why is he following me?

Then abruptly, rending her, Where was her brother? Panic overrode fear and Gemma's heart suddenly started pounding again, urgently. "Adam?" she questioned the intruder on a barely controlled breath of sound.

Her former attacker stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind himself, with a casual ease which made Gemma's fear ramp up further. The ripples of tension over her skin were almost shaking her, and her jaw clenched. She became angry at her own fear. Angry at him for causing it, and she unfolded swiftly, jerkily, to slide to the floor on the opposite side of the bed, trembling.

Ignoring the twinges in her abused flesh, she faced him in a fighting crouch. The fear was cold in her weak limbs, but she had clear control of it now. She knew she couldn't stop this guy, but that didn't mean she wouldn't try her damndest. And - what had he done to her little brother? The thought kept the fire of anger burning despite the clamminess of her skin.

"Adam?" she queried again, a hoarse sound through dry lips.

His voice was again soft, cultured, dispassionate, yet with a harsh edge, "The boy is asleep. I drugged his drink. I have no interest in him." She remembered the coldness from that night, 'I told you not to say no,' was all he'd said then. Well, I'm going to say no as clearly as I can, thought Gemma grimly, anger and pride straining through the fear. Cold knowledge on her skin. It wouldn't work.

"What is your interest in me?" her whisper shook, despite her best efforts, and the sick feeling of dread sank deeper into her stomach as she watched the intruder pace coolly around to the foot of the bed. Smoothly. That instinct to run had been so right. There was now only one corner between them and she didn't want, she really, really didn't want there to be less space between them than there was now. But he wasn't stopping, and the uncanny fluidity of his movements made the fear on her skin colder. The tight glitter of enjoyment in his expression as he watched her increasing tension was worse. This creature was just wrong, really wrong.

He smiled, baring his perfect teeth. It looked like a snarl with the complete lack of warmth in his eyes, and an uncontrollable shudder ran down Gemma's spine as she flinched backwards. The smile widened, a snake enjoying the mesmerised fear in its prey. Horrible.

"Let me show you what I want from you," he murmured with an inflection of dark anticipation, eyes gleaming as he advanced gently around the foot of the bed.

She could smell him, smell that horrible, tainted tang from that night, and hear his rapid, light, revolting breathing, feel the hot stir of it on her face as he stepped in, too close, and she found that, after all, she was unable to move. She was screaming invectives at herself inside her own head to shake herself out of the paralysis, but the look in his cold, glittering eyes overrode her mental orders, instinct warning her to stay still, very still. Frozen in revulsion and terror, she watched the gleam in his eyes deepen to an eerie glow, the light reflecting deep under the surface.

"I'm afraid I will have to hurt you a little," he continued, purring with pleasure, the crooked smile at the corner of his - its - mouth setting fear writhing in her belly. "But in time you will come to see that my satisfaction is of greater import than your pain." A tiny corner of Gemma's brain queried the strange cadence, the choice of period-drama words further unsettling in their incongruity. She was still also furious, behind her fear, that this bastard was enjoying this. That she was letting him enjoy this. That she couldn't seem to make herself do anything, couldn't move against her instincts, which were still screaming at her to stay still. Perfectly still. Prey still.

The predator was now smiling in deep pleasure as he watched the anger and rebellion within her struggle against the frozen terror. Perfect. He lifted a hand and slowly, delicately, picked open the top button on her soft cotton pyjama top. Watching her watch him. Her shivering increased and she felt a whimper rising in her throat.

Damnit, I may not be able to make myself move, but I am not going to let myself pathetically whimper at him.

"You have lovely, lush, breasts," he commented, eyeing them in detached assessment as they heaved against the material in time to her short, staccato pants. He smiled down into the fear in her face. "Excellent curves." Words, gaze crawling over her skin. This was wrong. So wrong. It wasn't her curves that were exciting him, it was her fear.

No. No. No. No. No. No. No, the word was whispering like a prayer, a mantra in her head. Frozen. She couldn't stop him. Couldn't fight, couldn't run, couldn't even seem to move, no matter what he was going to - No. Please, no. At least I liked Mac. He didn't want to hurt me. Unlike this sick - no. No. No. No. Bastard.

The whimper was rising against the back of her gritted teeth despite her fury, and she flinched slightly as he peeled apart the material to the next fastening. But she remained on the spot, glaring, unable to move her feet, as his hand drifted down to the second button. His smile widened further, stained teeth now clearly visible.

Tremors were lightly shaking Gemma's frame, and they increased as the second button was carefully undone. The eerie glow of vicious, vile, predatory enjoyment deepened in his eyes, and his excitement rang in the short, quick breaths that fouled her skin. She refused to stop glaring stubbornly through her immobility, but could feel the tears starting in her eyes. Damn him.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 02



"I will enjoy this," he murmured in pleasure.

Abruptly, shocking in the reprieve, the feral, predatory intruder snapped alert, spun, and launched himself in a fluid, impossible leap across her bed towards the doorway. He was caught midair by a snarling body hurtling in through the open window, and the two figures landed together with a resounding crash on the mattress.

"I don't think you fucking will, Nick" Mac snarled into the face of the man pinned under him.

Mac.

Gemma's heart leapt as she relaxed out of the fear- slumping back relieved, elated against the wall. Safe. He was here. Wet warmth surged into her aching pussy at the brief, clear glimpse of him she caught before the bodies tangled on the bed exploded into a hurricane of impossibly swift movement. His taut muscles were covered in sweat, chest heaving with the deep breaths of extreme, pushed-to-the-limits exertion. He was flushed, with tangled, windswept hair- and he was unutterably irresistible. Her frozen blood ignited at the sight of him, seeming to strain towards him, every pore, every atom eager, ecstatic, and searing with abrupt arousal, with thanks.

And she was furious with herself. How could she react this way? After all the pain, heartache and worry of the last three days, the strain and unanswered questions - still unanswered - yet her body was practically singing, the shimmer on her skin and in her blood so tangible, so vibrant, so alive. It was idiocy. It was embarrassing. It was irrefutable. Damn.

Safe, her heart sang.

Shut up.

Backed into the corner, hugging her arms in a tight grip around her torso, she tried to hold steady against the incandescent feelings rocketing through her body at the memories suddenly invoked. She remembered, re-lived in technicolour surround-sound imprints, the feel of him: in her, on her, scent and limbs surrounding her , pushing her higher, higher, through, further, implacably-.

Stop it. She screamed the order inside her own head, and twisted her neck violently, trying to shake the images, the sensations from it. Her incautious movement wrenched the wound under the gauze into raw, weeping pain, and agony spiked over the arousal, reason cutting back in with it. Remember that you half-wit?

Eyes half-closed, she leaned back against the wall and fought down the irrational delight, the desire, purposefully twisting her neck slightly to shock herself. Eventually, exhaustingly, she hauled her emotions back in line and tamped the lid down tightly on them, neck tilted slightly to the right to maintain the pressure and the painful reminder. Then, inexorably, her eyes were drawn by the fight.

The dark predator - Nick - was so fast, breathtaking, his skill and lean power apparent in every feint, every block, each snarling, sinuous attack. She couldn't follow half of the movements, they were so swift that her eyes just couldn't seem to refocus at that speed; all she could track was the rough blur of tumbling, retreating and entangling bodies around the room.

Yet he was totally outclassed. It was like watching an adult control a hysterical, flailing child. With an almost lazy air, Mac was shadowing and containing his every move. Nick was not allowed to hit Mac, not allowed to leave, definitely not allowed to approach the corner where she stood. Gemma watched, spellbound, her other impulses distracted by the sheer effortless mastery of Mac fighting. He'd always been so gentle - concealing this, this graceful dance of power.

And Mac was carefully, seemingly idly, stripping his opponent of all his clothing. For a moment Gemma wondered if this was a power play, revenge for what Nick had done to her, to them, but then she realised that Mac must have another purpose. Despite the violent, increasingly frantic struggles of the half-dressed figure, there was not a single drop of blood staining the pristine white shirt now revealed. Or the skin underneath that. The clothing was not being viciously torn, but stripped in careful, controlled packages, each flung into her corner. And the desperation in the attempted escapes was growing.

Part of the intruder's trousers - with the right front pocket - flew further toward her, something small and hard inside the cloth pulling the material to fly further, before bouncing on her stomach and landing in her fist as she unthinkingly caught it. She gasped, her eyes, which had started to drop to the cloth-wrapped object in her fist, jerking back to the fight as abruptly Mac twisted in an impossible- to-see blur of movement and smashed the other figure backwards across the room to slam hard into the wall. Mac's attacks multiplied tenfold, with a speed and unleashed ferocity that brought Nick's fists up in protective block after protective block as his hopeless, despairing attempts to dodge, to divert, to escape each furious blow became increasingly ragged, sluggish. Panicked.

No holds barred now. Gemma found she was smiling a little grimly. It wasn't nice, but damn, it felt right.

Then a gleam of hope shot across Nick's face, and six wolves erupted through the window in a sea of fur and teeth, leaping onto Mac. He snarled and threw them off easily, eyes glittering black anger as he dived after their ragged, semi-naked leader, who was scrambling frantically out the way that his pack members had come. One of the wolves jumped towards Gemma, jaws agape and eyes gleaming enmity, and she let out a gasp as she slammed back into her corner, trying to dodge.

Mac made an impossibly swift about-face with a hand on the frame, and whirled back towards them, snarling. He smashed her attacker to the floor uncompromisingly, creating an inanimate heap which he didn't even stop to monitor land as he spun to face the other five. They made no bones about their undignified, panicked scrabble to escape out of the window after the vanished figure of Nick, each fighting to crowd through first. Mac just watched, standing in an easy, protective wall in front of Gemma, breathing deeply, then he picked up the unconscious body on the floor and slung him casually after the last escapee.

Gemma sighed. She relaxed further, and felt the gentle shimmer of the muscles under her skin releasing the final strands of tension, letting go totally for the first time since the intruder had appeared in her doorway. Eyeing the expanse of Mac's shoulders under his smooth t-shirt, she sighed again. Safe.

He's a bloody werewolf, she reminded herself caustically. But her instincts didn't seem to care; she couldn't seem to wring any sense of threat out of the occasion. Other feelings were rising again, and with them her irritation. He was standing with his back to her, across the room, breaths gradually slowing. Unbidden, Gemma's eyes were trailing appreciatively, lingeringly across the muscles under his loose t-shirt. Idiot, she snorted at herself, and tilted her neck to make herself wince.

His shoulders and the hard muscles etched across his back actually looked more tense now than they had at any time during the fight. He still hadn't turned around either. His stance , his whole demeanour even from behind - well - he looked - worried. About facing her. The grim little smile returned to Gemma's face. Good. It eased something in her heart. Mac had hurt her. And he was worried about facing her now. That felt - good. Then the smile softened, and she sighed for a third time, watching his shoulders crease with increased tension at the sound.

Told you you were safe. The words echoed smugly in her head.

"What is going on?" She'd been dying to ask for days.

An echo of her sigh escaped slowly from the large form in front of her, and the shoulders slumped slightly. "How are you, Gem?" The question was very low, a tinge of shame to the words.

"Never mind that," Gemma returned. It was novel seeing him afraid of her. "Just answer the question, will you - what's going on?"

"I don't exactly know, it doesn't make sense." He still hadn't turned around. "But -- how are you, Gemma? How are you coping, how's your -?" he broke off, voice dry. The novelty was wearing off. His back was very nice to look at but it was beginning to irritate her that that was all she had to look at - and that annoying little droop to the shoulders was also beginning to pall. He did need to face up to this.

"Turn around. Then you can see," Gemma replied somewhat tartly. The muscles rippled as he winced slightly. But he did turn. His green eyes were shadowed, wary and sad, but something in the familiar, human warmth of them seemed to reach out and embrace Gemma.

"And what do you mean, you don't know?" She was not going to let her irrational attraction to this - this monster (yeah, right) let her forget that she was a significantly injured party. "You didn't know you were a werewolf? You 're not acquainted with that guy called Nick, who told you not to say no to something?" she continued sarcastically. "You didn't know that he'd be here - you just happened to arrive fortuitously?" Thank god. "You didn't just strip-search him in a very unorthodox way? For this little thing in my hand? Are you saying there's no reason to any of this?" Her voice was rising in an increasing crescendo as she berated him for his pathetic answer. It would have worked better if the sight of his chest packed inside that T-shirt hadn't made her voice breathless too.

Idiot. Idiot. Spineless idiot, she berated herself.

He hesitated. Sighed again, eyes hooded, then looked down into hers, sombre. "I can explain as much as I know, as far as I can, speculate, but first - Gem, I need to heal you. Your neck. Please."

The room suddenly felt hotter, for no reason she could understand. His eyes were sincere, deep pools of green, the tawny hair flopping across his forehead in that familiar, careless, 'I am such a cool dude' way - just like -.

Adam.

Her heart contracted again, and she levered herself abruptly away from the wall, dropping the bundle in her hand onto the bed as she pushed into a run. She winced against the familiar ache of her sore spots as she moved suddenly, and sucked in air against the pain as she tried to dodge clumsily around Mac.

An arm hooked around her waist, pulling her gently, implacably back against him. "You need to heal," murmured Mac softly. "You should be lying down."

She didn't even bother trying to struggle. She'd seen that fight. She obviously had to persuade him to let her go, because that arm wasn't going to budge otherwise.

"My little brother was downstairs!" she answered breathlessly. That arm was doing something to her lung capacity, despite her worry, "He - that creature, Nick, he said he'd drugged him. I have to check he's alright," she couldn't help squirming against the arm holding her, despite what her logical brain said, the images her imagination was throwing up of what she might find downstairs were too horrific to stay still against. She winced sharply as a raw nerve in her neck caught while she twisted. Mac sucked in air sharply himself, and abruptly they were out of the room and halfway down the staircase. She barely registered that he'd picked her up and was carrying her easily, a soundless lope, before he'd crossed the hall and they were in the living room.

What-? Wow. That fast, that easily-? stuttered across her brain just before she saw Adam.

Gemma's heart contracted with relief as she focussed on the mop of brown hair and pile of gangly limbs stretched out on the sofa, a half-empty glass on the floor beside him. His game was still flickering. Adam looked all right. Just asleep. Was he just asleep? How had Mac known exactly where to find Adam?

She dismissed that to think about later, as her escort lowered himself easily to a crouch beside the sofa, where she could hear and see Adam's soft breaths as he slept. She reached out a hand and stroked it gently over his hair, relief shimmering in her limbs.

He must be deeply asleep. He'd never let me getaway with that otherwise. 'Ew - big sis - gerroff!' Her mouth quirked at the thought.

"He looks OK," she whispered.

"He's fine," rumbled from the wide chest against her side as suddenly they were out of the room and heading back upstairs, "It's a common sedative, he might be a bit dehydrated when he wakes up but nothing a glass of water can't fix."

How does Mac know this? Gemma felt as though her mind was overloaded, and starting to get a bit slap-happy. Maybe it was the scent of him in her nostrils, so close. How does he know his way around my parents' house? A cheeky little smile crossed her face, Maybe he's secretly been watching me the same way I always secretly watched him. Maybe he followed me home at Christmas and checked out the house. Lovelorn baying under the moon. The frothy, idiotic thoughts that kept surfacing made her want to giggle

"It's you who I'm worried about," continued Mac as he lowered her gently back onto her bed. Bed and Mac, mmm, darted across Gemma's brain flirtatiously, and she repressed the increasing urge to laugh as her blood started to simmer gently under his concerned gaze. The door was shut behind them. She also wanted to lick her lips. Obviously. He moved so fast, so smoothly, with such effortless stealth - it made his strength all the more apparent-mmm. A pool of warmth was gathering between her thighs.

He's never moved like this before - around me -I've spent enough time watching him to know. Gemma smiled impishly at her own thoughts again as she slid her eyes delightedly over his taut arms muscles, distracting Mac during his urgent recital, "The - toxin - inside you, it's dangerous, and needs counteracting fast - or you - your neck - will never heal right. I brought some cream as well, which my doctor prescribed for me once he'd - isolated the heavy metal, which I probably bled onto you. The cream should absorb it."

Or something like that. She wasn't really paying attention, too rapt, watching the play of sunlight down the strong column of his throat to his chest.

"Let me see," murmured Gemma. She lifted her hot, dreamy gaze up to his and grinned at his bemused expression, then put on a concerned expression and stroked her gaze over his chest, looking for his healing wound. Or pretending, not very hard, that that was why she was looking. Appreciation is no crime.

"What?" Mac was startled. She liked Mac startled. His expression made him look younger, more vulnerable, approachable. Accessible.

She smiled up at him joyously. Maybe this is what reaction feels like, when you suddenly feel safe after unbearable tension. It's nice. Intoxicating.

Not as nice as Mac.

"Take your shirt off. Show me your wound." Gemma fluttered her eyelashes up at him as he leaned over her. She knew she was being silly but didn't really care, was enjoying it in fact.

His startled expression faded into thoughtfulness, then a slow, warming smile. Mac had never had trouble following her. He lifted an eyebrow. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he drawled back on a teasing note. His eyes, behind the gleam of appreciative amusement, were a little sad. They were always a little sad. She wanted to change that. She'd always wanted to.

Abruptly, fear shot back into her and she tensed. Shivered. Where was this leading? Obviously, he'd think she wanted - . No way. Ow. Understatement. Eugh. She remembered the pleasure, and delighted in looking at him, but the pain was still right there aching through her torn flesh. Her eyes pulled away, connected with the headboard, traced the familiar pattern in the wood. Her right hand had come up automatically to cover the bandage at her neck, protectively hovering a millimetre away from the cloth as the other arm wrapped tightly around her midriff.

"Gem," his soft tone called her back and their eyes connected. He was so sad. Angry in there too, somewhere, but the surface of his expression showed mainly just a strong level of compassion, and resolution. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry it happened - that I couldn't control - that you were -," a spasm crossed his face, and he halted, looking down at a small pot in his hand, like for face cream. He'd apparently picked it up from somewhere in one of the seconds while she was blinking. He stared at it, breathing deeply into the silence for a moment or two as she studied the lines on his face. He looked tired. Weary and sad, and resigned - to what-?

"I'm sorry." The deep voice was only a thread of sound, "But I need to massage this into your back. To counteract any heavy metal that may have been absorbed by your skin. And I need to remove that bandage. I need to heal you. Please." He met her eyes again on last word. His voice had a deep resonance, sorrow.

She swallowed. She didn't like to see him this sad, but - there were other things to worry about. "Am I turning into a werewolf?" she murmured. The figure standing before her sighed and ran a hand through his tangled hair, then sank down tentatively onto the edge of her bed. Yippee! An incorrigible little voice at the back of her head rejoiced. She ignored it, together with the rapid acceleration of her blood flow.

"You are," he replied. "But I can halt it if you let me heal you now. You still have enough of your human immune system left to drive out the - infection, if I - remove the source." His musk at this close range was driving her insane, she seemed to smell him to much more clearly - he was so much more divine - more intoxicating than ever before.

"Will I stop having these overpowering new feelings?"

"You should." Then he grimaced. "Well, I believe so. There are very few humans who've been half turned, and then healed."

But her feelings for Mac weren't exactly new. And they were simply heightened by her ability to smell and see and sense him so much more clearly.

"They are a bit irritating," she understated.

His winced, then his expression hardened. Darkly sombre now. "Yes, I believe you. I was born a wolf and the instincts aren't new, I've had a lifetime learning to control my-." He broke off at the memory of losing control, and fresh anguish twisted his face.

"Stop it," she growled up at him. "I kissed you, remember? You weren't to blame."

"I knew that I'd cause you severe damage - that I'd bite you - I should never have -," he answered caustically, self-loathing evident.

"Mac," she hissed at him, exasperated. The dumb overprotective idiot really believed it was all his fault, that he should have been strong enough to protect her even when she'd ignored his warning to leave.

"Believe me, Gem, I wouldn't be here inflicting myself on you again if I didn't have to heal you. I have to stop this."

Well, gee, thanks. Nice to know you missed me.

"So stop whining and heal it," she snarled back, interrupting his penitence. Enough.

There was a shocked silence, before he lifted startled, angry eyes to hers and they glared at each other. Then the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Whining?" he said.

She reached up a hand to lay her fingertips against his cheek, assuring him softly, "It wasn't your fault."

"Yes it was," he returned stubbornly, and the black burn glinted across his gaze again. Angry for her. Not at her. He always had to protect her. Mac. Mac hadn't wanted her to get hurt. She'd known it then, when he'd tried to persuade her to leave against both of their enflamed instincts, and she knew it now, looking up at him. She didn't want him to be hurting like this, either.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 02



With a soft sigh, Gemma turned herself over cautiously onto her side, the wound on her neck facing up, and lifted a hand to peel off one of the pieces of tape holding the gauze. His fingers were gentle, swift, easing off the other pieces and peeling back the covering. Suddenly she realised something. She blushed.

"Do I need to take my shirt off?" she asked. It was different in reality, here, now, thinking of undressing in front of Mac. She felt a gentle finger begin to circle soothingly over the vertebrae at the top of her neck, under her hair. She sighed softly as the tension in her eased again. Well, easing the embarrassment. There were other sources of tension

"Not if it'll make you uncomfortable, I can work around it," Mac replied. The gentle fingertips were magic, working down her spine over the brushed cotton, melting her bones. Relaxing, her mind drifted away from tension and she wondered what she was worried about. This was Mac. Shirtless back massage? You bet. She'd be face down anyway. Pity.

She began to undo the remaining buttons on her top, facing away from him, and flinched again as arousal pulsed liquid between her thighs, and the raw spot at her entrance reacted in pain. Maybe not such a pity. Wavering between lust and fear was really getting tedious.

He helped her out of her shirt, and she shut her eyes, rolling onto her front away from him, and buried her face in the sheet with a sigh, feeling the blush burn into her cheeks despite the face-down position. He was pulling the pillows out from under her head as she relaxed, murmuring, "This won't hurt - my neck - will it?"

There was a moment of silence, then, "No, I promise your neck won't bother you at all," he growled softly in assurance. She heard his hands rubbing briskly together before they settled gently on the dimple in the small of her back, warm pads of his thumbs rubbing in small, light circles.

Mac massaging her back. She had a brief, naughty urge to text Bethan and Kate.

He began to glide the ointment up her spine in long, strong, smooth strokes, careful to avoid the healing cuts, his touch seeming to heat and relax every pore as he ministered gently to her. Gemma's blood swam slowly through her veins, thickening with each caress, pulsing heavily, sweetly through her melting limbs. Mmm.

She could feel herself slowly surfacing, sinking, surfacing, drifting through the gentle, strong massage. His hands glided gently, firming messages of calm into the tension in her back. She was weightless. Sloughing off the days of pain and tension. The fear. The worry. She didn't need to think. Move. Plan. Nothing. Mac was here. A happy little smile lifted one corner of her mouth. Bliss.

She floated in a bubble of gentle, happy arousal. He was touching her. It was enough.

Gemma felt a soft brush of a kiss on the vertebra at the base of her neck.

She thought she felt it.

It felt lovely.

She was sure he'd just kissed her. While still those sinfully seductive hands were smoothing over her back, stroking her into total relaxation.

She hoped he had.

"Mac?" she murmured, drowsy with heat, and peace.

"Shhh," he answered softly. "Let me heal you."

He pressed another gentle kiss to the next vertebra, and her skin tingled, little circles of pleasure shimmering out from the feather touch of his lips. Gemma let out a soft sound, half sigh, half purr, as she felt the liquid heat gently begin to simmer again within her.

This is so worth dying for.

His lips and the gentle sweep of his tongue were caressing over one of the scored scratches on her back, made when -- her brain stopped following the thought further back, drifting in the pleasure of now. She realised she was purring, gentle murmurs of pleasure sighing from her mouth as she began occasionally to move with his hands, moulding herself into the gentle strokes. A light pang at the cut was barely felt as she arched gently against his touch, murmuring an incoherent sound into the sheets. His lips were pure delight, smoothing the light pain into a deep pleasure and quickening heat.

Mmm.

Her brain could barely arrange any thought, mind close to complete, replete shut down.

Why think?

She sighed.

Just feel.

His lips reached a second cut, and she arched sensuously into his caress, welcoming the light pain for the pleasure that followed it, subsumed it, heating her blood and peaking her nipples against the sheets. She rubbed herself delicately against the fabric, feeling the urgency began to build at the fire shot from her nipples to her belly. Mac moved onto another scratch. Mmm. Another. She lost count, sliding under his hands continuously now, gliding her legs to rub searchingly against the sheets.

One of the cuts extended underneath the fabric of her loose, soft pyjama bottoms, and he was gently peeling them back, following the mark with his lips, tongue delicately gliding in the wake of the fabric. He settled over the deeper cut on her cheek, his teeth quickly, firmly pulling off the plaster, making her gasp and surface briefly before the swirl of his tongue pulled her back down to his touch. The gentle lips were even more electric against her sensitive buttock, and she began to tremble, rubbing her thighs together insistently as the juices beaded the soft hairs at her entrance. Her trousers were gone.

Good.

He licked his way lightly, sensuously to another scratch on her buttock, and she groaned softly, delightedly into her pillow.

Divine.

There was a scratch on her inner thigh, where that other one had ripped off her panties. Unthinking, swirling in heat and lightheaded pleasure, Gemma parted her thighs as Mac's lips left the pleasurable site of the last former pain point on her buttocks. His hands were now gliding with a playful touch over her smooth back, turning her gently onto her side. In a blink he was in front of her, she just managed to focus on him - unbelievably gorgeous, crouched on the bed and lifting her upper thigh. He sighed gently as he saw the cut.

"Poor Gemma," the air suspended in her lungs as his tawny head descended and she moaned, long and low as he began to lick gently around the area.

"Not," was what the breathless groan sounded like, and Mac lifted his head that so he could gauge her meaning. Did she want him to stop?

"Mmm?" he asked. Beautiful, he thought, eyes dancing over the sculpted curves of golden skin laid out before him. His wolf side bristled with a protective inward growl. He was here to heal only. He snorted lightly. No argument. Although it didn't stop him from aching appreciatively.

"Not poor. Rich. Here. Please," Gemma arched against the sheet for emphasis as she struggled to get the words out, and let escape another long, soft cry of pleasure as Mac smiled and bent his head again.

The feeling was so incredible. Just. Nothing like it. His lips and delicately sweeping tongue on the soft skin of her inner thigh. Bliss. Tingling, almost too intense. The pain at the entrance to her pussy was melting in building anticipation and she was moaning as she felt the light dance of his tongue stroking softly closer, closer. Her pussy hurt, but oh she knew he would make it feel better. So, so much better. Oh please, please, the little croon was echoing within her head.

Then the soft tip of his tongue brushed over her labia and the voice inside her stuttered into, Oh.

Oh.

Oh. Oh. Oh.

My.

Oh.

His tongue was deeper, sweeping up her cleft, swirling, and her head fell back, neck unnoticed as she moaned again, again. Groaned. The incoherent croon in her head was rising to a begging keen, and she could hear gasps of it escaping her lips as she pressed her hips up against him, whimpering.

His tongue pressed firmly inside her, and the last fleeting pain signals were swamped under the rushing wave of pleasure sweeping over her. Gemma cried out, lifting her hips totally off the bed as she ground her face against the stiff, probing swirling organ within her. OW, she thought as the pain in her neck spiked, but the feeling was lost instantly as his tongue began to thrust. Completely lost. She knew those whimpering moans must be hers, but she didn't seem to be connected to anything. Except that tongue. His tongue. Wow. It was like-, better, yet less - different - something, she wanted more, yet nothing could tear her away from this. The furnace in her belly was raging higher, tighter, tighter, building, building with the silken glide of that amazing-. Ung. And she was rushing toward -. Here.

Something burst within her, shockingly intense, and Gemma screamed hoarsely as a white sheet of fire scorched through her, convulsing her hips as she rocked against his face, trying to twist out of his grip as the unbearable pleasure pulled her in all directions. His clasp around her thighs was firm, gentle and unyielding and his tongue continued to glide smoothly inside her, lips joining in as he suckled.

Unbearable. Incredible. Unbearable. Gemma found that her fingers were twisted in Mac's hair as she peaked again, again. She was trying to pull his head away, give herself some respite, moaning, begging incoherently as the shock waves continued to rock through her body. He didn't even seem to notice her desperate clutch as he withdrew his tongue, slowly, allowing her to tremble back into awareness of herself. Then he carefully stroked it up, up, and finally, gently, there. The bud at the head of her pussy lips.

Oh god.

A pause. Gemma tried to remember how to breathe. It felt like her body had just been beginning to drift down, shuddering, amazed, dazed, overloaded, from wherever it had exploded across the heavens. Now suddenly, he'd reached out and nudged her back upwards again. Higher. Back towards -. She couldn't. Not again. Not yet. Not again. Wow.

Very, very delicately he caressed her clit with the very tip of his tongue, a second time, and Gemma shuddered, a second step, ratcheted rush of tension shooting back into her shuddering limbs.

"Mac, please," she was begging him to stop, but the final words stuck in her throat-- exploding as a sort of groan, jerking her pussy up towards him. God knew what he'd done but the shock waves pulsing out from her clit were unbelievable, undeniable. Her limbs began to shiver again in the rebuilding tension, hauling together the pieces of herself as she began to tighten under that insistent tongue.

Her fingers, she realised now, were tugging him closer.

Another brush against her clit, and she groaned deeply. His breath was hot against her, unbearable, and she whimpered as he blew gently on the sensitive bud. Then let out a desperate, squeaking grunt as abruptly that powerful tongue sheathed itself back within her pussy.

She didn't even try to stop herself moaning this time. Her body seemed to be shuddering incessantly, powerless against the unceasing ripples of pleasure pulsing out from the tongue in her cunt. Building, building, she was rocked in a cross-current as a gentle finger tapped against her peaking bud and cried out at the top of her voice, arching, begging against him. Again. Again.

Oh god, she thought, just before she exploded a second time.

Mac.

Wow.

That - he - oh.

Mmmm.

She floated down weightlessly, shuddering gently, cocooned in his arms. Mmm. He was curled around her snugly, his tongue sliding gently over the healing skin on her neck, a memory of pain fading as he stopped and nibbled wet kisses over the delicate pulse points. Her neck felt -- prickly, uncertain. There was none of the searing pain, but the skin still felt tender, unfamiliar. As though it wasn't quite sure what had happened to it and how it was supposed to react. Not quite pleasure. But definitely not pain.

Mac kept licking the tender skin, gently, rhythmically, snuggled against her back with Gemma tucked into the curve of him. He was also very aroused, but ignoring it. He liked the soft scent of her, surrounding him, it eased the tension he always carried. And he loved her total, utter relaxation. Limp and sated and happy in his embrace. Carefree.

Gemma lay in a blissful daze, her mind shuffling through a languid inventory as his warm tongue gently continued to stroke over the tender site of the old wound. Her neck was stiff, but no longer hurt. Her back didn't hurt. Buttocks didn't hurt. Thigh didn't. Pussy - erm. Her pussy couldn't actually remember what hurt was, it was so far from the current feeling.

Then a new sensation began to wriggle along her nerves as he continued to minister lightly to her neck. She hunched slightly, trying to escape his touch, but his tongue followed, and she wasn't sure he'd even noticed. She shifted gently as far as she could with his warm arms around her, arching her head away, but he moved a hand and drew her back. She started to squirm, and felt a slight rumble- chuckle? - in the chest pressed behind her as he held her firmly and continued to lick.

"Mac!" burst protesting from her before she broke into uncontrollable squirming, giggling as she tried vainly to escape from the feelings wriggling down her spine.

He was definitely laughing now as he held her in place for three more long, tender, excruciatingly ticklish strokes of his wet tongue before he stopped, sighed, and tucked his head over the top of her, hugging her in a brief, tight embrace.

"Ticklishness is the sign that your nerves have recovered fully," he explained virtuously, his voice reverberating oddly with his chin resting on her head. It was a bit annoying, having her relative tininess so blatantly evident in this embrace, but Gemma definitely didn't want to go anywhere right now.

"Yeah, right," she murmured drowsily, "and you weren't enjoying yourself at all, were you?"

"Oh, I'd never say I didn't enjoy healing you, Gemma." A sigh. "I just wish it hadn't been necessary," he added sadly.

"It was worth it," she murmured under her breath. He snorted.

They rested comfortably in silence for a long moment.

The feeling of dazed weightlessness began to disappear under a renewal of the taut thrumming through her veins from where every millimetre of her connected to Mac started to hum. Her nipples were still aching, and beginning to feel almost painful. Well. He was here. And she could -.

"My go!" Gemma exclaimed brightly, diving into a roll to squirm around to face him. Her heart jumped. Damn, she kept forgetting what those eyes did to her. Especially sleepily relaxed, with an undercurrent of lazy arousal, as they were now. He lifted an eyebrow.

"I'm not injured."

"I can bite you if necessary."

His snort was much louder this time.

"With those? Good luck getting through my skin."

She ignored his flippancy, and bent forwards to kiss her way softly down his strong throat. She wanted to change the mood again. Actually, she just wanted to kiss his throat. And shut him up. It worked. She could feel his pulse rate accelerating under the caress of her lips, as she worked her way nibbling kisses along his jaw, down the side of his neck, back up the column of his throat before drifting across to his full lips, licking, nibbling, kissing. God she was enjoying this. She could feel his cock hardening again against her leg, and smiled happily to herself as she pressed softly against it.

Abruptly, she was suspended in the air above him, her feet resting on the bed and hair falling about his face, hands resting on his shoulders. Startled, she looked down at him. His eyes were aroused, slightly amused, slightly hooded as he smiled ruefully back up at her. He shook his head.

"I'm happy you feel good enough to want to try that again, Gem, but not with me." Sadness deepened in his eyes as he said it, and Gemma could see the stillness he always wrapped himself in resurfacing. She whimpered in anger and pain and tried to pull herself down to him, trying to erase the distance he was putting between them. Physical squirming had no effect. As ever.

"Let go," she growled.

He shook his head again. "You can't -,"

"Stop telling me what I can and can't do," she interrupted him brusquely. "You can't leave without me having some fun," she swallowed on the word, and ploughed on slightly more huskily,"- with you too - fair's fair."

He just looked at her. She saw the heat in his eyes, though, and her own sparkled playfully at him, as she ran light fingers over the smooth muscles of his chest under his t-shirt. He just lifted her effortlessly so that his chest was beyond her reach, at his full arm stretch, and she clutched at his forearms to steady herself. Damn. Then she smiled impishly down at him, and began to stroke her fingertips lightly, sensuously over the hairs covering the taut muscle in those forearms, eyes lingering on the pleasing defined planes. Mmm. Nice substitute.

He groaned, and tilted his head back, looking up at her headboard with a mixture of exasperation and arousal in his glinting eyes. "You know what happened last time," he warned her despairingly. Gemma's eyes focussed on the bulge tenting his trousers.

"That's why I want more, again. Oh please, Mac," she broke off, teasing forgotten.

"I can't hurt you again," he whispered.

"You won't - I'm sure you -." Her cheeks were red, burning, but she couldn't stop herself from pleading. She didn't care if he hurt her. Her blood was blazing through her veins as all the other feelings he had shown her combusted in her nipples, between her thighs, thrumming through her whole body. She wanted that again. She squirmed incessantly, trying, trying to get closer.

"You're too small - too fragile," he cut her off.

"I'm not fra-"

"No." He stated with finality.

This time she really growled, and stilled above him. They stared at each other. He really meant it. Incredulous.

Frustrated anger growing, holding his gaze, Gemma reached her feet down to stand on either side of his waist, and pushed herself upright, out of his hands. He let her go. They started at each other for a moment longer, and Gemma's expression hardened as she read the implacability in his. She snorted herself, and jumped lightly down to land on the floor by the bed.

Damn it felt good to be able to move without pain.

"I'm not as fragile as you think," she growled back at him.

"You're not as tough as you think," he responded tautly, sitting up and shifting to the side of the bed.

She'd had this all her life, and stepped in towards him, voice rising with her frustration, "You just believe that because I'm little -."

He cut her off, "Because you're human. Human's can't mate with us - they're not capable, not built for it."

Hah.

"We managed fine the other night," she growled back, the heat still racing through her blood increasing her anger. He was still saying No. She wanted Yes.

"Fine? You call those wounds fine?" his voice deepened with its own edge.

"You didn't have to bloody well bite me!" she stepped closer to him and glared into his eyes as she complained.

"I'm a wolf. I bite," he growled back, the glint in his eyes warning her.

She didn't care. The bite wasn't what she was really complaining about here. He didn't have to say no. She could take it. Dammit, it was worth it, especially with that healing. But he wouldn't listen.

"So stay human! It's not like you didn't manage it for six months around me before."

He closed his eyes. "I can't."

"Why not?"

"I find you too attractive, sexually."

That one halted her. Hmmm. Ammunition. Then she saw the unyielding look in his eyes. And wondered how long he'd been aroused for by those girls last time before he'd given in to his instincts. Jealously sparked briefly. She didn't think she'd be allowed the same foreplay time. And she didn't have ten men and a handy spear. Grump.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 02



"But surely - that's - good. Can't we work it out somehow?"

"No."

"Mac! Why not? At least try!" They'd spent enough time together - they knew, he knew - surely friendship and attraction on this scale was worth-.

"Wolves and humans don't mate." He was so damn obdurate. So sure he was right.

"Then make me a wolf," she growled angrily.

"I can't," he ground out again, frustrated.

"What do you mean, you can't, you almost had done a minute ago!" she was snarling into his face now. A tear escaped from a corner of her eye and she dashed it away impatiently. This wasn't only about sex. Not any longer.

"Werewolf, Gemma," he snarled back, rising abruptly to tower over her. The angry power looming above her should have made her afraid, but all Gemma felt was frustration. He wouldn't accept her.

"A werewolf - especially a female, eventually loses all humanity and goes insane. Wolves are born wolves and stay that way, balanced between the loup and the human. It is illegal, callous and exceedingly dangerous for a wolf to create a werewolf." He growled out the explanation.

Gemma stayed motionless, staring up at him. Her breath seemed to have been beaten out of her lungs by his words. She had almost become -.

"Like the legends - the horror stories?"

"They arose from the days when it was more common for us to - for werewolves to be created."

She gulped. His eyes had softened, and he looked down at her sadly.

"I'm sorry, Gemma. Sorry you ever got involved, but Nick had never dared- before - I had been safely living among humans for years. Why he decided now to try and push further -. But I'll go, and you'll be safe. Fine. Forget about us. Forget you even knew me."

She swallowed. Eyes shadowed, looking down, she whispered, "Won't he just come back and bite - change me?"

Mac shook his head, reaching out his warm palms to cup around her jaw and lift her eyes back to his. Reassuring deep green. She loved his eyes. Mac said, "He can't. He's not an alpha. Hasn't the discipline." The edge of his lip curled in a slight snarl as a thought darkened his expression, "He used to try, before he was - stopped. He knows it won't work."

Gemma shuddered, and Mac pulled her forwards, resistless, into a comforting hug.

"What did he want?" she asked softly.

The warm chest against her heaved a sigh. Gemma leant further into it, resting. The sadness was contagious. He was going to leave. She couldn't stop him, couldn't persuade him, couldn't convince him. Tears began to leak silently from her closed eyes.

"He came here to collect you. New werewolves are very vulnerable and easy to control, they find it almost impossible to disobey. It's only as they get older that they start to - fight back." She shuddered again and burrowed into the comforting strength of his arms. But why was he undressing me? she wanted to ask. Remembering the predatory look in Nick's eyes, she was pretty sure she knew. A girl who couldn't say no, despite wanting to. Another shiver and Mac's arms tightened in a brief hug.

"No, I mean - back home. What did you say no to? What set him off?"

She felt a light rumble of displeasure in the chest she was leaning on. Could lean on for a few minutes longer. Just a few more minutes. Mac.

"He wanted me to change someone," he replied shortly.

"But -, you said it was illegal, that it was -. What made him even think you would -," surprised, Gemma looked up into Mac's face, and saw the distance, the shadows lengthening between them.

"He has a - hold. That was why I agreed to the exile. But now he's overstepped the agreement, and I'm back home." This, she could see, was as much as he would tell her. She was not part of this. Not part of his life, his real life. His home.

"He has no reason to come back now I've healed you, Gemma. It would be futile, there would be no point - just for spite, to mess with a human would raise the wrath of the warlords. He wanted to get at me - god knows why, suddenly - and get me into trouble, but pushing this with you any further - it would rebound on him. Nick is very calculating, and so his spite will be outweighed by his reason. He and I'll be gone from your life, picchu, you can breathe freely again."

Mess with a human. That's all any of this was. She dropped her eyes back to the notch at the base of his throat, the tears forming again in her eyes. Then she leaned forwards slowly, and rested her forehead against his chest, wishing. Longing.

A moment longer. Please.

She felt a sigh stir her hair, and then the soft brush of his lips against the crown of her head. He straightened and stepped back, holding her shoulders as he looked deeply into her eyes before dropping his hands. His sad green eyes.

"Forgive me?" Mac asked softly.

Gemma looked at him. Looked deep into those lovely, loving green eyes, and felt drained. Weary. She didn't owe him anything. As far as she was concerned he no longer needed forgiveness, but - he thought he did. The idiot didn't deserve it, for being so obtuse and unyielding, but this was Mac. He was going. Would leave in sorrow, if she didn't -.

Damn that.

She reached up her hands and pulled his head down to kiss him deeply on the mouth, savouring it this last time, the sensations rippling outwards through her body from where their lips joined. Then she nipped his lip sharply with her teeth, drawing blood. He flinched slightly and pulled away, licking the drop up slowly as he eyed her with an amused expression. He was a wolf, he knew body language, knew what she meant. Forgiven, even if you're an obstinate idiot.

"Told you I could bite you if necessary."

She didn't even see him move, but flinched back herself with a disgusted, "Eugh!" as that warm tongue slurped a wet trail from her chin to her forehead. Swiping at him, he was already out of reach, chuckling, and she saw a blur circle the room swiftly. Triumphal lap. She snorted a laugh and heard, "Still so slow, Gemma. Bye," as Mac leapt casually out of the window. Just like that. Gone.

Her eyes blurred again and she sank slowly back onto her bed, curling over to bury herself under the covers. He was gone.

Gone.

***********

Thanks for all the support for chapter one -- it's difficult to write into a vacuum and the feedback is very much appreciated! Please let me know -- better or worse?

For those of you who might worry -- no, this isn't the end, unless I'm asked to stop. I have about 12 chapters in my head -- should take about a year at this rate.

Thanks again! 



Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 03



Gemma's phone beeped as they turned the corner into her road, and she twitched it out of her pocket while Bethan murmured wickedly, "Mmmmm-Mac?"

It was.

'Don't go back to the flat yet, I haven't cleared it.'

What? Gemma stopped on the street and stared at the terse message, incredulous. 

"What is it?" asked Bethan curiously, watching the flush mount slowly in her companion's cheeks.

Gemma's eyes were sparking anger as she looked up, before passing the phone to her friend. Her teeth were gritted too hard to actually speak. Yesterday he'd made her drool, plead, and beg - and then left. Complete goodbye, The End, cut-off, nada. Don't call me. You are not part of my life.

And now suddenly she wasn't allowed back into her own flat either, into her own life, because he hadn't cleared out of it yet. What, was he afraid she'd steal a t-shirt as a keepsake?

And was that itchy feeling between her shoulder blades, the ghostly sense of being watched, due to him, his lot? I'll feel a lot better if that's all it is, she admitted to herself.

She looked across at Bethan, who, having read the text, was watching her friend with a strange expression. 

"Are you going to explain? I didn't realise that mind-blowing sex made you all submissive and obedient."

Delete. Delete. I am not thinking about that. Despite her desperate internal evasion of certain memories, the flush in Gemma's cheeks flared a darker red. The images heating her blood wouldn't go away. Irritated, she unwound her jaw enough to mutter grittily, "I never said we had sex."

"No, you just turn scarlet whenever I mention Mac, or his gorgeous hair, or his eyes, his body, or ... um... the hearthrug..." 

The hearthrug. 

Gemma's cheeks flared from scarlet to purple, and she had to stop moving and shut her eyes.

"It really was on the hearthrug?" exclaimed Bethan, incredulous. "Way to go, girl!"

It was getting beyond irritating. Gemma found that her eyes held an infuriating sheen of moisture when she reopened them, and she glowered back at Bethan, snapping back into a quick march up the road.

"Sorry, sorry." Her irreverent friend sighed as she caught up. "Oh, I'm sorry, Gemma, I just never expected it to be tr-, sorry. My big mouth." Then, abruptly, "And what does he mean, he hasn't cleared it yet, is he leaving?" This time it was Bethan who stopped dead. "But-."

They looked at each other. Dark eyes into dark eyes. A pause.

Bethan's eyes shifted to the fading purple marks of the healed wound on her friend's neck, then back to Gemma's shrouded eyes, and she asked carefully, "Do you want to talk about this?"

"Not right now, no," responded Gemma, glancing away, then back with a wry smile as they got moving again.

"Okay. Do you want to come around to ours for a cup of coffee? - I've even got some carrot cake left unless Kate's swiped it. Leave him time to clear out? Watch a few repeats? Finger painting?"

Thank god for friends.

Gemma smiled her thanks, then slowed to a snail pace up the road towards the flat, thinking. She hadn't been able to sit still in her room at her parents' after the conflagration with Mac in there yesterday, what with also being fully healed - she refused to dwell on just how she'd been healed. Refused. Totally. Refusing.

I am not thinking about it. You hear? No, no tongues allowed in my thoughts- no. No. Damn.

This was now Day Two of bouncing off the walls with frustrated sexual tension. She'd stubbornly placated her way through her Mom and Dad's arguments and counterarguments and eventually boarded a plane back home. Not so she'd be alone to think. No. And definitely not to find Mac. No. More, just striving to be normal. Whatever that was, now.

There was the other reason she'd hurried to be gone - she had wanted to avoid the next dressing change appointment with the nurse. Gemma had covered the faint mottling on her neck with a fresh gauze before her parents had returned, it would have been tricky finding plausible explanations as to how, within a few hours, the seeping, festering wound, which had flummoxed the doctors for days, had miraculously healed. It had been a relief to take the gauze off at the airport. No more pretence, no more wolves. Safe back in her own, normal life.

I hope.

She was growing more tense the closer to home she got. And the text message was not helping. Her eyes darkened further as she thought a bit more about the different meanings of the verb, "to clear". As in the police clearing an area – of enemies? What if that was what he meant? What if the flat wasn't clear?

The memory of Nick stalking her around her bed trembled through her frame, and she gritted her teeth.

She could feel Bethan's eyes on her, and realised she couldn't go to her friends' home, because she didn't want to talk, or avoid talking, even with the best of friends. 

"Tempting, thanks, but, I think I'll head into work," Gemma ignored the exasperated sigh from her companion, "My boss has been screaming at me for the results he needs for his presentation on Friday,"

"And is incapable of getting his own lily-white hands dirty," interjected Bethan grumpily. 

Gemma grinned at her, continuing, "Besides, I've got some stuff of my own I'm dying to look into." Stuff that felt like it was burning a hole in her backpack.

Bethan rolled her eyes. "Honestly, Gem. I would've thought that of all the things to teach you that there's more to life than work, work, work, sex with Mac - the live erotic fantasy of the western world - would have finally done it." A pause, then, provocatively, "Or is he, after all, just packaging, with no substance?"

No substance?!?

Gemma swallowed against the sudden constriction in her throat, colour flooding her cheeks as her pulse speeded up and the blood began to shudder erratically through her veins. Her eyes lost focus and she faltered to a halt in the street as her brain plunged into erotic replay, her nipples tingling into hard, aching peaks inside her soft bra.

"Wow," Bethan murmured softly, a look of awe on her face as she surveyed the abrupt change in her friend's demeanour, the soft, rapid breaths and the deep flush of instant arousal.

Gemma looked at the ground, drawing deep breaths and hauling on her self-control like it was a recalcitrant heavy cover sliding off the bed that she was fighting to retrieve by her last faint grasp on one corner. Slowly mastering herself, she resumed her pace up the street, shuddering along in silence, dark thoughts whirling in the maelstrom of heat in her mind. 

Then Bethan recalled that Gemma didn't want to talk about this, and leaped into the brooding silence with a staccato change of subject, "Did you hear Emma's plaint against Jason was called "completely unprofessional" by the judge?"

Friends, friends, friends. They may not be subtle but you have to love them for trying.

"Yeah, well, knowing Emma, she probably signed it 'LOL' with lots of hugs and kisses," Gemma responded thankfully. 

Then continued in a rush, "He's moving out because we had great sex, but he thinks we can't possibly make anything together and that I should find somebody more my own - type - and I'm bloody furious with him for being such an arrogant, unyielding asshole."

Okay, maybe she'd missed out a few details, like that he was a werewolf - correction, wolf, and that she'd go mad if he bit and turned her - although not as mad as when he sends my pulse spinning into orbit and then I'm not bloody well allowed to touch him - and there was some wolf war on or something, so Nick had got him exiled somehow, but he was going back to his pack now, The End. Or along those lines. Mac hadn't exactly gone into details.

Bethan assimilated her companion's words as she eyed Gemma's heaving chest and the deep flush of arousal and anger colouring her skin, "Arrogant, unyielding, gorgeous asshole," she amended.

Gemma growled, "Damn right," and then stopped, pivoting on her heel and announcing abruptly, "I'm going to the lab." The pot of cream that Mac had used on her back was tucked in her rucksack, just waiting to give her some answers. At least she could work something out. The small phial he'd stripped from Nick had disappeared. She brooded a little on ulterior motives Mac may have had for protecting her. Not that she believed he'd not have protected her anyway, he was kind of stubborn that way - unyielding asshole - but it was soothing to rage at him internally for something.

"OK. Cool it, Gem. See you later. Come around when you're ready," Bethan replied, and they hugged briefly before they separated.

 

 

Late that evening, Bethan carefully slid the last tray of labelled test-tubes into the fridge, shut the door, and straightened, arching her back and rolling her shoulders to get rid of the crick in her neck. With any luck, one of those combinations would come up with the answer, and she'd know what that cream was made of tomorrow. One little step. One little piece of the puzzle. Piece of his world.

She knew it was irrelevant, really, but didn't want to, couldn't let go. Something kept tugging at her heart, calling her to try, try anything. Any connection.

She dismissed it from her mind, then lifted her head, swivelling it toward the side doorway leading out into the university park as she heard footsteps approaching. Despite knowing the level of security surrounding the campus, her heart jumped. Then she recognised the flat, heavy pace of the fat security guard who often took night watch. She sighed. Jim often stopped in for a chat on his rounds if he spotted the light on, he got bored of being on his own in the middle of the night. Whereas she liked to avoid him if possible, not liking his too smiling face and too exploratory eyes. 

She quickly stripped off her gloves and grabbed a label pad so she could stick one on the fridge door, groping in her pocket for a pen. She didn't look up as the electronic lock beeped to let Jim in the side door, and his footsteps clumped in. Then he cleared his throat loudly, saying, slightly hoarsely, "Hi Gemma."

"Hi Ji-," the name died on her lips as she looked up and saw his companion. Frozen, stilled, her heart threatening to beat out of her chest.

Not again. Nick. What the hell is he after?

The dark-haired, elegant wolf was smiling a lopsided sneer of satisfaction as he loped swiftly towards her, and her hand clenched in convulsive reaction around a hard object in her pocket as she read the predatory expression in his eyes.

Not again.

Then an accusation speared out of her mind, You promised he'd leave me alone. 

Phone! the thought skittered across her brain, threading through the mixture of rising panic and fury engendered by the approaching wolf. Gemma slid a finger down the front of the keypad to press the call button as she backed away, eyes on Nick, praying, just praying, that Mac's message was still on the screen. 

She just had time to draw a breath to scream before a crushing hand closed around her wrist and, in a confusing blur of movement, Nick spun her around with a brutal, swift yank, his other arm curling around her waist to pull her back against him, trapping her arms, while the palm of the first clamped suffocatingly over her mouth. He easily lifted her squirming body to hold her tightly against him, and Gemma stopped fighting abruptly when she realised that her movements were making his partially erect cock harden against her buttocks.

Jim just watched, eyes wide, with a slightly eager expression that revolted her.

"Thank-you, Mr. Forbes," Gemma could feel the words reverberating in the chest she was clamped against. "Your assistance was most helpful. This building really is difficult to penetrate," Gemma's muscles tightened in automatic rejection when her captor gently pressed the hardening bulge in his pants against the crack in her buttock cheeks, dipping his head to breathe the last word into her ear. He smirked and continued, "Without drawing unwelcome attention, due, no doubt, to your own excellent security staff." Nick nudged her buttocks a second time with his arousal.

Corny. Feeble, Gemma scorned, determinedly holding onto her anger to keep the fear at bay. 

The fat slime of a guard puffed out his chest slightly with a smirk, watching them with the querying, hopefully expression of a dog waiting for a reward. "Rest assured, the relationship we have built working here together will afford us both satisfaction," Nick answered the look, turning his head toward the main lab door as he spoke. Gemma's eyes couldn't help but follow, and she was puzzled as a young undergrad stepped in through the doorway, her toned, curved figure enticingly clothed in a short skirt, tight zip jacket and scarf, and long black boots. Her stance was wary and taut as she slid, eyes down, across the room toward them. 

Oh-oh.

There was something in the young girl's movements that made Gemma more edgy, it was as though she really didn't want to be here, was struggling internally, but had no choice. Gemma had heard of this level of control, but surely Nick wouldn't hurt her, not one of his own wolves. But then - she didn't know the girl's name, but had seen her before around the library, studying desperately, always with a slightly tense, nervous, hunted expression. The same expression the undergrad wore now, as she faltered to a halt in front of them. Prey. The poor kid completely ignored the hand over Gemma's mouth, and her captive, immobilised position, although her eyelids flickered. Jim licked his lips, eyes roaming over her curves as his eyes started to glisten. 

"Is she suitable?" asked Nick softly, and the girl shivered as the fat guard nodded eagerly, eyes fixed on the small amount of cleavage shown by the tight jacket.

"Good," the cultured voice deepened with an echoing note of power, "Anne, you are to pleasure this man for the night in whichever ways he commands, although you may leave if he begins to cause irreparable damage. He has done me a valuable service, and I have promised him repayment. Say nothing of this to anyone."

The security guard was already reaching for the curvy figure frozen in front of them, and he started to breathe heavily with excitement as he pulled down the short zip on her jacket and began to squeeze her full breasts in his podgy hands. Gemma was repulsed, watching the hopelessness on the young girl's face as she stood with her head down, being mauled, making no protest as the man's fingers groped inside the lace covering her to squeeze her naked flesh. 

"Tell me how you're feeling," the guard breathed eagerly down into the girl's face as the tears began to cloud her eyes, "and take off your bra." A whimper of pain escaped Anne when the man twisted her nipples, even while she obediently reached behind herself and undid the strap, pleading, "Please, please don't do this, don't make me, I don't want to. Please." 

Gemma watched, transfixed and horrified, and then abruptly found Nick was stuffing his tie into her mouth, tying it in a gag, before she could react. He deftly flipped her across his shoulders with her wrists caught in one hand and her thighs immobilised with his other arm, and headed briskly for the side exit. 

"Soon you also will obey my every command," he murmured to his captive as he caressed a palm over her buttocks, easily holding her when she struggled fiercely to avoid his intrusive touch, shifting his grip on her thighs. He laughed softly. "Then once I've got a litter on you and trained you, I'll sell you like this also. It's a most lucrative way of serving one's pack and I expect you'll be in great demand. Like Anne.

Nick dragged Gemma's wrists across his chest and captured them in his right hand so that he could swipe the security card hanging around her neck across the reader with his left, but Gemma barely noticed. She was haunted by the empty desolation in the face of the semi-naked girl, Anne, begging disjointedly for leniency, as she was forced to her knees in front of the guard and ordered to form a ring with her lips. "No, don't, please don't, don't, please don't make me," her cries, distorted by the ring of her grotesquely obedient lips, were choked off when Jim eagerly guided his throbbing cock into her waiting mouth and ordered her to suck. One begging eye was visible, blind with tears, around the thrusting, wobbling buttocks of her assailant, hollow despair echoing in the depths as she was choked repeatedly, held tightly by the hair for his deeply probing cock.

How often has she been made to do this? Cold shivered in Gemma's veins as the door clicked shut behind them.

While Nick loped silently down the side of the building towards the park, he began to stroke the fingers of his free hand down across the front of her jeans and rub them against her pussy crack through the material. He laughed again, delighted, as the he girl carried across his shoulders heaved violently and tried ineffectually to yank an arm free. "The ones who struggle or beg are always the most popular," he drawled, then slid his fingers to the zipper and began to ease it down.

"It's so kind of MacKeld to leave you loose to wander so that I can also have you." Despite her desperate squirming, her zipper and waist button were soon open and the revolting wolf pimp slid his hand inside to finger her pussy slit through her panties. 

Damn him. Damn him. Damn him. And damn Mac, he promised this wouldn't happen. So he'd better get here.

They reached the park trees and Nick abruptly up-ended her; Gemma gasped through the gag, disorientated, pressing her palms against the grass that was suddenly in her face as she collapsed downwards on her arms, feeling her jeans slithering off her legs, the cloth held by the grip Nick had around their ankles. 

"It's so honourably wolfie to mate in the woods, don't you think? So sublime, so natural," he taunted, eyes gleaming down at the girl heaped at his feet as he rolled her over with a thrust of his foot.

Fuck you.

The elegant bastard prowled towards her with obviously malicious intent, and smiled slightly, acknowledging the anger on her face as she clenched her small fists.

"You've managed to heal enough to throw off the petrification, haven't you little manu? But don't worry; I'll instil it in you more thoroughly this time. You'll only be able to fight when I order you to."

Oh, you think so? One raging thought Gemma was clear on. She was never going to obey this vile excuse for a life form.

A rumble of a snarl checked Nick's sinuous stalk towards her, and her would-be assailant tensed as he swung to face the sound. Gemma's heart leaped, and they both focused on the heavily muscled, tawny wolf sprinting towards them across the empty playing fields. What-? Gemma had clear memories of thick white fur brushing her skin when she'd lain under Mac, of the white wolf unconscious on the hearthrug, so who was this? To Gemma's acute dismay, Nick relaxed again.

"Well, well, well," rising to his full height, "Who would have thought that he'd send someone that valuable just to keep an eye on a human?" A gleaming eye slanted down at her. "Let's hope you're worth it."

A slight shimmer in the air around him, and the elegant figure was replaced by a towering grey wolf. Nick snarled in response to the rumbling from the approaching challenger as he snapped into a powerful run, launching himself straight at his opponent. They crashed into a tangle of snarling, biting bodies at the edge of the trees, weaving a vicious fight as they ripped hunks of fur off each other, barging shoulder to flank as each tried to topple his adversary and gain the upper hand.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 03



The fight rolled out of sight among the trees, and Gemma blinked, the fierce snarls and sounds of scuffling receding. Then they were overlaid by the memory of the poor young undergrad's hollowed, haunting eyes as she was forced to her knees before Jim. She felt her anger rising as she recalled the look of cruel enjoyment on the man's face. Their own bloody security guard. Her rage pulled her unsteadily back to her feet and, hauling her lab coat tight around her waist, Gemma suddenly lit into a sprint back towards the side-door of the lab, yanking her pass over her head.

Her mind was racing as she ran. Nick's order had been to do whatever the fat slob commanded, so if she could stop Jim's mouth, the young girl-wolf could not be instructed to do anything to Gemma. Or be violated any further by one of the men employed to keep her secure. Gemma was seething, livid that it was Jim in there, doing this. Human, known and to some extent, trusted. He needed to pay. He needed to be stopped. Now.

The pass cleared the swipe first time, and as Gemma slammed in through the door the yelping cries of pain that were being forced from the girl seared a red mist across her mind. Anne was bent over holding the edge of a bench, naked apart from her boots, crying out and begging Jim to stop, to be more gentle, to let her go, each powerful slap of his groin against her buttocks bouncing her breasts and her whole slim body as she was ruthlessly drilled from behind. 

Raging, Gemma yanked up one of the heavy mechanical stirrer bases by its cable and ran swiftly toward the man savouring his brutal penetration of the girl. Jim's intently inward, glazed eyes turned to her and she saw a flicker cross his face. Then an intense spasm of lust crossed his features, drawing him back, and he looked down at the sobbing youngster impaled on his cock and began to rapidly ram himself into her, fucking furiously toward completion as the girl cried out again in pain. Just as the incensed Gemma reached the rutting guard and swung the heavy metal box around her head, Jim groaned deeply, pleasure erupting across his face. The box collided with the side of his head and a heavy grunt escaped, before his eyes rolled back in his head and his overweight form dropped backwards like a stone, cock sliding, still spurting, from the quivering, naked figure bent before him over the bench.

A noise behind Gemma jolted her heart, and she pivoted back around to see the grey wolf in mid air leaping from the door towards her, jaws agape and a frighteningly bestial gleam in his eye. Her hand tightened in fear on the cable within it and instinctively she jerked the still-swinging box on at full circle of her reach, the momentum of the heavy weight almost tearing it from her palm. It smashed into the side of the wolf jaw, knocking him sideways to crash into the fume cabinet and he slid to the floor with a faintly dazed expression, shaking his head as an amazed squeak escaped the young female now sitting upright on the bench, arms wrapped protectively around her still-booted legs, folded in front of her naked torso.

Gemma sprinted for the door and made it across the corridor to the common room before a vicious swipe to the side of her head slammed her sideways to sprawl across the tatty, upholstered chairs, ears ringing as she rolled onto her back. 

Why aren't you here yet? She screamed at Mac in her head, and then desperation pulled her focus back to the vicious predator standing over her.

He was back in human form, rapidly shedding his clothing, chest shuddering with adrenalin-fuelled excitement from the fight and the chase, and his erect cock began to throb at the sight of the human female splayed at his feet and the defiance in her eyes.

"He left a Leighton to protect you, so he must see something inside you, little manu. Although you hit like a girl," he jeered. Nick's jaw was lengthening into the wolf shape, slavering as he looked down at her, breathing deeply in rising arousal. Violence had fuelled his excitement, and he was planning now on more violence to flame it further as the claws lengthened on his fingers and he began to quiver. "Now let's see what a pretty little wereie you make for me."

Fuck you. Gemma's mind wasn't being very inventive right now, but at least she wasn't frozen in terror this time. And she remembered Mac's words, remembered Mac. Keep him talking. "You wouldn't, the Warlords - the law, you can't, why would you, why risk the punishment for biting a human?"

The immaculately groomed wolf shed his expensive trousers, his arousal beating up proud and free against his taut belly and he smiled nastily as her eyelids flickered, "My, my, what an insufferably knowledgeable little manu you are. I'd better change you or I'll have to kill you. Humans go missing every day, sweetheart, who's to know?"

Fuck you. Mac'll know.

The thought steadied her. "Mac'll kill you."

Nick stepping stealthily closer, his lustful eyes locked to hers as the eerie shimmering light within them deepened. The quiver of excitement began to visibly shake his powerful frame and fur erupted along the lines of his powerful limbs. He sneered, "That whelp's been trying to kill me for decades."

Rage shook Gemma's small frame, both from shock at the raw scene in the lab and her own sudden, explosive violence, and from fear of the clear message in his eyes - that he was planning to make her scream much more than Anne had. In your dreams. Gemma was spitting words from her mouth even as she struggled backwards in a sitting position, away from the now looming wolf-man, "You've been trying to change people for decades but you're too weak, too undiscipl-,".

A paw shot out and Gemma was slammed down once more, bouncing her head against the frame of a chair and ending up against the floor, ears ringing and a trickle of blood running down her temple as she tried to focus on the frightening hair-covered lycan form moving to stand over her. His clawed, furry fist closed around his pulsing erection as he leered down at her, savouring his lustful anticipation, his deep enjoyment of her hatred, while he kicked her legs apart.

"But this way, sweetheart, I only need to add my shiele to his almighty lordship's - it hopefully won't have cleared your entire system yet. I've been wanting to try this out for years, but it's nearly impossible to get a bloody alpha to bite a human, so even if he's inconveniently healed you, it's worth attempting."

Nick lifted a foot and stomped hard on her stomach, winding her into immobility, then bent and ripped off her panties with his claws. "Even better that you're MacKeld's." He straightened again, looking down at her pussy, anticipation of the pain she would feel tightening his balls as he slowly stroked his throbbing, surging cock, and spread a bead of glistening pre-cum around the tip as he held her raging eyes, reading the deep fear hidden behind the fury.

His smile widened, "You were already finding it hard to say no yesterday - imagine what it'll be like when you're fully turned and you'll do whatever I like? I'll send him photos of you going down on me." His snarling smile widened into a vicious grin and he locked his eyes to hers, power and lust shimmering in their depths, "Screaming."

He pounced.

Gemma had been waiting, eyes a thin slit, concentrated, watching, refusing to be distracted by fear, fury, or the lust and anticipation shuddering off her attacker. One chance, one chance, the mantra echoed in her head. As she saw the shift in those eerie, gleaming eyes signalling the thought preceding movement, she jerked her leg up, knee folded toward his pulsing cock, and prayed, prayed he wouldn't notice, clawing at his eyes with her hands to distract him.

Nick, arrogance in every hair, held her eyes locked to his and effortlessly pinned the flailing hands of the feeble human, sneering into her face as he dropped onto her, wanting to savour her fear and watch her expression as he won and forced himself into her. His erect organ slammed into her braced knee with the full force of his weight behind it, and the male lycan shrieked in anguish as he dropped to writhe pole-axed across her legs. 

Gemma screamed, her leg feeling as though it had splintered and he was now grinding it into the carpet, as she struggled and shoved desperately to free herself. She managed to roll out from under the incapacitated, yowling lycan, scrabbling in a searingly painful three-limbed crawl for the door, dragging the numb, useless leg. Then she heard a heart-stopping howl of fury behind her and claws ripping the carpet gaining on her, and knew she couldn't make it. So she hauled herself up by the door jam, standing upright to look back over one shoulder, glowering coldly at her adversary. He staggered back to his feet, a now lethal gleam in his furious eyes. 

"Did you underestimate me, wolf?" she queried softly.

Suddenly, warm hands closed around her midriff and Gemma's heart stopped as she was lifted off her feet. Then the familiar, enticing musk curled softly around her senses, the world steadied, and her heart bounced from terror into staccato, desperate longing, relief shimmering along her skin.

At last. 

Breathing deeply to recover from his mad run, Mac seated her gently on the kitchen worktop to the left of the door, then swung and launched into a furious leap towards her attacker; Gemma's scream still echoing in his head.

In the few seconds that Mac had taken to gently put Gemma aside, the grey lycan had hooked a silvery, slithering silken object out of the trousers lying discarded on the floor. He flung it with a panicked, snapping flick of the wrist towards the legs of the enraged alpha leaping for him across the tangle of chairs, and Mac abruptly fell to the ground, snarling and fighting to unwind the simple grey cord wrapped in a tight whipping around one shin. 

Backing away from Mac, the grey wolf shimmered into place of the man and snarled ferociously at his escaped prey, promise of retribution in every line of his fur, before turning to sprint out of the far door of the room. There was satisfaction in Gemma's heart as she watched the faint wince, centred between his hind legs, which punctuated his every movement, even in wolf form. A little smile played around her mouth. She was only human. 

Mac untangled the silvery grey cord from around one leg and hurled it aside, leaping back to his feet, just as they heard the slam of the front door of the building. He was a blur of impossible speed toward the exit, and then an engine roared into life outside and was punctuated by the screech of desperate car tyres.

Mac growled as he stilled in the doorway, a savagery to the long, low rumbling which seemed to echo around the room and shiver over Gemma's skin. She blinked at him, startled by the power of his voice as he turned to her, his black gaze fulminating as he held hers, striding over.

He came to stand in front of her countertop position, head only slightly higher than hers, and glared into her eyes, anger still simmering in his. Leaning on the counter, he encircled her with his arms as he bent forwards slightly to emphasise what he was going to say. A deep breath. Another. Mac's fists were clenching and unclenching convulsively against the worktop. He couldn't stop reliving the aching scream he'd heard as he reached the building.

Well, thought Gemma. Mac clearly had something to say and was quivering slightly as he held back the torrent of probably not very gentle words howling through his brain. Wow. Gemma watched the storm raging in his eyes in dumbstruck awe, but kept quiet - it didn't seem to be a good moment to start anything.

All that fire. If only he'd let her -. Her skin was tingling at his proximity.

"Do you mind explaining, Gem," the tone, when it eventually emerged, was a whisper of calm, in fierce contrast to the glare in his eyes, "why, when one of my best wolves nerves himself to delay the Grey by challenging him for you," his voice was deepening in anger, the words coming more rapidly, "instead of running, locking yourself in a vault, or waiting for me, you then turn and sprint to the only other threat around," the last four words ricocheted off her skin like bullets, and she winced slightly, " - the other grey pack-member?"

Um. 

Um...

Gemma took a long breath. It wasn't that Mac actually scared her, but he was awesome, shimmering with power like this, and her blood was responding by making her mouth dry, her skin tingle, and a sudden sweet warmth flutter in her belly. And she had a feeling her voice would only emerge as a whisper. Besides, he maybe did have a teensey point, she had thought of that danger herself, only it had seemed irrelevant in light of the haunted eyes of the victim. 

He stood over her, waiting for an answer, glowering down at her.

"She was being -," she began hoarsely

"She could've killed you," he cut her off flatly.

Let me finish the sentence. "She was being raped!" 

"And she would have killed you on order." His tone was flat, ungiving.

"She didn't want-," Gemma's voice rose, but he cut her off again, a sharp movement of his hand emphasising his frustration with her inadequate reasoning.

"But she would have killed you on order. If Nick didn't. You didn't even call your police!" he whipped her phone out of her pocket and waved it under her nose, glaring at her.

Gemma eyed the handset guiltily. It would've been easy. And right. Because her plan might not have worked. Duh. "I didn't think," she admitted. And felt the angry male standing over her relax slightly, like she was answerable to him. Humph.

"But Nick didn't want me dead," she added. Not then. Maybe now. "He wanted - me," she shivered, and looking back up at her old flatmate, questions shading her eyes. 

Mac tensed, staring down at her, a shudder rippling through his frame as the anguished scream replayed again in his head. "I thought he had you," he murmured on a thread of pain, tracing a trail of fire over her short nose with one fingertip, deep shadows in his eyes. Then the anger, the puzzlement slowly grew, and he took a deep gulp of breath, shaking his head in frustrated confusion as he straightened, muttering, "What the hell is he playing at? The council will torch him if he tries changing humans again." He added on a low growl, "If they got to him before I did." And began to prowl around the room, deep in thought.

Gemma watched him pace for a moment, a small smile ghosting her lips. He was clearly a wolf at this moment, whatever form he was wearing. She answered on a questioning note, "He said your - shield? - wouldn't have totally left my body yet and he wanted to-."

She was cut off this time by a string of curses as Mac lurched fully upright, scraping the fingers of both hands through his tawny hair. It looked like he was trying to pull it out as he swung to face her, his face contorted with anger, incredulity, fear, enlightenment. Finally settling on pure fury.

"What the hell? He'd kill you - or you'd kill yourself, or him, or rip into anything you could get your teeth into - experimenting with two mordeurs? Having just one master makes a were insane! Two?! That's crazy."

Gemma recalled the eerie light in Nick's eyes and another shadow crossed her eyes as she shivered again, faintly, "I think he is crazy."

"He -," Mac halted abruptly, head lifting and swivelling to the door as he heard something beyond her ears. Eyes suddenly alert, he was beside her, pulling her down from the countertop with a warm hand engulfing hers.

As her right foot touched the floor Gemma let out a gasp and crumpled over the limb, pain shooting fire through her veins. Almost before she had time to register the horrible scraping feeling in her knee, she heard another soft curse and was in the air, in his arms, and they were out in the corridor, beside the main door to the laboratory building. 

The brush of her pass cord over her neck filtered through after the door had already beeped acceptance, and then suddenly they were outside, in the trees, where Mac bent over to pick up her jeans. The jolt to her leg as he leaned over forced a moan from Gemma, and she bit down hard on his cotton shirt, pressing her face into his shoulder to suppress another as he straightened. 

Another heartbeat and they shimmered back through the smashed side-door to the lab, whipping across the room too fast for human eyes, past the tear-streaked, subdued face of the girl, huddled on the bench wrapped in a coat, past the cowering security guard, who tried to focus on them as the wind of their passing stirred the air. Jim was held in a tight grip by a burly, towering male with grey hair who nodded solemnly to Mac.

Gemma picked up the distant echo of the fast approaching siren as they re-emerged in the common room, and Mac set her gently back on the counter where she'd started, before whirling to replace the knocked about chairs into a semblance of order and push Nick's discarded clothes into the bin, growling slightly as he touched them. The carpet had always been shabby, and he rapidly grouped chairs over the ripped surface and scooped up the grey cord.

Then she was in his arms again, mind ticking over what he was doing while they flew silently upstairs, upstairs, and along the dark empty corridor to stop outside her office door, light gleaming through the crack at the base, just as the screeching police cars shuddered to a halt outside the front entrance.

He tried the door, then, "Key," he breathed softly, as he pulled a hand from her lab coat pocket, dangling the faintly jangling bunch by the ring.

Autocratic, thought Gemma with faintly satisfied amusement as she sorted swiftly through the chain and found the correct one. There was so much more to Mac than the laid-back photographer and barman she knew.

They could hear the heavy footsteps entering below, loud voices beginning questioning, oblivious to the faint click upstairs, and the quiet creak of her office door swinging open. Gemma's eyes struggled to adjust to the bright glare as Mac stepped in and the door lock softly clicked behind them.

He stilled and listened. Gemma couldn't hear anything at all, but watched him as he stood intensely still for a silent moment, then relaxed.

"How is she - the girl?" she murmured, slightly wary of reopening the subject. But she couldn't just leave it.

Mac quirked an eyebrow at her as he transferred her onto one arm for a moment so that he could scoop up the pile of books currently resident on her desk, and place her gently in their stead. "She'll be fine." He began looking around for somewhere to put the books, frustrated by the piles of them already heaped around the small room. "She switched to the MacKeld pack when I ran through the first time, she's clear of Nicolas and lodging an assault charge against the human with your police right now. Sam is acting the proverbial passing Samaritan who broke in to stop the assault."

Abruptly, Gemma's brows twitched together into a light frown.

"She took one look at you and switched packs? Does that happen often around you? With girls?"

Mac smiled crookedly at her, a teasing sparkle in his eyes, "I only accept the young and pretty ones." He bent to place the books on the floor just as she smacked him on the shoulder. Her hand bounced off and he didn't even twitch - she wasn't even sure he noticed. 

"Actually her bond was weakened when she saw how feeble the Grey really is – flattened by a mere human – a teeny wee female human at that, with only a little metal box," said Mac.

He was grinning at her when he straightened up, and she scowled at his chauvinist racism, but then his eyes narrowed and his expression sobered." You held him off with your leg, too, didn't you picchu? But that didn't fare so well."




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 03



"It worked," retorted Gemma. "I'm still in one piece. You should answer phone calls faster."

Mac sighed, "In one piece relative to what? A broken chocolate bar still in the wrapper?" He smiled lightly as he lifted the lab coat to examine her knee, "And I promise to practise sprinting faster - not that I didn't appreciate the stagger you induced in Nick, but you've taught him respect now, let's avoid an action replay, huh?"

It struck Gemma how strange their exchange was. It seemed as though this wolf's constant, overly protective attitude was rubbing off and she now expected it, demanded that he protect her as her right. Which he didn't query, rather seemed to view as perfectly natural. Well, it wasn't natural to her. 

Hmph. A new habit is easy to break.

Then Gemma blushed, realising she had no underwear, and he was pushing the coat higher, so she grabbed it and pushed it back down again. Mac's eyes were incredulous, teasing as he lifted them back to hers. Her flush deepened to a furious crimson as she read the smiling message in his gaze, but she stuck her bottom lip out stubbornly and held on, eyeing him defiantly.

He sighed and let go.

"I just want to heal you, Gemma. That must be painful."

"It's Ok if I don't move," she retorted. And added under her breath, "I've heard that "just healing" line before." Mac smiled slowly as he eyed her. Then he bent his proud head and kissed her. 

?!?!? 

Gemma was frozen, shocked into stillness by the unexpectedness of it.

Then simmering fire shot through her veins as his tongue traced slowly along her pouting lower lip, softly exploring, trailing tingling heat in a path along her sensitive skin. She dimly felt that this was a problem when arguing with Mac. He nibbled at her lip, her breath speeded up, and Gemma sank into a cloud of feeling, reason rapidly evaporating. Then he parted her lips and his exploration deepened as he threaded that playful tongue inside them along her teeth. 

I'm sure we were disagreeing about something a moment ago.

Mac's deepening breathing was brushing her skin and lighting her blood as he played along her lips and closed teeth, savouring her taste, her warmth, her softening. He began to nudge the tip of his tongue gently against the barrier, coaxing her to open, and Gemma responded with a sigh of pleasure, parting to him. 

Nothing important.

Then, as his tongue began to stroke more deeply along hers, Gemma found that sliding her fingers over his broad shoulders sent a tingle of arousal shimmering down her spine. When she scraped her nails lightly on his upper arm muscle he quivered lightly, and the feeling spread to her toes, liquid arousal beginning to melt throughout her body. Sinking, she could only feel his heat, his heady scent and the sensations his skilful tongue evoked as she sighed into his mouth and tilted her head back onto his cradling palm.

This just felt so right. There was something deep, meshed, fulfilled that rang with his being here - tongue in her mouth, tasting her, learning her, as he surrounded her with his scent, his heat, and his strength.

She arched up to allow him deeper access, and a sharp stab of pain shot up from her forgotten leg, making her flinch backwards and gasp. Before she even finished the movement, Mac lifted her to seat her more securely on the edge of the desk, frowning down as he admonished,

"Keep still. Let me handle this."

Handle? The word stuttered discord across her rioting senses. 

What?

Abruptly, Gemma flung up a hand between them, covering his descending mouth as she realised - or thought, maybe - this, what-? He waited, eyeing her with a calm question - too calm in view of how she felt - while she pulled her swirling thoughts together - including the recalcitrant ones that kept lurching back to the feel of his lips against her palm - and the sight of his chest, stretched inside that t-shirt in front of her - and the scent of his musk. And -.

Snap out of it.

Gemma finally dragged round herself enough control to recover the power of speech. Well, eventually. In a moment. Now. Well, now then. Now.

She queried breathlessly, suspiciously, "Handle?"

He raised his brows in an 'Isn't it obvious?' expression. She scowled, lifting her hand from his mouth, ignoring the large part of her that wanted to trace his lips instead, and just looked at him, waiting for an explanation. Mac sighed, looking faintly guilty.

"It's an internal wound. I need to send my shiele inside, and it's easier to direct if you stop trying to distract me," Dumbstruck, she just stared at him as the words sank in, rapidly cooling her blood. They continued. "And if you'll stop hurting yourself."

Still just staring at him. Feeling cold spreading through her veins.

Staring. The space behind her eyes tightening with tears.

Staring.

"This- kissing - you - it's just healing?!" her voice almost rose an octave on the last word. Then she sank into silence, still staring at him, accusingly, holding back the tears shimmering in her eyes with a stark glare. His eyes hooded over and he sighed deeply again, a tinge of colour to his cheekbones.

"You need healing, Gem. Yes, it's a pleasure to do it, but principally, you need healing."

"So I'll call a bloody ambulance." Damn you. Damn you. Damn you. Bad wolf.

The bad wolf snorted, and shook his head.

"They'll want to know how you hurt yourself - and the police will wonder why by coincidence you were viciously injured on the same night as Anne, in the same building." There was a spike of jealousy scouring along her skin as he reasoned - Mac obviously knew the young, pretty girl- wolf's name. Already.

Bad, bad wolf. And he was trying to reason her into letting him kiss her for medicinal purposes. The congealed blood in Gemma's veins was beginning to tighten with rage, heating again.

"So I'll say I fell downstairs!" she hissed.

"They won't buy it."

"So what? Leave me alone - I'll sort something out, just get out. Go." The fury was beginning to make her shudder as she perched on the desk in front of him. 

Suddenly, Mac lent over her, bracing his hands on either side of her thighs, so he could stare gravely down into her eyes. The lab coat had ridden up and she could feel his warm arm hairs tickling over her sides of her legs, but she wasn't paying attention. Much. Too busy glaring into that powerful, mesmerising gaze, black beginning to filter into the green.

"My main reason for needing to heal you now," he continued, a quiet note of implacability at the back of his tone, "is that there is a viciously homicidal Grey wolf out there somewhere waiting a chance to attack you for a third - no, fourth time, so I'm not letting you out of my sight until I have you somewhere safe." She opened her mouth to snap a retort and was shut up by a swift hard kiss pressed to her lips, causing an unfair surge of melting, and infuriatingly suspending her voice.

"And I can't carry you past the police without even your humans noticing something." Damn him, damn him. Just one kiss, together with his faintly aggressive brand of protectionism, and she was melting back into his gaze. Gemma rolled her own eyes, trying to haul her anger back in place. That kiss had just been so cheating. As was the concern for her welfare. "And I can't just stand about here and wait with you in this amount of pain," he finished. 

This? Hah. This is barely noticeable. Deliberately, Gemma damped the reviving tingle shimmering through her blood by recalling how she'd felt when he'd left yesterday. Then all the afternoon. The evening. And the night. Today. Echoing. Missing. Pain.

They stared at each other.

"Well, I'm not letting you kiss me," Gemma said quietly.

"I'm healing you," Mac's voice was deep, tinged with faint frustration that she wouldn't listen. Been there, had that, Gemma thought glumly.

"It is just for healing, not a kiss," he reinforced, the edge to his words growing stronger as his eyes darkened.

What?!?. Thanks. "Tell that to my aching libido," Gemma muttered. She couldn't stand holding those gorgeous, distant eyes any longer, and dropped her own to focus on her fists, clenched on her thighs.

"It's kissing from this side, Mac, even if you're immune to me," she corrected him sadly. 

"I never said I was immune to you," he answered brusquely, and from the corner of her eye, Gemma realised that she could see the shimmer of frustration trembling through his strong frame. It made her skin tingle – maybe she could work around his attitude. Maybe.

"I can just control my feelings when something more important - like damn well healing a multiple fracture - overrides them," Mac's voice held the echo of a low growl. No, she couldn't work him around. Like yesterday. He was paranoid about retaining control. The frustration was probably just from her not saying what he wanted.

She glowered back at him, "Well, bully for you. I prefer not to live with another series of x-rated sensations plastered over my body by you, when you have no intention of following through."

The heat was rising in his gleaming eyes, and he smiled slowly. "I'm more than happy to make sure you thoroughly -." 

"No," Gemma cut him off on that one. Better not to let the memory of Mac and thoroughly get any more deeply imprinted in her mind and body. Her mind and body weren't listening to instruction, off reliving some of their favourite highlights, raising goosebumps across her skin.

Mac wasn't listening either, and leaned in closer, the growl deepening. His musk teased at her and colour traced along her cheekbones. This so wasn't fair. 

"No," she repeated, placing her hands on his chest to hold him away. They tingled where she touched him. "If I can't touch you, then you can't touch me. At all," she stated brusquely. 

Then she struggled to ignore the little voice inside her whispering that she was touching him, just a little bit, and he didn't seem to mind, so why not slide those hands a bit further down. Down. No, further than that.

Luckily, he clamped her hands under his, and growled again.

"Gemma, I told you why we can't - I can't control the change when I get too excited." 

Many people would have been nervous to have a large, powerful, aggravated male glowering down at them, growling angry words. 

"So just shut up and let me kiss you," the angry male added frustratedly. 

It wasn't a frightening phrase. They both knew he could stand her on her head without raising his heart rate. They both knew he wouldn't.

Gemma clenched her jaw and repeated, "If I can't touch you, then you can't touch me." 

"Will you stop being so bloody obstinate?!" he snarled.

Hah! Welcome to my world.

She snorted inelegantly and tilted her head, "Pot, meet kettle."

He flung his head back, breathed in sharply, then leaned back over her, "Let me heal you. I swear you'll feel much, much better if you just -."

Not this time.

The rage re-ignited in Gemma, burning up the lust. "I know I'd feel amazing. Then you'd take yourself off. The answer's no." 

His eyes were actually glittering, small black flecks seeming to explode like starbursts in the pupils as he breathed heavy anger and she could feel him willing her to give in. Hah.

"Human medicine can take days, weeks – you'll be vulnerable to his greys and in pain all that time," he bellowed.

Little you know about humans.

"Make that months for a multiple bone fracture," she corrected him and he flinched, then rolled a long growl at her, fury at her obstreperousness firing his eyes. Stubborn little human who wouldn't let him put it right. 

"And if you're so worried about Nick, why the hell did you just let him leave?" Gemma knew that that was unfair, but anger was necessary. It worked. Mac abruptly straightened and stepped back from her, a flicker of expression she couldn't quite catch chasing across his hard-etched, strong features. 

Then suddenly he stilled, looking completely blank, just before a deluge of emotions chased each other across his face, each too fleeting to recognise. Mac's hands were clenching and unclenching at his sides as he started to shudder, blinking rapidly, and he actually flickered into a towering, powerful, hair-covered lycan form and back as his breathing deepened and green flecks shot through the black fire in his eyes, making her insides melt again with swirling arousal as she watched the furnace rising in his gaze.

He seemed larger, more forceful, when he finally settled himself, skin shuddering, and re-focussed on her. A small smile was playing around his mouth and a hot, predatory gleam lit his eyes, making her pulses rocket, before they settled on merely trying to batter the blood out of her veins.

"Argen rope," Mac purred softly, the smile in his eyes deepening as he held hers. Deep, deep green and so, so hot. She could feel herself leaning forwards, towards the call in his gaze as he stepped back toward her, trembling faintly.

"What's -." She couldn't recall what he'd said. "Uh?" The colour of his eyes was thickening, whirling, black and green melding, drawing her into their heat, their want.

Her nipples tightened and the liquid heat began to pool between her thighs, blood shuddering sweetly in her limbs as it hurried to answer his eyes, his scent, his strength.

He was murmuring something else, but the intensity of the furnace in those bewitching eyes was increasing the crescendo of blood singing in her veins, obliterating all else. The words whispered on the other side of a fog of sensation, and she reached up unsteady fingers to brush over his full lips, to feel the whisper of his breath calling every atom of her blood, curling her toes and lifting the hair at the nape of her neck, along her arms, across her scalp. There was nothing, nothing in the room but the ferocious joy in him, the heat in his eyes, his scent, the quivering power barely restrained by his skin, and her own soft, shimmering skin waiting for him to touch her, to melt her further. Pleading, straining with every fibre. Wanting, waiting. Pressure and friction, please.

She whined, leaning in towards him. What had he said? 

The scent enveloped her as he bent close, "So let me heal you," the words whispered in her ear, dancing tantalisingly over her trembling, sensitised skin. His tongue traced over the delicate shell before he nipped lightly at the lobe, then suckled the nick to form a pinpoint of deep, aching pleasure. Gemma shuddered, leaning her forehead against him, breathing deeply of his heady, aroused musk. Stronger, stronger, the pull, the power was tightening its silken hold.

He stilled, and waited. And she whimpered, and nuzzled at his shoulder. He waited. Then, slowly, the last phrase penetrated. Gemma blinked rapidly, leaning on him. She couldn't believe it. Crying inside, she pulled back, the disappointment that he'd tried to influence her that way coursing coldly through her. And an echo of rage - he could have just carried on and she'd never have stopped him, but now she had to turn him down again. 

Then, abruptly, she focused on the silvery cord he laid across her palm. Silver cord. Gemma jerked her head up, heart pounding as she stared at him in disbelief, captured by the aroused, taunting, challenging smile curling his lips as his eyes gleamed down into hers.

"Let me heal you," he repeated softly, "And then I'll let you tie me up and have your wicked way with me."

!!!!!!!!!!!!!!!

Her nipples tightened to agonising bullets and a surge of liquid heat pulsed between her thighs at the images that his suggestion, together with those knowing eyes, were throwing into her head. His challenging smile deepened as he held her gaze, watching the red fire flare in her cheeks as he smelt her deep arousal. He leant forwards and brushed a soft kiss across her lips, taunting his own version of her words back at her,

"If you let me kiss you, then I'll let you touch me. All of me."

Gemma was submerged, surrounded by the fire, engulfed in it, and couldn't seem to find the surface, the way out, - did she want to -? But - the images in her head. She couldn't. She'd never - and only once ever - and she hadn't exactly been directing matters last time - and now - tie him up..?

That meant she could -.

Another wave of heat surged colour over her delicate skin, a trickle of moisture pooling at the juncture of her legs, and Mac laughed quietly, joyously, a husky little bark as he trailed the tip of his tongue over her scarlet cheek, pressing the heat of his inner wrists against her thighs. She squeezed her legs together in response to the fire of his touch, compressing, compounding the pulse of liquid fire between them and tightening the deep ache in her belly. 

Damn it, she realised belatedly, the conflagration in her blood surging, cresting over the embarrassment in her head as the ache in her nipples became painful, and she almost whimpered. He meant to do that, bad wolf - teasing her, arousing her further. 

"You set the rules," Mac murmured.

She met his gleaming eyes, and glanced away quickly, reddening. But he was so happy, his happiness melting the resistance of her embarrassment. Mac wanted this, wanted her, was so joyous, so aroused, so amazing, how could she let a little shyness stand in the way of pleasing him so much? Pleasing both of them? But - tie him up? What did she do then?

The image of his powerful, aroused body spread-eagled on the floor for her, his eyes calling her, burned across her imagination. How the hell was she supposed to restrain her brain or body with that image fused into her retinas? She couldn't do it, didn't want to take control, didn't know what to do. But - say no? No way. What if she got it wrong, though? 

Gemma could feel her mind stuttering. She didn't know what to do, what to say, right now, or - well - later, if she said yes, then -.

Once she said yes, her internal voice interrupted. Then she could-. she closed her eyes as the image of him, and what she could do, how she could taste him, savour the exploration, seek to make him moan - it all blazed across her mind, shaking her frame with a wave of uncontrollable desire. 

Who was she kidding - she knew what she wanted to say. What she was going to say. She just needed to man up and say it. Gemma took a deep breath and opened her eyes to look into his. Deep, deep green fire. Sparkling. Knowing. Enjoying. 

"Mfph." At the gleam in his eye, coherency went out the window, her decisiveness swamped by a fresh tide of embarrassment coursing through her, flaring a new, vibrant trail across her skin.

His soft chuckle tingled over her, and Mac leaned in to breathe deeply of her fully aroused scent, brushing his nose lightly against the pulse at the base of her jaw as he felt himself harden still further, almost unbearably. She was so responsive. So open. Untried. Eager. Delicious.

Gemma found her fingers were tangled in his hair, stroking softly as she leaned back against his arm, enjoying the ease with which he held her, savouring his closeness. Let him tie her up. Delete that.

"You can just nod, picchu." Mac brushed the words against her pulse with an accompaniment of light kisses. Then he pulled back to look down into her eyes, waiting for them to open. His were playful, joyous, ferociously aroused. 

"Or shake your head," he suggested teasingly. Holding her eyes with the fire in his, he stretched slowly, luxuriously, in front of her, etching the powerful lines of his body into her mind, taunting. Standing smiling down at her, hands clasped behind his head, enveloped in her heady mating scent with his own aching arousal evident, Mac offered himself. 




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 03



"Please, picchu. May I kiss you better?" he asked softly.

Gemma gulped. There was only one answer. She met that teasing gaze and her head slowly dipped in acquiescence, melting, melting as the fire in his eyes deepened in ardent delight. 

His smile widened and he held her still with his fiercely aroused gaze. Just looking into hers. Gemma was waiting, shuddering in anticipation, watching him, aching. Then he slowly curled himself back over her, palms either side of her, bending his tawny head back to hers.

"This kiss," he stopped just above her lips, breath whispering across the sensitive skin, "Will not be just healing."

 

***************************

Sorry about the spaceless italics in the original for last chapter, it wasn't intentional, and I'll avoid using that obscure software package to write again- even once I converted the document to Word, there was obviously something different behind the scenes.

And thanks for the feedback and the voting! Please keep it up, I enjoy writing this, but love to know what it's like from the other side, so to speak, and want to improve. You're a great incentive. 

Next chapter in April - after Easter.



Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 04



Gemma lay smiling into Mac's eyes, then lifted up her head and kissed him softly. It was so delicious, she did it again. And again, again, brushing happy little kisses over his lips while his hands came up to cradle her head and hold her as he joined in. He deepened the kiss, tilting her back gently along the length of the desk until she was resting on the surface, cushioned by his palms, and he hitched himself up beside her, leaning over to kiss her intensely. 

She slid her hands into his tawny hair, and raked them gently through the tousled locks as his tongue explored her mouth, his breathing beginning to deepen and roughen, the shimmer between them seeming to strengthen. Gemma sank into his kiss, breathing in the increasingly musky scent of his arousal, the sense of him all around her, cradling her to him, and a little sigh escaped her as the her limbs softened while her core tightened to his touch. 

Her sigh was echoed from Mac's chest, and he lifted back slightly, nibbling her lower lip, running a light hand down the side of her chest and circling up, tracing a line between her breasts. Her breath hitched and her fingers stilled in his hair, she felt him smile against her lips as his hand circled down again, and then closed over her breast. He began to gently tease the sensitive skin, sending shimmers of sensation tingling down her spine, then abruptly he bent back over her to thrust his tongue deep into her mouth. A pulse of pleasure throbbed in Gemma's belly.

Breathing deeply, he gently withdrew, then thrust again, squeezing her breast and tweaking the nipple as his tongue invaded her throat. Gemma moaned into his mouth, feeling her heart pounding erratically as liquid heat began to seep between her thighs. Mac withdrew, and thrust again gently, deeply, squeezing the sensitive peak while he tilted her head to get the right angle. Then he parted her lips fully with his and began to slide and thrust his tongue deep within her throat, his breathing deepening as his own excitement grew.

Gemma could feel herself melting under his touch, melting into him, the tug at her heart easing and strengthening, as the demand in his kiss increased. He was kissing her as though there was no limit between them, no barriers, and her excitement seemed melded into his, no barriers, no separation, they were tuned together as he laid gentle, sure claim and she welcomed him in.

Then abruptly Mac lifted himself above her, and Gemma moaned and arched up to reach for him, pulling his head back down. He chuckled, and kissed her hard, but pulled back again, sliding off the surface of the desk, breathing deeply, tugging her after him. She landed swaying on her unsteady feet and slid her arms up his chest again, whimpering, to pull that tawny, proud head back down to hers. She moaned in satisfaction when he lifted her off her feet, kissing him deeply as her legs wrapping around his waist. 

A hot, throbbing hardness pressed firmly against her slit as she tightened her legs, and a jolt of white lightening shot down Gemma's spine, shuddering through her limbs and shaking loose her tenuous thread of regained control as she fell back against his encircling hands, gasping for breath. She moaned again. Held herself steady, then gently rubbed against that jutting hard cock beneath his clothes. They both shuddered, and Mac hitched her a little higher, away, sliding her back so that her buttocks rested on his hardness instead. 

With a frustrated little moan, Gemma struggled to shift against him, to press his throbbing erection back against the right place, then stopped abruptly as she realised they were out in the corridor, Mac pacing soundlessly towards the stairs. He murmured breathlessly into her ear, a thread of laughter to the hoarse sound, "Wait, my little picchu. We need a bit more room - and to find something for you to tie me to first."

She sucked in air abruptly as her heart stopped. Then it began to pound frantically against her ribs. They were really going to do this. Tie him up. Shit.

She could feel his chest reverberating on a chuckle at her reaction, but all that emerged was an almost silent breath of sound, "And be quiet. The police are still downstairs."

Gemma pressed her forehead to his chest and clung to him, shuddering, as they silently ghosted their way up to the top storey and the greenhouse under the glass roof. As he carried her into the fragrant, damp warmth under the leaves and the heavy door shut behind them, she felt a little coil of tension in the body carrying her release. Mac breathed deeply, shutting his eyes, then opened them and the hot gleam smiling down at Gemma made her heart jump again. She reached up, pulled down his head and kissed that smile, deeper, deeper, as both of their hearts began to race, until she had to pull back, gasping short little breaths. Mac was trembling a little as he turned and began to brush his way past the overhanging leaves of the larger plants towards the outer wall, the dull orange light from the streetlights outside filtering through the large windows.

"Good," he grunted, setting her on her feet beside him. Gemma blinked and he wasn't there, then her eyes were caught by the shimmer of light on the tawny hair at her waist height; he had squatted down was reaching under the end bench. She leaned against him and caressed dreamy fingers through the ruffled locks, then bent over and nibbled his lips, upside-down, enjoying the way his breath hitched and his eyes glazed over slightly as he stilled, shuddering under her lips. Then he sighed and a hand came up to tangle in her hair, tugging her backwards then pushing her down to flop cross-legged on the floor half a foot away as he muttered, "Wait." 

She giggled, and focussed on what he was doing - or undoing. Undoing one of the four huge bolts holding the metal roof column to the heavy cross-beam across the floor - with his fingers. Her first incredulity faded into awareness, tingling across her skin, as he pulled out the inch-thick metal bolt and instead threaded through the slim grey cord he had brought from downstairs. He looped it through a second time, while her breath shortened and began to get a little ragged. Then he turned to her with that wicked little hot smile playing around his lips and she felt her insides melt even as a huge lump formed in her throat.

"Now, Gemma," he murmured softly.

And she watched, slightly disbelieving, uncertain, incredulous, as he shucked off his shirt, lay down on the floor on his back and relaxed, wrists crossed above his head, smiling at her teasingly, challengingly.

She was staring back, wide-eyed, caught by that wicked black-and-green gaze, the knowing gleam in the depths. She swallowed.

"Come and tie me up," he said gently.

"Uh," Gemma managed a short little grunt, her eyes escaping from his, then they were caught by the expanse of his chest gleaming under the soft light. The ripple of muscles in his arms. The little scar on his chin, and the crease of his cheek from the little smile on his lips. Her eyes returned to his. She swallowed again. 

"Won't it hurt you?" 

His eyes softened on a smile, "Argen against the skin only constrains us, it doesn't do any damage. It'll stop me turning. Now please, Gem. At least come and kiss me."

Um. 

His eyes had softened, and were beckoning her over. 

"Please?"

How could she resist?

Through a flood of kisses, gentle persuasion, instruction, and assurances that it didn't hurt, Gemma wrapped each end of the cord several times around Mac's strong wrists and tied off the ends, the excitement building deep inside her as she did so. Then she watched, breathlessly, as the muscles in his arms rippled with strain and his back arched off the floor as he put out formidable power to break the binding. Then he did it again, formidable muscles etched sharply against the skin. Wow.

She lent down to kiss him, feeling a hot, tight urgency in her belly at the thought that all that power was now for her. "Wait, Gem, let me try a third -," she cut him off with her mouth, kissing him deeply again, before pulling back, laughing, "You're not in charge here, Mac."

Abruptly, a menacing expression flashed dangerously across his face, his eyes darkened, and the long, low, stormy growl she had heard as he faced Nick rolled around the room as he arched against the bonds holding him, struggling, lips curling into a snarl.

Gemma froze, startled, and sat back on her heels by his side, staring at him, a faint tremble inside her at the menace in that sound, that look. This time aimed at her. He stilled. There was a frozen pause. Then with a long sigh, he deliberately relaxed. "Sorry, Gem," a soft whisper, "There's nothing a wolf hates more than being constrained - he can't believe we agreed to this."

She leaned back over him, the inner tremble subsiding. This was Mac. And there were stronger feelings smothering the caution as she bent down to his lips. Wolf-shmulf - he wasn't getting out of this now. "Don't be so feeble. I'll be gentle." And she stopped his reply with a kiss. A nice, long kiss. Suddenly she was ecstatic - he was a captive kissee and she could play with those lips as long and as deep as she liked. 

Like this. And this. And - mmm. Although he knew a lot of sneaky ways of stealing her control. She could learn a lot from this. If only she could keep stop sinking into a puddle of mindless sensation. Damn. Mmmm.

Mmm mmm mmmm.

Eventually, Gemma's lungs reminded her that she had to breathe, and she collapsed back into a heap on his chest. Dazed. Happy.

"OK, he's beginning to change his mind." The chest under her rumbled with the whisper.

"Just shut up or I'll gag you too," she retorted dazedly into his throat. And felt the reverberations of his laugh trembling through her. Her breasts tingled where they vibrated against the soft hairs of his chest, even through her clothing. Hmmm. She slid a finger down his throat into the soft brush of hair. His breath hitched, then quickened, and Gemma felt her blood simmering at the sounds, the pleasure of making him make those soft sounds.

Let's see..

Swiftly she sat back upright and hauled off the lab coat, tossing it aside as her fingers moved to the base of her sweater and she pulled it overhead, focussing on his face to avoid the tremble of uncertainty in her belly as she settled to sit firmly pressed onto his stomach wearing only her cami, bra and boots. The stormy, gleaming light in his eyes as they roved over her scantily clad frame soothed her inner tremor, and she leaned forwards, arching her back over him with a small, naughty smile, murmuring, "Although you're allowed to moan."

His eyes narrowed briefly, amusement in their hot, hot depths. Make me, the challenge was calling in the shimmering gaze. Irresistible. Gemma leaned back over him and tilted his head gently to the side to accommodate her lips more comfortably. His blood was shuddering through the veins close to his skin and she could feel the faint echoing tremor in him as, smiling, she traced her lips and tongue sensuously over his, putting the recent lessons she'd learned into practice. His lips parted on a breathy moan, and she began to kiss him in earnest. Mmmmm.

Gemma resurfaced to find herself buried against his chest, moaning softly, crushing herself as close to his muscular torso as possible. Long, shuddering ,deep breaths were raking into her aching lungs, and every inch was on fire. Damn. Damn. Damn, she had to maintain better control. Although the tremor in the chest she was resting on was not laughter any longer. Not this time. Those powerful arms were straining against his bonds, wrestling against the constraints, and Gemma set her palms to his and leaned against his hands, trying to force them back as she kissed him deeply again, rubbing against his powerful body, nudging against his straining erection, and he collapsed on a groan.

"Careful, the police might hear you," she whispered teasingly in his ear, then traced the outline with her tongue, and dipped inside. He shuddered, and his lips parted. Shuddered again, then stilled, and a breathless murmur left his lips, "One's just coming upstairs for a brief check."

Gemma froze. "You're kidding me."

"No. He probably won't come in here. But you'd better get your alibi ready just in case."

She bit his earlobe. He snorted, and muttered, "Toothless."

"Quiet! And what's your excuse for letting a tiny little girl tie you up, anyway?" she whispered into his ear, sure he was joking now.

He snorted again. "Are you kidding me? It's a male cop, he'll totally understand."

They lay quietly together. There wasn't a sound to be heard, although Gemma could feel small chuckles vibrating the chest she was lying on. She growled under her breath - she'd known he was making it up - and gently slid a hand down his stomach, teasing her fingers around the tip of his hard cock, squeezing gently through the soft denim. "Are you sure you want to play games with me just now, Mr. Wolf?"

Mac froze beneath her touch and caught his breath sharply, shuddering. Then, "Absolutely," he managed to gasp out on a hoarse whisper.

Stubborn. Stubborn.

Gemma yanked her cami over her head and stuffed it into his mouth. "I warned you I would gag you too."

He spat it out instantly, "You do realise my teeth will shred that scrap in seconds?"

Gemma looked mournfully at the long cut in her favourite underwear. Damn. Ruined. 

She glared down at the culprit. Then squeezed tighter around his magnificent hardness, pulling lightly. He gasped again and his eyes glazed over slightly.

"Well, I'll just have to shut you up some other way."

His mouth opened to retort, and she squeezed again, stroking her hand further along the throbbing length. All he managed to emit was a slight grunt, and this time his eyes closed as his head fell back against the floor, breath suspended for a moment, before exploding in a sigh.

"Looks like I've found it." The smugness around here was contagious. God he was gorgeous. He cracked open an eye and glared. She stroked that throbbing, magnificent hardness, jutting hard against his pants, and the eye closed again.

A tremor ran through the powerful frame. Wow. Wow. Wow. All hers.

Gemma leaned forward to brush a kiss over his exposed collar bone as she stroked a thumb over the tip of his cock, whispering, "This is going to be so much fun." And began to delicately unpick the buttons on his fly. He was trembling, and she kissed her way up his throat as she did gently parted the soft material.

"Gem -," he was cut off again as she ran a finger along the exposed flesh jutting out proudly, eagerly. He was not wearing anything underneath the soft jeans, which made life easier. And his breaths even shorter, to her melting delight.

"Yes?" she queried, naughtily, and brushed her thumb over the tip just as his mouth opened. Another grunt exploded, and he opened his eyes and stared into hers, a demanding sparkle shimmering deep within the black, a soft smile tilting his mouth. His eyes slid down to her bra-encased breasts and his cock twitched in her hands, seeming to harden, lengthen. His lips parted, "You -."

He didn't get any further, breath drawn sharply on a gasp as she ran a nail lightly along his throbbing length, thigh muscles clenching. She couldn't see them properly through the jeans, though - and she wanted to see those taut thighs - mmm - so began to tug ineptly at the material with her free hand. His buttocks lifted off the floor and she let go of his cock for a moment to slide to his feet and haul the pants all the way off, murmuring tauntingly, "Good Wolf." 

He growled, long and low, and Gemma slid back up to straddle him, to rest, perfect poised. Brushing. There. The growl broke off on a sharp intake of breath - but it wasn't just his this time. Gemma shivered at the aching want building, tightening within her; growing, spreading.

"You are so perfect." The whisper was soft, and Gemma opened her eyes again to find his eyes roving over her small, curvy form, poised above him, before focussing on her hanging breasts. Damn. He had obviously regained the ability to talk - and while she didn't exactly mind what he said, she liked stopping him speaking more. 

Gemma reached behind her back and the flush in her cheeks deepened as she unhooked her bra, but the way the blaze in his eyes brightened and his breathing grew more harsh, eyes fixed to her torso as she slowly slid the scrap of material down her arms - it was so enticing, so compelling. So empowering. Yes.

She leaned down and brushed her lips over his, the pulse within her belly aching so hard she was shivering. He caught hers, hard, and deepened the kiss, sliding his tongue inside her mouth, lifting off the ground to follow her as she backed away, laughing deep in her throat. 

"No, no, Mac. My party." And bent to kiss her way down his chest. The soft hair brushed her nose and a shiver ran down her spine as her peaked, aching nipples were caressed by the soft fur. The almost painful tightness in her chest made Gemma whimper lightly, and her kisses began to get deeper, more serious. She could feel that magnificent hardness pulsing more and more fiercely against her belly as she slid progressively further down, exploring, enjoying, testing his reactions as she nibbled, licked and kissed her way downwards. It was so hard not to just dive in.

Abruptly a jolt ran through her as her nipple brushed against a cold, shiny patch on his skin, and she reared back on a gasp. Stared down. The scar. From the spear. Her fingers brushed over it and he groaned. It was so cold - alien to the shimmer of heat pulsing off the rest of his taut frame. He groaned again, nudging her belly with his aching erection, and Gemma bent to nibble on his flat stomach skin, smiling at the heady sound of his quickening breath, even as she frowned at the smooth, grey cold patch on his abdomen.

"Go lower," he murmured. "Please. You're killing me with slowness." His breath echoed in the air, tension in the sound, and Gemma chuckled again, softly, heat smothering her at the sound. She rolled to rest her head on his hip and slid a hand back around his throbbing cock, hearing his breath catch again.

"You know what I do when you won't shut up, Mac."

He groaned more loudly, pressing himself into her hand. "Counting on i-," the last word was lost in a gasp. It was bewitching; arousal shuddered through her as she teased him, tested the way he moved, watched him against within her embrace. She taught herself what made him catch his breath, groan, gulp, heard his breathing change, watched with gleaming, heated eyes as he began to tremble when she snuck her head nearer, and breathed softly on the throbbing, taut head. The heat was intoxicating. The scent, the hard pulsing, and the soft, broken noises he was making.

Abruptly, she could wait no longer, and leaned over to close her mouth gently around the end of his cock, and suckling lightly. He jerked under her, a quiet cry leaving his lips and he begged, "Can't -," and jerked his hips out from under her lips. Heat exploded through her at the denial, and abruptly she wriggled out of her panties.

"Shh. Shh. I'll make you feel better," she leaned back down to suck on his throbbing length again. Teasing, licking around the head and sucking deeply, sliding back to kiss the tip as she held herself to his hips, a taste of salt exploded against her lips. 

Mac surged, swelling within her mouth, groaning denial low in his throat as he shifted his hips to evade her. Then abruptly he snarled, straining against the rope, and hitched his thighs hard of the floor, knocking her, breathless, up to land with her nose buried against his collar bone and breasts squashed to his muscular chest. His throbbing, eager cock was straining against the join of her thighs, and a strong leg had wrapped around hers , holding her pressed against that seeking, thrusting cock as the leg flexed, sliding her closer, closer, to his goal.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 04



Oh god yes, yes, yes - but no, not yet. My party.

Despite the lack of air in her lungs, Gemma managed to whisper, "Bad wolf," admonishingly, and snaked a hand back between their bodies to squeeze around his cock, restraining him from his goal. "You have to remember I'm in charge here."

He snarled again and his powerful thigh tightened her against him as he jerked his hips against her, smearing precum across her belly.

"Let me go, Mac," she murmured teasingly. "You aren't going to win like this."

He glared at her, then his head bent to hers and their lips collided in a hard, demanding kiss which soon softened into a gentle tasting, exploring. He lifted his thigh off her and fell back with a groan and a laugh.

Gemma smiled down at him and leaned forwards, looking down between them with hot cheeks as she gently teased her hot, slippery pussy over his straining heat. Mac moaned and jerked up towards her again, thrusting along her belly, and then growled, long and angrily as he dropped back, straining against the cord around his wrist, cursing with a curt, hoarse bark, "Dammit. Dammit. Gem!"

Not yet.

She bent forwards so that her breast were again swinging over his face, and then gasped out an abrupt moan as he lurched upwards in a move so swift she missed it, and engulfed one in his mouth, suckling impossibly hard, pulling, pulling her to meet his aching demand, sinking her into heat as she arched her back towards him involuntarily, pushing her mound further into his mouth, losing track of thought, time.

Suckling, suckling, so so hard, tight pressure - Gemma collapsed with a moan against him and he transferred to the other breast, leaving the first nipple tingling fiercely, puckered to a hard nub in the cool air that shimmered across the wet skin.

Oh oh oh - this was just too-.

Gemma jerked backwards suddenly, slithering down his body and came to rest with the inside of her thigh tingling with awareness against his throbbing member, heaving breaths into lungs - oh oh oh oh he knew what to do with those lips. Wow. Wow. Urgh. Shuddering, shuddering, she rubbed gently against his huge, hard cock and smiled back up at him through her lashes as he groaned and surged his hips up against her.

"Remember -" her voice broke and she gasped in a breath as he surged against her, sliding his throbbing hard cock along the crease of her thigh. She drew another breath and pressed hard down against him, frowning, "-my party." 

Mac groaned again and turned his head back to glare at the wall above his head, clenching his throat so hard that the lines stood out in stark relief, quivering, before he settled back with a sigh, muttering darkly, "I never knew you were into torture."

"I'll be gentle," she promised. He groaned again.

She bent over to kiss his shoulder. Better to avoid his lips for now. There were so many other things she wanted to try - she wet her lips as a sudden surge of moisture dampened her mouth and the throbbing ache in her belly intensified to near pain. Kissed him again. Lower. Oh this was good - the sweet sound of his hoarse breathing, growing shallower, faster. Liquid moisture was beading the light thatch between her thighs.

She lifted her hips and brushed him with her damp slit, coating the tip of his cock, hearing his breath hitch, feeling the surge of his hard member against her sensitive slit making her own heart stutter in her chest. Oh. It caught the bud at the head of the crease and her brain stuttered with the surge of pleasure.

Again. 

Oh - that was so -. She pressed a little harder, intent on rubbing her clit against that velvet-soft head at the end of his straining cock, feeling it give slightly, sway, tease. Oh. Wow. Again. Again. Again.

Each time the jolt of sensation through her notched up the burning demand in her belly further, and she wanted more, more. But his cockhead wouldn't stay put, it slithered teasingly out of reach, brushing her straining nub, then retreating - she could hold it steady with a hand, but she had an aching, hollow feeling further down, her pussy burning with want, and she just couldn't hold on much longer.

Gemma became aware that Mac had clenched his hands around the beam above his head and was mouthing silently, eyes closed, as he shuddered each time she brushed against his straining erection, forcing himself to remain still. She sighed and bent to kiss his taut belly, before sliding gently up across him to bring the head back to her vulva. Oh she wanted it in her. She could feel her juices seeping down over the soft head, and groaned, wanting, needing. 

She looked down into his face and saw that his eyes had opened slightly, were burning into hers, demanding silently, willing her, and she held his hot, hot, glittering, hardening gaze as she pressed softly, feeling a shiver shimmer out from her core as the delicious hardness gently breached her. Oh - the stretch was almost unbearable, but glorious, gorgeous - oh.

Gemma stilled, pressing her hands on his hips to hold herself from sinking further as she whirled in a fury of sensation, a whimper escaping as the incredible stretched, filled feeling rose within her -waiting, caught by his fiery gaze as a small smile played over his lips.

"More," he murmured. But still he held still. Gemma groaned, longing, stretched, and gently relaxed her arms. A long moan was driven from her throat as she slid slowly half-way down his large, throbbing cock and her pussy convulsed deliciously around the stretch. She paused, panting for breath, then sank further on a last groan, almost sobbing as he bottomed out and she could barely move, barely breathe through the incredible, impossible feeling of completeness. Overstretched and straining to keep still, not daring to move, longing to move.

Mac's gentle sigh reached her and she felt the cock sheathed in her surge briefly. She groaned. Beautiful. Unbearably, deeply, complete. 

But she wanted so much more.

She moved against him, hitched her hips, and moaned at the delicious friction where they joined, melting in the sigh from his lips. Moved again, tried to quicken, but her knees were stretched so wide against his impossible girth, and her body was melting into a pool of want, and she couldn't get the angle right, the rhythm, she was just so frustratingly slow. That angle - wow - a surge of sensation suddenly exploded through her body and her arms gave way. Gemma collapsed with a frustrated sob against his chest. She wanted faster. Harder. More. Now. Now.

"You only had to ask, picchu."

Mac rolled, and then abruptly she was underneath, realising she'd sobbed the last words aloud. He lifted his weight off her by his grasp on the beam, and gently ground his hips down into hers, making her breath catch on a sob.

"Wrap your legs around me," he breathed, eyes gleaming as he swooped in for a taut, hard kiss. She lifted her legs, crossing them over his lower back as he began to thrust, gentle jerks into her pussy.

"Now - I believe my picchu requested hard and fast?"

Gemma opened her mouth to agree, and the word was smothered in a grunt of air exploding from her lips as he slammed down into her, hard. Glorious. Her body tightened exquisitely around the hard, invasive length and she lay shuddering with pleasure.

"What was that?" he smiled, stopping. Gemma glared, damn him, and drew breath to remind him not to play games here. It escaped on a whimper as he thrust again, and again in quick succession. Then he paused a second time.

"Who was it in charge here, again?"

"Mac!" she moaned, the protest exploding as he thrust into her, driving her back into breathless silence. Oh my god this was unbelievable. He continued a series of quick thrusts, and simultaneously bent to press deep, suckling kisses to her nipples, tightening further the ache in her belly, torturing her with the overload of sensation.

"What?" he stilled again, teasing, lifting his head and smiling gently as he watched her struggle to regain the ability to speak. Her eyes pleaded up at him, and the smile faded from his lips but remained in his eyes as he bent over to press a gentle kiss to her lips.

"As you wish."

Then the smile returned, wickedly, and he lifted his hips, and began to slam into her. "Like this?"

She groaned, nodding.

He stopped.

"Say please."

Gemma glared at him as well as she could - he cheated by grinding his fully embedded cock against her, so that her eyes slid closed as she arched up against him and groaned again, then he brushed a spot within her and she screamed in pleasure, exploding in an overload of sensation as her back bent into a full bow, pussy convulsing around his hard length. Mac froze and his breath stopped.

Oh.

Gemma's eyes were half-open again, dazed, as she admired the taut angles of the powerful frame poised above her. She absorbed the rapt expression on his face, his head tilted back and lips slightly parted as her inner muscles tightened around his cock, milking.

Oh.

Carefully, she tightened her passage again, a shimmer of pure pleasure pulsing through her veins at the knowledge that she could give him this - that look, as he stiffened again, glazed, staring up at the ceiling. Then his head slowly tilted back down towards her, and the look in his eyes stopped her breath. The heat was incredible, but the deep undercurrent of warmth in the glowing green depths - she could feel herself melting, letting go, relaxing fully into the call of his eyes, his care.

There had been something to say. Something to give him - to return some of the pleasure of that - oh. Yup. 

"Please?" she murmured, and his smile reflected in her eyes.

Mac thrust deeply. Circled his hips, grinding her against the floor, then lifted himself and began to penetrate her with swift little jerks. Oh yes. Eyes half closed, he concentrated on the delicious feel of the slick sheath around his swollen cock, and the little gasping sounds he could draw from her with the staccato, sharp rhythm of his thrusts. Yes.

He began to withdraw further on the thrusts, deepening the sweet friction and watching as she arched wantonly underneath him, incoherent begging noises escaping her kiss-swollen lips in response to each lunge, her legs clamping desperately around his buttocks. God she felt good. Looked good. Delicious. He could feel the haze of mating lust beginning to thicken in his blood, clouding his mind as the wolf in him began to rise to the surface.

She moaned on an increasing crescendo with each thrust, mating scent thickening, and abruptly he slammed himself hard, deep, and felt a surge of exultation as she arched into a full bow on a low, half-screamed cry, her full breasts thrusting up to him and her tight passage convulsing again. Sweet, sweet, glorious. Again. 

The heat, the glorious intense pleasure of her response clouded his mind and he began to thrust harder, repeating again, again, pounding, faster, the slick, sleek walls of her around him and the shudder, the soft, driven cries, the shine of her skin in the soft light, the scent of her wet warmth under him. Perfect. Perfect. Then more - no - more. 

Mac began to snarl as his eyes shimmered and he struggled against the rope around his wrists, fighting the binding even as he quickened the hard, driving slap of his hips against her. The cord through the beam snapped, and he braced himself to drive at a better angle, but he couldn't twist his wrists free, and it was driving him insane, driving him to pound, surge, hammer his need down into the girl in an impossibly hard, fast pace. He couldn't bear the block, the barrier between them and tore at the bindings.

She screamed in pleasure and arched against him again, tightening the grip of her legs around him, slick pussy milking around his cock, and he thrust through the tight, rippling passage, delighted, unbearably stimulated as he felt the slow burn of his seed begin to tingle down his back. Still fighting, fighting, ripping at his wrists with his teeth to free the wolf before - before - the feel of himself gliding inside her in the inexorable rhythm heightened, heightened, forced tight the shuddering demands of his wolf. There. There. More. Harder. His. Now. Every muscle was tightening, burning with each pounding thrust as he rode harder on a cresting wave of frustration, fire building, simmering down his spine, driving him deeper, deeper, driving through exquisite, bittersweet incompleteness.

She moaned, begging wordlessly as she arched in another fluid explosion under him, and he bent to bite her lower lip possessively, sucking the swollen nick in a healing kiss. His. But he couldn't -. He ripped again at the damned unyielding Argen, tilting his hips and grinding her harder as his balls tightened and threatened to burst with each forceful slam of his full, deep length into her, feeling her inner muscles rippling, tightening unbearably about his cock again, again. His. 

He could feel the explosion building as he lost himself in having her, her scent, the staccato, sweet, grunting little cries forced from her each time he penetrated. He was snarling his frustration with each slamming thrust as her cries echoed around him, could feel every single muscle in his body locking down to explode, ready, nearly, indescribably, mercilessly.

There.

White lightening shot down his spine and he reared back, groaning in ecstasy as he exploded, grinding himself into her, shuddering as he spurted stream after stream of his seed into her convulsing passage.





Gemma was curled up on Mac's chest, half on her side, surfacing slowly, leisurely. Happily. His left arm was cradling her against him, holding her cushioned from the cool concrete, and his other curled over her hips and stomach, holding her tucked in against him. Slowly her mind slid back into focus under the brush of his thumb against her shoulder, and she turned her head to kiss the pad of that roving thumb.

Bliss. Oh. Wow. Again. Aching. Aching. Tender. But ohhh it felt good. Damn good. Indescribable.

"Are you OK?" his voice sounded impossibly deep, his chest vibrating under her head as she teased the short hairs of his forearm with her fingertips. Her own voice was stuck somewhere in beneath her breastbone. She considered the question a bit stupid. OK? Hah. Feeble description. 

Her brain also seemed to be lost in a daze, on a very very slow feedback loop. 

"Gem?" he sounded a little concerned, which bothered her.

Give me a bit longer. 

"Gemma?"

She lazily curved her head back and kissed his jaw, nuzzling gently, contentedly. Why did he want to talk? This was so good. Amazing. Fantastic. 

Couldn't he read how good she felt in her boneless sprawl across him, nibbling his neck?

"Gemma." He lifted himself up slightly, tilting her head back so that he could look into her expression, and then sighed at the dreamy, dazed look in her eyes.

"I got pretty - uncontrolled, there. Demanding. Brutal. Are you ok?"

Oh she loved the fact that she could make him lose control. Loved it. But brutal wasn't right and ok didn't even begin to cover the smallest corner of it - demanding was just - wow. Better and better. Mmm hmm. Bliss - just. Mmmm. 

She could feel the big, stupid grin covering her face and bent down to kiss his throat again, curling her fingers around the muscles on his upper arms.

"Is that a yes?" the teasing note was back, and he relaxed slightly underneath her slight frame. She nodded emphatically and lifted her head up to his lips for a long, long kiss. Soft, sweet, perfect. He relaxed fully and snuggled her back against him.

"Wow - so this is how I shut you up, picchu." 

She nipped the skin on his chest and he sighed and tugged her head back up for another kiss, cuddling her close. 

A long, long, beautiful pause.

Then slowly, filtering into the haze, Gemma thought she recognised - what was the scent teasing her nostrils - that tangy, tingly smell - the smell of -. Suddenly, she sat bolt upright, or would have if the arm around her had moved. As it was, she just heaved against it, and subsided into that comforting embrace with a frustrated yip.

Dammit.

The scent was blood. His.

Uh.

She tried to say something. But even the grunt hadn't made it to the surface. Purring seemed to be the only verbal option, and it wasn't exactly going to get the right message across. 

Say something.

This was harder than it should be. She managed a contented sigh of "nngh", and could feel him exuding smugness as she struggled to become more coherent. And also to break free. No chance.

Get a grip.

"Let me up," her voice was hoarse, only a whisper, but she eventually managed to force out enough air past the cloud of peaceful bliss smothering her insides. 

"I like you fine where you are," he responded lazily. His voice was sated, a quiet purr of satisfaction, as his fingers traced back along her collarbone, mouth nuzzling down the side of her neck.

Gemma felt herself relaxing back into his calm, heart easing under the gentle glide of his fingertips.

Oh no you don't. 

"You're hurt." It was easier to squeak the second time.

Silence. She could feel him ignoring her as he brushed kissed over her skin.

"Mac." She struggled against his arm, but it was as futile as ever. And she was fighting both of them. She so wanted to just lie here, but that scent was also unsettling her. She didn't want him hurt - what if his wound had torn open?

"Mac!"

A shimmer of tease to his voice as he eventually replied, huskily, "It was worth it." 

Gemma muttered something rude under her breath into his shoulder, the words 'stupid wolf' somewhere in the phrase. She wished he'd stop repeating ridiculous things she'd said back at her- although in her case she'd been right. 

Then she saw them - deep gashes on his right wrist around the shred of torn cord, where his teeth had torn into the flesh. Fuming, she slid her fingers to the knot and began to work at it in silence, but even as she picked as it, she saw that the wounds were slowly closing over. Mac's nose snuffled against her neck and he nibbled little kisses over her pulse point, making her shudder. 

"Stop trying to distract me," she muttered tersely, annoyed that he was hurt - he had said it wouldn't, and just look at his damn wrists now - she'd never have agreed if she's known. Who was she kidding? It was hard getting her fingers to work; like the rest of her, they just wanted to melt back into a soft puddle of sated contentment, curled up against him. And he was encouraging that attitude. Angrily, she threw aside the broken half of the cord.

Her breath jerked as, suddenly, they were lying on his left side, a mirror pose to before, and his right fingers were beginning to explore the valley between her breasts even before the vertigo from his swift roll caught up with her head. Damn he moved fast. He was also still distracting her. Quite successfully.

"So what is Argen?" she asked as she began to work on the second knot. This one had been yanked really, really tight. A small smile played on her lips, smug, slightly twisted. OK - worth it - from her point of view maybe. Well, definitely. Absolutely. Irrefutably. If you remember -. Shut up and work on that knot. Oh. Yes.

"A silver alloy," his voice calling her back was a lazy thread of sound, breath whispering over her skin as he snuggled around her. "This isn't true Argen - we lost the ability to make it centuries back, in the dark ages - this is just a rough copy, as close as anyone can make it now. The last real Argen was destroyed long ago."

Gemma digested that slowly. "So silver itself isn't the real problem for wolves?"

She felt a ghost of a shiver through the powerful frame supporting her. 




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 04



"Silver is total poison. The spear was silver etched - hence the chemo - our doctor's still leaching it out of me daily, it's hard to eradicate. But the body recognises it as poison, and goes into overdrive trying to get rid of it, or contain it. That's why the cold skin of my scar, Gem - the body creates a barrier around it."

She shivered in sympathy. So that was why that wound was still visible, when these on his wrists were already fading. He must have to open it every day to drain the poison - eugh. "Chemo?" she queried.

"Some poly that absorbs the silver. It's almost done, I'll be healed soon, and not so feeble" he rolled them onto his side and hugged her, nuzzling the back of her neck, nibbling at the sensitive skin over his old bite.

Feeble??!!??

Damn, he was really managing to distract her now. She had to somehow -. Um. Say something. Sometime. Something. Anyth...

Much later, she recalled their conversation, and began to work on the knot again.

"Then Argen's not as bad as silver?" Her voice was a squeak again. Why couldn't she go sexily husky when breathless?.

"Argen -." he halted, and she could feel him tense into sudden stillness. Maybe she should leave this subject. His breath stopped entirely and she could feel him frozen, thinking, heart beating furiously and a flush of increased heat shimmering along his flesh. The hard, tight knot under her fingers finally gave way - and she began to carefully unwrap his healing wrist. He began to breathe again as she lifted off the cord.

"Gemma - do you know someone called Elaine Singleman?" A breath of gentle query. Incongruous. Unexpected. Exasperating change of subject.

What?

"What?"

"Do you know some-"

"Of course I know Professor Singleman, she's written half the papers on metals-." 

"My people found out - it was her - I refused to bite her, so Nick set us up instead," the wolf curled around her murmured quietly over her sharp reply.

"-harvesting, but what on earth -?"

She broke off abruptly. Metals. Her own field. Gemma's heart started to pound, slowly, hard against her ribs. Nick carried a strip of this false Argen in his pocket, which could bring down an Alpha in pursuit; Nick had wanted Mac to bite a metals specialist. And then to bite her himself. Mac had warned her before that a new werewolf found it almost impossible to disobey - the relentless pursuit was beginning to make some sense now. A tremor began deep within her. Mac's heart, in contrast, was slowing back to peace.

They lay entwined together, the thoughts almost tangible, twisting in the air around them. Gemma was shivering despite his warmth, and Mac curled her closer in against his large, comforting form, brushing his fingers soothingly over her skin. He felt satisfied - now he knew why Nick was being so persistent in stalking Gemma. He could protect her. No worries. 

He ignored the small voice inside himself querying why he was so pleased that he should have to keep this little human close.

"Argen," he began again on a soft rumble of sound, "even the feeble version you hold there, is a forbidden substance to wolves. Because it is a poison that the body does not recognise. A silent killer. We almost wiped ourselves out using true Argen in chemical warfare back in the Fire Wars. Since then it has been forbidden to possess any form of silver or alloy."

Poison.

But...

Another shudder rippled through Gemma's slight frame - this time of fury. "So why the hell did you let me tie it around you?!" she hissed, incensed.

"It-."

"And don't you dare say it was worth it," she snapped out.

He tucked her in tighter against him, a chuckle vibrating through his chest. "You and intimidating don't really fit into the same space, picchu." He dropped another kiss on her hair, which she failed signally to avoid. As she wasn't going anywhere. "And it was worth it - oh, most absolutely, definitely, indescribably worth it." His voice dropped deeper, growing slightly hoarse on the last phrase and Gemma's blood pulsed sweetly through her veins, stopping her breath. Damn.

Bad wolf.

The chuckle ran more strongly this time, and he engulfed her in his large figure, encircling her as he tightened his embrace to a full bear hug - a wolf hug- murmuring ticklish breath in her ear, laughter reverberating through his voice, "What did you call me?"

Damn. Said that aloud.

A whisper of a chuckle in her ear, "Who's afraid of the big bad wolf?"

A flash of memory - Nick's glittering, feral eyes as he glared hatred at her - and Gemma shuddered deeply, feeling the arms around her tighten almost unbearably.

They lay still for a moment, then his voice was sombre, heavy with promise. "I'll protect you from him, picchu - take a week off and I'll take you up to the Range. You'll heal fully in a week."

Overprotective. She could get used to it. Overly autocratic?

Gemma lifted her head and twisted in his now relaxed arms, to look down into those warm, welcoming green eyes.

"Say please," she challenged.

There was a short pause as they stared at each other, eyes smiling. Then his narrowed, and little bubbles of black fire rose to shimmer in the green irises as his lips twisted in a slow, dangerous smile. Gemma's breath caught, as he tangled his fingers in her hair, gently pulling her lips back down to his.

"Bet you say it first."

Oops.





Half an hour later, dry-mouthed and dreamy, Gemma was again lying in a boneless huddle on the floor, watching Mac. She didn't want to blink. He was smoothly, casually, pulling up those soft jeans and the material slid seductively, slowly up the rough-haired, taut planes of his thighs, strong muscles rippling in the light while he shifted weight from leg to leg. Abruptly he stiffened, lifted his head and tilted it, focus elsewhere, as a frown crossed his features. Then, before she could blink, he had bent, swiftly grabbed up his shirt and a couple of other scraps from the floor, and was out the door, buttoning up his trousers as he barked over his shoulder, "Stay here."

What now? She rolled over face down on the floor with a sigh. Bossyboots.

Gemma lingered as long as she could, enjoying the weightless sense of bliss floating in her limbs again, savouring the remainder of her recovery - he really didn't play fair, but he had said please himself in the end too. And she wasn't averse to spending a week with him at this Range. A small smile curved her lips.

Eventually, she began to get cold, and slowly, reluctantly slithered back into her own clothes. They were remarkably in tact. But she wrinkled her nose. Boy did she need a shower. There were showers in the basement.

Mac still hadn't reappeared. 

She worked out the tangles in her long dark hair as best she could with her fingers, then tiptoed over to the door, pleasantly aching, and listened. 

Nothing. 

It was beginning to get faintly unsettling. And irritating. She cracked the door open a little and listened again. There was a murmur of distant voices, rising and falling in heated discussion, away down the stairs, and she crept closer to the stairwell, listening intently for the cultured vowels of the grey wolf. Sometimes she caught the echo of Mac's voice, low, responding with a calm phrase to the accusatory tones of the others. No-one else she recognised.

Gemma hesitated at the top of the steps, but her blood was shimmering a call, left-over from their play, and she wanted to be down there. Wanted to be with Mac. She also wanted to find out more of what was going on - she could almost catch the words from down here- the tenor was definitely accusatory, but she couldn't make out anything clearly. She needed to know.

Her socks made no sound on the stairs as she crept downward, boots in hand, ready to swing them if necessary. An increasing crescendo of angry noise covered her approach as the rumble of voices grew more bitter, staccato. Then she turned the bottom corner towards the door at the base of the stairwell and abruptly the stormy words were clear.

"... further action? How is that possible when some of Tzo's have been caught using this stuff, and now we find you in Marsh territory with a whole -," the sharp male voice cut off abruptly, and Gemma froze, caught, as the door below her whooshed open and the stairwell light flashed on, illuminating her stricken face. A tall, dark, clean-shaven, craggy man of around 50, dressed in a pair of jeans and a loose ski-jacket over a rugged shirt, stood in the doorway, smiling up at her reassuringly.

"Oh, hi, honey. Sorry if we alarmed you, we didn't realise there was anyone still in the building. We're here for the conference and were just looking around with Dr. Mayn-." Abruptly, he cut off the smooth explanation, eyes zeroing in on the mottling on her neck as he sniffed the air loudly. Gemma managed not to squeak as the next second he was beside her, and a warm, immovable clasp had closed around her forearm. He had leaped up over the banister railing before she had a chance to blink -moving with the same graceful, powerful fluency as Mac.

"Satan," he swore, and then as she blinked again, her other arm was also clamped in a hold, the cool air rushed past and she was placed gently on her feet in the entrance-way, beside a tense circle of seeming humans. "Look what I found," the male holding her added. 

There were four other people in the hall besides Mac, Gemma, and her escort, all facing her old flatmate with various levels of aggression in their stances. The older woman in the centre was sleek, tall, and blonde, standing relaxed, a cold glint in her cornflower blue eyes and a faint look of amusement on her beautifully preserved face as she tapped the fingers of her left hand on her cheek, eyeing Mac. 

Antagonism reverberated off the heavily-built 30-ish platinum-haired male to the woman's left, fury shooting from his wide-set eyes as he glared at Gemma's former flatmate. The gangly young redhead had a faint frown of worry on his face, hands pushed deep into his jeans pockets, shoulders hunched as he started at the floor, pondering over some problem. And the short, wiry man opposite her - Gemma was shocked as she met the hard black sparkle in the eyes of the associate professor, Dr. Maynard. He sighed deeply, sadly, as she was put down among them, and the others all focussed abruptly on her. Or more specifically, on her neck.

There was a reverberating silence, and Gemma felt a chill spreading throughout the room, as slowly the tension level increased. Her eyes shot across to Mac's, and he smiled a rueful little smile at her, rolling his eyes in reassurance. Gemma relaxed slightly at his air of unconcern. 

The woman murmured, a bite of cool amusement in her refined tones, "I believe that you were instrumental in passing the recent amendments to the Human Relations Act, were you not, MacKeld?" An infinitesimal pause. And sarcasm dripped from the smooth tones, "You do happen to recall the current penalty for biting one?"

The muscled platinum-man snorted, a cold gleam of satisfaction in his eyes as he flexed his fingers, cracking the knuckle joints, "The irony - fighting so hard to bring in another law that will demand your own death." His accent was hard to place, clipped consonants and long vowels.

Death? Gemma froze incredulously, eyes leaping back to Mac's, but he was coldly holding the antagonistic glare of the platinum blond guy. There was an unspoken battle going on in this room, she could feel her skin tightening in goosebumps and began to shiver, reacting involuntarily to the aggressive power shimmering through the air.

"For turning or savaging, not biting," corrected the redhead casually, although his frown hadn't lightened, and he was now scowling at Mac.

"And we mustn't jump to conclusions - why would MacKeld do something so irrational?" the man holding her murmured.

"That is his seedscent on her," Platinum Muscles stated baldly, viciously. "The bite has obviously reacted. So he tried to cure her but failed - the risk is still there, increasing, and the wound is days old, not fully healed, so the human may develop into-."

"Not yet," interjected Mac coolly, "But it's already better than yesterday."

Silence reverberated in the wake of his words, and the chill in the room deepened, a strong echo of repugnance and disapproval shimmering around the circle. A blur of movement she couldn't catch, and abruptly Mac was in front of her, Platinum Man glowering aggressively at him from inches in front of his face.

"Why the hell didn't you heal it immediately?" snapped the redhead, clearly frustrated at the stupidity of Mac's behaviour. Gemma wasn't clear whether the 'it' was referring to her or her wound. Wolf manners were really beginning to grate on her nerves. It would help if the feelings bouncing around the room weren't making her skin tingle with tension.

"I couldn't," responded Mac, a faint edge starting to stain his words. "I will explain to the council. If you are going to arrest me, then would you please make sure the human gets back to Macintyre, Johnson. The Grey seems to want her for some reason."

"The Grey? The Grey?" Platinum was spitting rage into Mac's face, "Always your petty, senseless, pack feud - why would The Grey bother with a simple little human, MacKeld?" He gestured wildly over Mac's shoulder, drew himself up and sneered, "There is no reason to it, this is just the MacKeld throwing blame at the Grey as part of the usual bickering between your people."

"I have no idea why Nicolas wants her," replied Mac tautly, his eyes glaring into the glittering black ones facing him. He straightened and seemed to expand in silent power in response to the aggression facing him. "But until she is clear of my shiele she is to some extent my responsib-."

Is that al-?

"Oh come off it, Ulf. She's an analytical chemist." Dr. Maynard's exasperated tones cut across the room, "Metals recovery specialist. You stand there beside that handful of semi-pure Argen and tell me you can see no reason why The Grey would want to collect her?" 

His words were like an electric shock through the entire group.

Mac stiffened, shooting the lecturer a look of incredulous, angry frustration, and the tension in the circle around him suddenly pulsed, a rumble of thunder echoing deafeningly around the room as snarls erupted from the throats of all the males. The air shimmered with rage, someone was biting out words of a challenge as the dark-haired wolf holding Gemma pushed her aside and abruptly faced off against Mac with the platinum and the growling redhead. "So you may have your own reasons for turning her also, MacKeld?" 

Dr Maynard moved up to stand behind Mac's shoulder, looking troubled, realising belatedly the double edge of his pronouncement. Mac was quivering as he held back his own feelings, glaring at his accusers through a slit in his eyes as he held steady, lip lifting slightly in a quiver as he retorted coldly, "I will answer to the council. Or were you planning to kill me here, untried, Caspar?" 

Gemma could feel the leashed power in the frame quivering in front of her, more reverberating off the trio facing him, and had to fight an urge to back away. If this did erupt fully into a fight...

"Caught with Argen and intending to turn a human alchemist- you're already dead, MacKeld," hissed the aggressive platinum blond, shuddering with the desire to rip into his opponent.

"Ulf, -," Dr Maynard began to address Mac, but was drowned out as the redhead snarled in his turn, "What the hell are you up to, Mac?"

"I will answer to the council." Mac's voice was deepening on a growl.

"Why waste their resources in wartime, when you're caught red-handed?" Deep within the platinum one's eyes the eerie, angry glitter was beginning to shine, and his form was shimmering, dark fur starting to erupt along his body. Gemma felt cold beginning to spread out from her stomach.

Mac also began to shimmer involuntarily as he snarled back, "Aster Alpha killing Aster untried? Can you not see any underlying reason why you might all have been lured here tonight, Vanilchov?"

"I can," cut in the sleek female in chill tones, abruptly cooling the fire in the room, "And I think you both forget where you are." The front door beeped open and a horde of people began to prowl in, cautiously taking up vigilant positions all around the room, encircling the antagonists, who carefully, slowly, lowered their hackles, the platinum alpha continuing to glare.

The cool woman's voice continued. "Marsh pack will take care of your human until this is resolved, MacKeld. One way or another." Gemma did not care for the hollow echo in that second phrase, or the way Mac stiffened in front of her, and lifted his head regally to glare broodingly past the woman's shoulder. "But even if it does heal, I will be fascinated to hear you present your feeble defence as to how you come to be running around with illegal weaponry." While she spoke, the elegant, slender woman picked the light grey cord out of Mac's palm and twisted it between her fingers, shivering slightly as she ran a finger along the smooth surface. "I can scent no hint of the Grey anywhere here."

Mac was standing straight, looking past the poised, curvaceous figure out into the darkness through the windows by the doorway. He distained to answer, and the woman's tone took on an additional bite.

"Or does this include your fairy story about his being able to mask his scent? That tale has already been tested, and laughed down several times - as with the kidnap, the holding, the circling. Why do you persist -."

Gemma had had enough of this.

"Some of Nick's - fluid - is on my left knee," she interrupted abruptly.

A jolt ran through Mac and his fingers flexed into claws, but he stilled again, breathing slightly more deeply as he now glared at the floor, a muscle working in his jaw.

The sleek blonde stared haughtily past him at Gemma, who held her unnerving gaze and looked back. Not challenging, just meeting that cold gaze.

"What fluid do you-."

Gemma was damned sure that the woman could guess, that she just wanted Gemma to have to announce it, and she interrupted for a second time, "And his clothing is stuffed in with the rubbish in the common room here -." She gestured with a hand at the door opposite the police-tape cordoned lab entrance.

"We can smell what happened here, human," cold sarcasm dripped through every word, "We don't need your feeble circumstantial ways of figuring out what went on." The woman was now coldly glaring at her, but Gemma refused to back down.

"Then how do you account for my miracle leap from the lab to the trees? Nick picked me up in the lab and dropped me out there -."

"You can't even tell the difference between them, can you, manu?" The disdainful tones cut across hers, "Mackeld carried you out to the trees."

"The second time," Gemma retorted angrily. She felt a swift shimmer of something in the air around her, something echoing between the four males staring in a circle around her and Mac, and she tensed uneasily at the tingling feeling it evoked, unconsciously leaning closer to the warm back just in front of her.

Then suddenly the door swung open again and a new figure stepped through it, a tall, tired-looking broad-shouldered male in an elegant tuxedo. The power shimmering in the room seemed to thicken, redounding suffocatingly from figure to figure, and Gemma shivered with the burn of it on her skin. The people posted around the room all bowed to the man entering, and the circle of accusers around Mac, together with Mac himself, also all turned and inclined their heads politely to the newcomer. He nodded back, flicking his rich brown hair out of his eyes and sighed, tapping a finger on his thigh.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 04



"Steve, go and scent survey all the places the human has been, and check out the rubbish as well," the newcomer ordered mildly. One of the males standing near the lab door shot off into the dark.

Those powerful, chocolate brown eyes met Gemma's over Mac's shoulder, and she felt a jolt run down her spine. The newcomer paused, assessing her.

"May I scent your human, Mac?" She blinked and focussed carefully on the soft cotton covering the impossibly tense, muscled back only inches in front of her face. That request felt way too dangerous for some reason.

Mac sighed softly, trying, but not succeeding, to relax, "Please ask Gemma yourself, Marsh." 

Gemma shivered as she met those warm brown eyes again while he rephrased the question, and tried to swallow down the tension locking her throat as she nodded.

"Jon-," the blonde woman began to complain, but was cut off by a gentle shushing gesture from Marsh's hand as he stepped over beside Mac and smoothly dropped onto one knee, bending his head down towards Gemma's leg. She focussed hard on the slight quiver to Mac's frame as she felt her jean leg peeled back to above the knee, then the brush of breath against her kneecap, and heard the long intake of air from the male kneeling, scenting her skin. There was an uneasy tingling up her spine, and she could feel the tiny hairs on her arms and back of her neck lifting as a strong urge to run, to just break away and go, rose within her.

She closed her eyes to fight what she knew was a very bad idea, then heard the voice of the Marsh alpha above her head again, an almost silent murmur, "I see why you missed it - but I thought I taught you better than to let anyone else scent your own, Ulf." Her eyes flashed open with a startled question, but the Marsh was looking sombrely at Mac, speaking aloud, formally, now. "MacKeld. I am here to take you into custody at Himleshy, pending trial for possession of chemical weapons and human endangerment. If you could let your second know."

Those powerful, warm eyes turned back on Gemma and she shivered. He paused. "Yet the girl claims that the Argen is Nick's - interesting. If she remains human, and her claim is proven, then there may be no call to answer." He held out his hand and the woman relinquished the short length of chord. He examined it closely, turning back to the door, murmuring, "But masking scent? - impossible, incredible."

A troop of twelve fell into formation around Mac as he stepped calmly after the brown-eyed leader, turning his head back to Gemma. She met his eyes, a beseeching question in her own, fear shimmering in their depths, and his deep green gaze warmed her, soothed her as he crooked a faint smile, mouthing, 'Don't worry'. Gemma could sense their audience watching curiously. Was that good or bad?

"Keep the human secure, Louise," called the leader as he stepped back out into the night. "I have a feeling she will be needed." Gemma felt a cool clasp close around her wrist and looked up into the blue eyes of the sleek female, eyes that were seething with disgust and anger.

"A human houseguest. Possibly a were. How delightful."









Sorry about the delay - a bereavement.

Thanks for the votes and comments!



Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 05



Gemma hugged her arms around her knees and gazed out of the tall, deep window across the broad valley to the sun sinking beyond the mountains. A beautiful, tranquil scene that should have calmed her inner tension. Her wool-clad toes were tucked in close on the soft cushion of the window seat - it was cold up here in the mountains with the window open, but less oppressive having the gentle breeze curling around her, shielding her from the cloying opulence of the suite.

After annoying her for three days, her guards had finally stopped coming in to stare disapprovingly every time she touched the window catch. What did they think she was going to do, jump? she thought broodingly. Then shivered lightly. The view was breathtaking in more than one way; the first time she had looked down, her stomach had lurched sickeningly and head had begun to swim, and that had been with the window closed. On that first day, when she had still been overawed, amazed at being transported into a palatial, elegant suite in a Bond-villain mountain-crag fortress.

Three days later, her main feeling was irritated boredom. The sleek madam – Louise – had even taken her phone from her that first night. "For security," Madam had explained smoothly as she deftly extracted it with a sweet, false smile – and without permission – from Gemma's shoulder bag, before waving her involuntary, unwanted guest into the suite and leaving with a brief, "Ask the men for anything you need," tossed dismissively over one silk-clad shoulder.

That was the last Gemma had seen of her, thankfully. The silence in the back of the car on the way down had been glacial, Madam staring out into the night, and Gemma wondering what on earth had happened to her normal life, where Mac was, and what was nigglingly weird about the car they were riding in - although the vehicle suited Madam. Plush, silent and sneeringly superior. The cubs had since filled her in - apparently Madam -Gemma always drawled the title sarcastically inside her own head - hadn't appreciated Gemma introducing her to the novel experience of having a mere girl - a human - argue with her. In front of four alphas, Dr. Maynard and half the senior pack members, no less. And then Marsh himself had listened to what the girl said! The cubs couldn't hide their glee. And Madam hadn't even attempted to hide her acute, violent dislike.

Gemma wrinkled her short nose.

Mutual.

The men weren't much better. The guards. Most of the time they just rooted themselves in the knee-deep carpet in the corridor outside the door to the suite, and ignored her varied polite and less polite requests to let her out to explore. She had sensed their pleasure at the futility of her physical, furious attempts to get out – it had been like trying to squeeze between two warm, immovable rocks, or a rock and the door jam, and their warmth had made her hairs stand on end and an uneasy churning sensation pool in her stomach, making her back off abruptly.

They did fetch on demand, as Madam had stated – that's what the guards called her, "Madam Louise," or, "Madam Marsh," and Gemma had spent a bad-tempered, bored period yesterday afternoon thinking up the most bizarre and pointless fetch-errands she could inflict on them. A Frisbee. Strawberries and champagne. Ten orchids. A zebra. Her favourite DVDs. Fish and chips. Chocolate and ice cream. A piano. A Picasso. Ostrich steak (she'd never had it – Gemma thought she may as well make use of this). Her old teddy polar bear from home. A BlackBerry. One of them silently stalked off after each request, or merely stated after a brief pause, "I'm afraid Madam would prefer you not to risk your security with that, Dr. Smith."

She got the piano though, to her amazement.

She hadn't really thought she'd get a BlackBerry. But when the dark haired one had returned with her fluffy old toy, BigWhite, she'd dried up and retreated, unnerved, to her favourite seat. This one, here in the window. How the hell had they gotten into her flat?

She didn't want to know.

"Anything more, Dr. Smith?" the craggy one had drawled sarcastically after her as she'd retreated.

Gemma wrinkled her nose again. No way were those surly hulks allowed to call her 'Gemma'. Especially not when she needed anything to keep them at a distance. To keep her cool. Her courage. Her distain. Every day. Every morning.

Every morning they checked her neck.

It was unnerving, unsettling, the worst part of the day. They came in a pair each time – for protection against her contaminating human presence, it felt like, in the increasingly tense unease. They requested gruffly that she stand in the middle of the living room, loosen and fold down her collar, and let them, in turn, scent the fading mottling. Their breath against the tender spot made her skin writhe and tension clench in her stomach. She could feel the tautness of dislike oozing off them also, the shudder of their skin as they sniffed, the wrinkle of their noses, and the hardness in their eyes as they had to bring themselves to approach. And they shimmered with increasing antipathy and disappointment each day as the colour slowly faded - she could tell that they wanted her to get worse, wanted Mac tried and convicted.

Dogs.

She hated them for that. Her skin was so tight, tense even at the thought of the impending inspection tomorrow – made worse after another long, lurid night of Mac visiting her dreams and whispering to her skin what he'd like to do to her in that damned massive four poster in the luxurious bedroom, rolling her under him, pressing her down into the soft mattress. She knew they could smell it on her – the heat from the dreams. Eugh.

Damn him. Damn she missed his touch. Missed it more every day.

She used the opportunity, their enforced interaction, to question the guards – it was also a useful distraction from the revolting, real reason they were there. But they never said any more than they absolutely had to, never answered her questions about Mac or the trial, infuriatingly, which was why she'd ended up playing that stupid fetch game with them like the dogs they were. They liked keeping her in the dark. Madam liked it.

Luckily, Mac didn't.

Here it came.

Silently, twirling on the breeze, lowered on the spindly, almost invisible fishing line, today's offering spun gently into sight. She grasped the line, tugged lightly, and it stopped. Swiftly, sparkling with pleasure, Gemma unclipped it from the karabiner on the end of the line, hooked in place her own reply, and then tugged twice, gently. She breathed more easily as she watched the little packet disappear silently back up the cliff face. The guards came in at any moment and she really did not want to get the kids into trouble. They were so proud of themselves for working this out. Even if they couldn't get her a replacement mobile phone, which would've been a damn sight easier. Apparently wolves didn't use cell phones much, and they had no chance to buy one, especially without any of the Marsh wolves noticing. 

A small smile was playing around her mouth. Megan, the youngest of the trio, had explained in her first note. Mac knew why Madam Marsh had taken Gemma's phone, but he'd wanted to check that she was OK himself, not rely on the reports, so he'd set up this relay with the MacKeld trainees at Marshmont.

There were three of them, up there in the dusk, perched on the wall of the roof terrace, the two boys hanging onto the legs and waistband of Megan so that she could lean out far enough to get the fishing line lowered past the rocky outcrop above this window.

They loved doing this, the excitement was evident in their scrawled messages – and the pride, the pride that the Alpha had given them this assignment, trusted them to work out how to get a message to Gemma. Which they had. He'd been right.

Today's package held four notes. The one dictated from Mac she saved until last. James, the eldest of them, had drawn her a meticulous, detailed map of the fourth floor – the floor below – to go with the one sent yesterday of this floor, with the position of her suite. She'd explained in her first note how frustrating she found it, seeing only these four rooms when she'd been dazzled by the bewitching array of lights shimmering down from above as the car purred its way up the valley on the night of her arrival. So he'd decided to map the place for her. 

Kyle drew people, mainly pictures of her guards, there was one today of the two hulks who'd been outside her door at midday – he didn't have great talent, but she could tell who they were, and appreciated the short notes underneath."Lars – he's a bit irritable, but not bad. Teaches us restraint." "Mike – he works in the North quad usually, but I've never seen him come in empty handed, he can run like the wind." Kyle's notes left a lot of questions, but apparently all of her guards to date – they rotated three pairs during the day, and someone new had been substituted in yesterday – all were high-ranking and awesome and seemed to be snappy about being dragged in to guard a human.

Megan was the chatty one, explaining all about them, their classes, extra training, the Marshmont and how hard it was to get into the academy here. She reminded Gemma of her cousin Tina's daughter, and her notes had her smile with their joyous enthusiasm for life.

Then there was Mac's.

 "Picchu, please try not to take out your irritation on the guards by making highly skilled warriors run after candy, flowers and teddy bears. It might come back to bite you someday. Although your demanding errands are already legendary and there was some joking around the council that I've obviously gotten you pregnant.

Before you panic, that's impossible.

I've been acquitted of endangering you, as the evidence clearly shows that you are healing. The Argen charge is still open but I've been released on condition that I leave you in Marsh custody and don't come near you. I said some slightly disrespectful things to the council in response to that, and they got snippy and demanded I promise to stay on the Range until you're fully healed or they'd stick me back in a cell. Wish you'd been there to shut me up – you excel at it."

That was it. Her hit for today.

Megan had told her that as kids – cubs – they weren't old enough to distance communicate in words easily, wolves worked more with impressions, feelings, and images sent mind to mind – "conveying", they called it, and the concentration required to receive words was exhausting, requiring a lot more control – they wouldn't be able to exchange words with even their parents at this distance. Only the Alpha, and it took the three of them the whole day, taking turns, to receive that many sentences even from him. 

So a wolf only conveyed in words when he had feelings or images that he didn't wish to share, that were liable to leak through. Gemma had blushed scarlet when she'd read that explanation for why the dictated notes were so short. If Mac had any of the same feelings and images in his mind as cavorted repeatedly through hers whenever she thought of him, then she was damned glad he was sticking to dry words for these kids to write down, even if it left her aching for more and gave them a bit of a headache. And it's not as if he was that reticent! She snorted, blushing again. Pregnant. HAH. She wished she could shut him up.

Her nipples tingled and her mouth watered lightly.

The cubs had been astonished and immensely proud when Mac first spoke to them – they'd only each heard from him once before, mind-to-mind, when he congratulated them on gaining entrance to the Academy. But even then, he'd conveyed in words – their parents said that now, since the start of the third invasion, four years ago when they were only little cubs, the Alpha only ever conveyed in words. With everyone.

Megan's notes also left a lot of questions.

Gemma stroked the short pieces of paper, over and over, as she re-read the notes and studied her new map. Then with a little sigh, she went and hid them with the others, as instructed, in the empty, rinsed shampoo bottle behind the other toiletries in the bathroom cabinet. Scent masking, it was called.

The long night stretched ahead. What wouldn't she do to have the opportunity to shut Mac up.

Again.

And again.

Bedtime. Dammit. Her pulse was racing and she was so, so wet. Maybe a boring tome would cool her thoughts.



Later, much later, Gemma lifted her head and stared at the wall, unfocussed, mind working furiously with the book open on her lap.

Unbelievable.

Impossible.

Unthinkable.

But...

Distantly aware of the cold slowly spreading through her veins, she re-focused on the formula scrawled in the workings box at the chapter end. She'd only started flipping through the old textbook out of sheer boredom. When she'd demanded her own clothes as part of her frustrated game yesterday, the jailers had somehow retrieved the other girl, Anne's, rucksack, together with her own coat and gloves from the lab. No doubt they had thought it was hers. If she hadn't been skulking, unnerved, in her windowseat by the time the hulky one had dropped it in, she might have pointed out his mistake, and would never have found – 

This.

It was a standard chelation chemistry textbook, she assigned it to students herself, and the scribbled workings in the boxes would not have held her interest if she hadn't begun to notice the predominance of silver in each working. In fact, in all workings. And once she'd begun to look, she found that the formulas had little to do with the questions, although someone was developing the knowledge shared in the chapters for their own use. And that use seemed to be -

Unthinkable.

Gemma checked again, feeling the cold dread deep inside her hardening. The moon was glowing softly on the peaks opposite, lengthening the silver shadows, echoing her mood.

Mac had mentioned poly, when talking about the chemo he was taking to rid his body of the residue silver. She had brushed soft fingers over the cold, shiny, stretched skin on his stomach. And the standard polymer for silver cleansing was right here, in these formulas. And...

She was staring at the wall again, shivering as her brain raced through the implications.

Poison.

Here, unless she was very much mistaken, was the painstaking working out of a method of coating silver, sealing it away, hiding it inside another compound. It was meticulous. It was fiendish. The majority of the calculations estimated how much of the coating compound would react with any of the standard cleansing polymer added to the body to eradicate silver. And the reaction would free the additional silver hidden inside. 

So. Gemma found that she was shivering lightly. Was this Argen? True Argen - the silent killer? Or something else entirely? What had Anne been doing with this knowledge?

Here was a poison which hid silver inside it. If you mixed it with a little pure silver – there were calculations as to how much was a good mixture – then any time a wolf tried to cleanse out the visible silver with the standard chemo polymer, more of the hidden silver would be released, making matters worse, not better. Poisoning himself.

There was even a rough table of results of some experimental live tests. Survival rates noted coldly. Gemma wondered briefly, bleakly, who the guinea pigs – the guinea pig wolves – had been. If they had volunteered. Yeah, like Nick's wolf-girl Anne had volunteered for sex. 

Gemma's blood was aching in her taut skin as she lifted her head to stare again at the wall, fingers clenching and unclenching, brain settling into cold certainty.

Anne, chemistry postgrad, had been, however involuntarily, part of Nicolas's pack.

Her heart was pounding hard inside her chest as her conviction deepened.

Mac's stomach was taking longer to heal than it should - the wound from the silvery spear that Nick had driven through him that first night still frozen into his abdomen. She suspected that it had spread, grown larger since she had first bandaged it.

No. No. No. No. No.

Unless she was very much mistaken, Mac was poisoning himself further every time he tried to heal himself. This would be the sixth day.

How much silver did it take to kill a wolf?

How much time?

Cold, cold clenched muscles ached throughout her body. A shiver of fear, and a wrenching-tight knot in her stomach. Memory of warm green eyes, the gentle touch of his lips brushing hers. Gemma flinched away from the idea of the cold wound spreading, spreading, leaching the heat from his skin, his eyes. No. 

She had to get in touch with him.

Now.

Somehow.

After another long, long, pause while her thoughts echoed around her aching skull, Gemma padded through to the bathroom, and pulled out the packet hidden behind the shampoo, riffling through for the maps.

So.

Marsh's office was downstairs, two windows to the right. Or to the left, if you were looking out of your own window, deliberately not focusing on the distant, distant specks of trees marking the base of the cliff.

Gemma felt slightly light headed, divorced, like she was ludicrously part of a fictional children's adventure story as she hauled spare sheets out of the ornate chest at the foot of the bed, and knotted them together. Enough of them to make a long enough rope. With checked and double checked knots.

Not looking down.

Not.

That's long enough now. 

One more for luck.

Thinking resolutely of Mac slowly poisoning himself, Gemma tied her makeshift rope to one of the bedposts, turned her back to the window, and wrapped the ridiculously silky fabric around her arms and across her back for a classic abseil. She leaned against it, testing, in the comfort of her room and took a deep breath.

It held.

Another deep breath.

He's killing himself. You're the only person who can tell him. Stop him.

Gemma shut her bedroom door to pretend she was asleep, and with careful footsteps, backed out of the window, walking slowly down the wall, resolutely only looking at where she carefully placed her feet.

For some reason, the lyrics, "On a rope, on a rope, got me hanging on a rope" were echoing repeatedly in her head with each slow step. She smiled, her heart lightening as she became more adept at moving smoothly, carefully with the sheet-rope– Mac would like the idiotic aptness of the words. Although, actually, it was probably a good job he couldn't see this. He was overprotective anyway, and Gemma wasn't sure that objecting to this activity qualified as "over". Her Dad would also ground her if he could see her now, having made her swear to always act sensibly on the rock before he even took her up that first boulder with her brothers. But this was sensible. In light of the alternative. 

It's worth it.

She smiled softly, wryly, to herself again.

There was a phone on the desk. Hurrah! She could see it through the glass, a beautiful, sleek white model quietly waiting to be used. 

And the next-door window was open.

Stealthily, Gemma edged herself closer, and peeked in.

The decadence of this bedchamber – it definitely wasn't merely a room, it was a chamber – surpassed even the outrageous opulence of her own. It was staggering, the vast, mountainous silk-hung four-poster dwarfing even the looming shadow of the heavy gothic carved wardrobe. Mirrors and beautiful, sumptuous tapestries vied with each other for wall space, and the dark red carpet looked as though it had been planted years ago, sprayed with hairgro, and left to run riot – while the drapes – hmmm, the drapes. Handy.

Gingerly, Gemma reached in and hauled herself behind the fall of heavy, dark red velvet, as silently as she could. She stood, unnerved in the heavy silence of this arrogant, masculine room, and listened carefully, heart hammering.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 05



Nothing. 

Silently, she untied the sheet-rope from her waist and fastened the end to the tie-back behind the curtain, hidden from the room.

Her heart was stuttering. Even as a human, she knew whose room this was. She could practically scent him, sense him in the air. And he scared her. Sent her heart into overdrive and a shimmer of aching tension across her skin, her scalp creeping back towards the window. There was just something so powerful, so predatory sheathed under that smooth exterior. If he found her in his room... She stood frozen, shivering, breaths short and fearful.

Mac.

The thought of her wolf, of the cold, poisonous scar on his stomach, jolted her, and she pulled herself together, cursing herself inwardly to impel movement, before edging carefully out from her hiding place, heading to the door of the empty study.

To the phone.

Luckily, Mac's number was one of those she had memorised – from the old days, when she'd just lusted after him quietly, drooling on her own in her room at their flat. Mmmm.

Happy days. Although there was definitely something to be said for putting thought into action. Like licking – she could never have imagined how damn good he tasted, or how his skin shuddered lightly under her lips... or - Not now, she cursed her stupid, wayward thoughts as the blood began to rush heatedly through her veins. The Wayward Ones, hauled to an abrupt halt in their abandoned, heedless rush into liquid fire memories, looked back at her with melting, reproachful eyes as she folded them up, stuffed them back in a mental drawer and turned the key.

That deep voice'll be whispering in your ear soon anyway, the smug murmur oozed disobediently out from behind the lock, causing her nipples to harden and the ache to tighten in her belly. Shut up.

"Marsh?" Mac's voice was deep, a slight rasp of sleep to the surprised tone as he picked up.

"Mac. It's me, listen." Gemma didn't dare speak above a whisper, hidden crouched in the knee space under the desk.

"What're you doing in Jon's rooms?" Mac's voice shot to an aggressive rumble, hackles audibly rising down the phone. Irritatingly, liquid heat pulsed between Gemma's thighs. He cares! squealed the insatiable corner of her mind. She ignored it, concentrating on why she was here, and fear for him dampened the heat rushing through her.

"I snuck in," she whispered back. "Shut up and listen."

"Gemma, get out of there – you're – you can't be found in his private rooms, he -."

"I know, listen to me," Gemma hissed at him, "They may find me any minute but I had to contact you, had to." She was almost in tears, worry tightening her throat, and abruptly she heard silence on the other end of the line. Then, "Listening, Picchu," he murmured softly. His tone was dangerous, poised, alert.

She explained swiftly into the silence echoing down the phone. His breath became slightly less angry, heavier with every word, while Gemma slowly became miserably aware of how far-fetched, how ludicrous it all sounded. She could feel her own doubts creeping into her tone as she faltered to a halt, and could hear him thinking what to reply through the calm breaths in the silence.

"I had to tell you," she whispered forlornly, "I know it sounds stupid, but I'm so scared, what if it's true?"

"It doesn't sound stupid, Gem," he breathed quietly back. "In fact, it explains a lot."

Her heart clenched – fear and relief, and she leaned silently against the polished hardwood side of the footwell, tears rolling down her cheeks. He really was being poisoned. Maybe. Oh please let him get better.

"Can you tell me the compound? Or actually, Will's just picking up, can you speak to him? - he'll understand better." There was a click and abruptly, another voice, brisk and calm, was on the line and Gemma heard herself reciting her theory again – a woman also cut in occasionally, posing additional questions, asking for clarity, sifting alertly through what Gemma could recall of the complex formulation.

There was a resounding silence after she had told them as much as she could, and promised to write out the formula for the MacKeld cubs as soon as she got back to her room – apparently they'd just been woken up and told to go and get ready to collect it.

"Can you use another treatment?" whispered Gemma. She heard the woman sigh, and then the silence down the line echoed ominously. "Mac, please!"

"Will?" Mac queried softly.

"There's the old method," murmured the male voice, his tones clipped with held-back feelings, "but it was never reported as very reliable, and I've no idea where we'd get hold of half of the ingredients nowadays. I'll look into it."

"I can find something," said Gemma determinedly, "I'll head back to the lab and sort out an alternative that will leach out this Argen, so –."

"This isn't Argen," murmured the woman, worriedly.

"And no way - don't you dare move from Marchmont, Picchu." Mac's voice was deep, harsh. "The Grey is definitely after you, and if he finds out you know this – they already killed Anne."

Gemma's breath stopped in her lungs. "What?" she murmured, sharply, shocked. That poor, prostituted young girl. "But I - I thought she'd be safe as a MacKeld!"

"Ambushed on the way back to the range with Sam – he barely managed to stay on his feet until Mark's squad arrived in answer their SOS, but the girl ..." the growl was rising in his voice, deepening, "She'd had her teeth filed. Torn to pieces. Defenceless."

Gemma gasped softly, a shudder of revulsion, "Why would a wolf do that?"

"For blow jobs," Mac's growl was disgusted, "Some yips wear caps, some idiots grind their teeth to blunt stumps to please their mates," his voice darkened again. "Then some - some I don't think have a choice, but that's an idea so alien to wolf culture that it's unthinkable to most."

Caught in hot memory, Gemma murmured, "So if I were a wolf, I couldn't have -," then suddenly recalled the other two listeners, and flushed scarlet, falling silent.

The silence echoed. Then she heard Mac rumble huskily, "Get off the line, you two." He wasn't talking to Gemma, and she heard the slight ping of a replaced receiver, her heart picking up as his soft breathing deepened. A long sigh sounded in her ear, and her blood tingled.

"Thank-you, Picchu." She had never heard or felt such warm depth of feeling in his voice, and it spread through her, warming her, heating her. He would be alright. She waited, peaceful now, despite her vulnerable position crouched under a desk in a forbidden room half way down a cliff. Some things were unimportant.

"Are you alright?" he murmured in concern.

"I'm worried about you – what's the alternative method?" 

"No idea, Will'll let me know. Don't worry, I won't get any worse now, and we'll find a solution in time – there's no hurry. How are you?"

"Nick wouldn't know I knew, Mac," she pleaded softly, rushing the words out, "If I go and test a few possibilities, he'd have no reason to suspect, no way of knowing I was even there-."

"Gemma," Mac interrupted on a sarcastic drawl, "Nicolas has been after you from the start. Whether he suspects you're on to him or not is pretty irrelevant, I'd say, he'd try and collect whatever. You are not safe elsewhere. Leave it. I'll be fine – William'll sort it. You need to get out of that room, stay safe in your own suite – it won't be much longer now."

"But -."

"Leave it," he growled deeply. "And get going, Gem, you - my blood is seething with the idea that you're in Marsh's rooms, even though I saw him in Himlesky six hours ago and know he'd be hard pressed to be back yet." Gemma relaxed slightly at this piece of information. And the rough feeling in his voice. "Get back to your rooms, Picchu. Jon'll know that you've been there as soon as he gets in, but if he asks, tell him I ordered you to call me. Just don't be there in his rooms - leave now."

Arrogant alpha. There was something very stirring in his vehemence. The heat in his demanding voice melted into her blood – she knew how much she loved the demanding side of Mac. But she wasn't one of his obedient pack. Not going just yet.

Gemma sighed huskily, "Bossy, bossy. You do need me to shut you up. Somehow. Hmmm. Let me think." And she swallowed, audibly, luxuriously, down the phone.

There was a harsh intake of breath. A pause for two heartbeats. Then Mac's voice came, silkily dangerous, down the line, "You really, really do not want to provoke me when you're in such a defenceless position, Gemma. I'm angry enough as it is that I've been forbidden to protect you while you finish healing."

Gemma instantly felt a little ashamed of herself. Although her blood wasn't cooling down, if anything it was simmering to the boil in response to his tone. She sighed again, her nipples hardening back to aching peaks. "I know, I just – I can't behave around you. Please, Mac, say something – um. Something to take to my lonely bed with me." Her cheeks heated to crimson as a pulse of heat surged liquid between her thighs and she whispered, "Please?"

What was wrong with her? Slept with him twice and now she was turning into an insatiable wanton? She never said things like that. Um. Except to Mac. Constantly. 

His voice as he replied was deeper, controlled, soft biting words wreathed in silken heat.

"How about this, Gem. If you don't get off his phone and back to your room in the next fifteen seconds, then when I do get hold of you, I'll tie you to my own goddamn bed and make sure you learn what the consequences of scaring me like this are. And believe me, I'd make sure you were begging, begging me for forgiveness with every breath."

Her heartbeat shot to racing in an instant, and her throat dried as a hot wave of lust pulsed through every fibre of her. She trembled uncontrollably, gulped in a breath, and rasped weakly, "Thanks."

"Ten," he shot back curtly, she could hear his anger deepening again - her blood was singing in response, heat thundering in her veins.

"I wish I could kiss you goodnight," she whispered huskily.

"Four. Dammit, Gemma." Her heart skipped a beat at the soft fury in his tone, but she could hear the tension of worry underneath and murmured softly, "Sorry. I'm gone. G'night Mac." And quickly, co-ordination completely shot, she lurched out of her hiding place to gently, shakily replace the receiver. 

Her breath was heaving and she tried to keep it quiet as she edged back into the bedroom. Hot, hot want was aching between her thighs and she had to bite her lip to keep quiet as she scrambled fumbling back behind the curtain, shuddering. Was she insane? Of all the stupid, idiotic places to beg for phone sex – her cheeks flared again as she began dazedly to knot the sheet end back around her waist.

And she was pretty sure that her final goodnight had pushed her just past the time limit. What if Mac actually did carry out his threat? Oh please, please. Her lips parted and she had to bite hard on her lower lip to halt the moan that rose in her throat. Tied to his bed. Begging. Get a grip, she hissed at herself inwardly. 

Gemma was lightly shuddering as she wrapped the sheet-rope back around herself and eased her overheated frame out into the cool night breeze. It played over her peaked, aching nipples, and she lost a little whimper into the darkness. She hauled herself up to the knot above her head as she edged sideways, scrambling back towards being directly underneath her own bedroom window. Her sweating hands slipped a little and she slid down, the silky sheets twined around her legs, until she was halted by the hard jam of the next knot against her aching, wet slit. A bolt of pure, numbing desire thundered through her and before she knew what had happened, she was in freefall, the adrenaline of terror finally shattering the tangle of lust clouding her mind, her scream smothered by the wrenching jolt of the knot around her waist as she landed on it, knocking the breath out of her. 

Urg. Uh. 

As she swung in a sickening, dizzying arc across the dark and light squares of the windows in the lower floor, Gemma furiously ordered herself to remain silent, regaining her breath, inwardly thanking her Dad for years of practice falls while rock-climbing. Her momentum then began to carry her on in a rising arc, sweeping her past a brief view of soft firelight on warm skin behind a long window– a lot of warm, bare skin, and realisation made her cheeks flare with heat just as she was brought up short, abruptly jerked to a halt when the sheet-rope above her caught on something. Desperately she grabbed at the edge of the next adjacent window to stop herself from swinging back into view as she heard a deep, roughened male voice murmur, "What was that?" 

Heart pounding, Gemma stared, incredulous, at the wide open window she had halted just in front of. If she had swung two feet further, she would have gone splat into the pane like a cartoon character. She bit her lip savagely again as she smothered the insane urge to giggle, her toes settling gently on the small ledge crossing between the two windows just below her feet while she turned her eyes gratefully up to the flagpole above the first window that had saved her from such an ignominious discovery.

Then the urge to laugh left her abruptly as she heard the careless, husky silk of Madam replying, "Hmm. Obviously I need to work a bit harder at keeping your attention."

Damn. 

Damn. Damn. Damn.

Mac really was going to kill her for this. Tie her to his bed. Both windows gave onto Madam's room, and there was no way she could climb up without swinging back past the first. She didn't know what Louise would do if she found here, but didn't really want to find out. Damn Mac for making her so damn fluttery just at the mere hint of his tying her to a bed. You asked. Her blood pulsed longingly again. Oh please. Control yourself, woman. What is wrong with you?

A long, low moan drifted out on the night breeze.

That.

"Your musk smells so divine," the words were interspersed with soft slurping sounds. "Intoxicating, bewitching, and I have never felt you so hard." There was a touch of awe and – irritation? – in Louise's breathless voice, colouring her tone. There was also a strange lisp to her words, as though she was wearing a brace.

"Intoxicating," she repeated, and her voice was muffled on the word, a smothered grunt shutting her off, which was then echoed by the hard, rhythmic breathing of a large, excited male.

Oh-oh. Gemma so did not want to hear this, but she daredn't move, could only quiver, soundlessly, trying to close her ears. And trying to ignore the damn, unwanted tingling of her blood in response to the breathless sounds. A memory of Mac's muscled torso arched in pleasure as she muffled herself around his straining cock shuddered meltingly through her where she stood and Gemma again had to bite hard on her sore lower lip to restrain her whimper. Not NOW.

"What do you expect?" she heard the deep, male voice growl in angry reply. "You have to let us fight it out, Madam."

Louise made a soft, mewling sound, muffled, and a second voice added hoarsely, "Yes, that's it, take it deeper, Madam, relax."

Holy cow, there were two guys in there with her!

And – no way did Gemma want to join them, but the sounds sighing from the room made it even more achingly excruciating that she was stuck here at Marshmont, forced to listen to this. She hadn't seen Mac for days – long, increasingly aching hours. She could practically taste him on her lips. Gemma's tongue snaked out between her teeth, and licked slowly. She wanted him. Burned to touch him. Hear him make those soft grunts of pleasure as she sheathed him in her mouth. Oh please.

"The Alpha is not back yet," the first voice interrupted her spiralling thoughts brusquely, "And the alfamme doft is driving us all crazy as she ripens – you have to let us fight for precedence."

What? a tingle of unease ran up Gemma's spine, and a little rational thought crept back in, halting her gentle rubbing of her peaked nipples against the rough stone. She hadn't even been aware she was doing it, lips parted, dreaming of Mac groaning under her soft bites.

"Deeper, deepest. You love all of this fucking huge monster down your throat, don't you Madam Capped?" growled the second voice, "That's why you make us each inspect her now, while she's coming into blood heat. Scent her." The slapping, slurping gasps increased, tempo picking up as he groaned.

"Oh god, her scent," he groaned again, deeper, "Remnants of the alpha shiele melding into her doft, that intoxicating mix – ." He began to grunt fast, an impossibly rapid rhythm of muffled little cries, punctuated by squelching slaps drifting out to where Gemma clung, frozen, to the wall, the ache in her thighs still infuriatingly strong, despite the clear, cold thoughts congealing in her mind. Aroused and cold and furious.

What? What if -? When was her period? No. No way. No way.

A loud, gagged female shriek suddenly exploded from inside as a deeper grunt joined the slapping noises.

"You want us this fucking hard all the time. This is what you want." The first male was growling, breathing deeply, rhythmically as he punctuated his sentences with further, deeper grunts. "Enjoy it while you can, Madam – i'll give it to you as hard and fast as you want." A second, muffled moan sounded on the air, punctuated by the pounding noises and both males' harsh, heavy breathing. "But tonight or tomorrow, she'll be ripe and then you won't be able to fucking stop us all from fighting for her any more, we'll be on the rut."

There was a shadow of shame in his voice as he continued angrily, breathlessly, pounding, "And you should've let us convey to the Alpha so he could come home and have her. She's not turned - can't protect herself from one of us, let alone the pack. And the doft is already driving us insane."

"Fuck, yeah," groaned the second male, panting feverishly. "I've never felt this – I understand the legends of the female weres now. If they smelt like her..."

No way. No way. No way.

Oh.

Gemma was frozen, shivering, holding herself to the rock even as the infuriating pool of heat in her belly swirled and her blood tingled with unbearable, unprecedented lust. Damn. Damn. Damn. No way.

No.

Gemma tried to pull herself together to formulate a plan, tried to ignore the mental images heating her feverish blood from the sounds in the room, memories of Mac's husky growl, fantasies of being tied to his bed, begging – she just couldn't, couldn't cut it off. Except – NO. She wanted Mac. No-one else. Where the hell was he? This explained why she was so damn horny. So damn, damn horny. And why the guards left that uneasy, aching, quivering irritation in her stomach – getting worse these last two days. No. It couldn't be. She was human, for god's sake.

Mainly. 

What had Mac said? Healed within a week – and that had been three days ago. Her period was due tomorrow. No.

NO.

Damn damn damn.

Trying, trying furiously to ignore the inferno which had ignited inside her at the soft breathless sounds, and the lustful heat in the male voices – heat engendered by her, of wanting her - no - Gemma suddenly became aware of a soft slithering sound and looked up to see a white thing fluttering in the darkness toward her face. She flinched away, then recognised that it was a piece of paper on the end of a rope. In the shimmer of light from Madam's windows, she could read the stark capitals scrawled on it.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 05



OUR ROPE'S BETTER.

Urgently, she looked up and saw three pale circles of faces shining in the soft moonlight, peering down from the window above. Thank god. One handed, she carefully tied the rope around the sheets already knotted to her midriff, and then grinned up at them. She kept her arms stretched wide, holding herself carefully between the windows by the edges as they began to haul her up, gently.

Three sets of hands reached to tug her easily over the windowsill into the echoing emptiness of a peculiarly bare classroom, and she smiled into the anxious, shining eager faces of her young rescuers as she met their eyes in turn in silent, heartfelt thanks. Megan had a finger to her lips. Then abruptly, the eyes of the tallest, James, snapped to jet black, glittering, and he leaped for her and hauled her against him, crushing her body to his as he rubbed a surging erection against the crease of her thighs and tangled his fingers in her hair to tug her head back and jam his lips ineptly against hers.

Frantically, she bit him, trying to break free from his strong, urgent hold, and he growled appreciatively and slid a hand over her arse to press her more firmly against him. Then Kyle got a head lock around his neck, and Megan forced an arm free and Gemma managed to wrench herself out of his hold, shirt tearing in his grasp as the others grappled him to the floor. The cubs rolled in a snarling, fighting heap across the wooden boards as Gemma yanked in all the slack in her sheet rope and scrambled, panicked and unnerved, back out of the window, hauling herself frantically up the rope, scrabbling slantwise to her own, open window.

A loud, desperate whine caused her to glance back and she saw Megan cuff a hard blow to the side of James' head as he hung out of the window, panting after her. The girl barked, "Snap out of it! The A'd kill you," as she shook her packmate.

Heart pounding, Gemma pulled herself back over the sill of her room, adrenaline tingling through her veins and unwanted lust writhing between her thighs. It was true.

Damn.

And the scent of the boy's arousal - eugh. Hot. 

Damn. Eugh.

Her head was fighting her lust. James had smelt - delicious, achingly enticing.

He was fourteen at the most!! Revulsion shot back through her, a sour taste in her mouth.

No way. No way. And no way all those guards hovering panting in the hallway were having her either.

Mac? Why are you so damn far away?

Her skin shuddered and she flinched inwardly, even as her arousal pulsed between her thighs and her blood purred through her veins at the thought of him.

Shit shit shit.

What on earth was going to happen now? She could - just about - still control herself, her lust, with the fury in her head and the revulsion on her skin. But – tonight or tomorrow? – was it going to get worse? - it was already so hard. So damn hard to think - especially when that male scent had been in her nostrils, and James was just a boy, what about the guards? - her mind wouldn't be screaming pervert at her so loudly with them. Her arousal pulsed with a brief, internal image of the hard, chiselled contours of one of her guards. Dammit - eugh. Then memory of the furious glitter in a pair of green-black eyes curled through her and she shuddered, hard, in hot wanton desire. She wanted Mac, and they'd forbidden him to come to her. Dammit, she wanted Mac. Damn them. They were so not going to do this - she was so not going to do this. She was not an unthinking animal.

Poisoned Mac. Her blood cooled at the chill of the thought, and her mind cleared somewhat. She had other stuff to worry about first.

Half an hour later, her hand was aching from the frantic copying – formula for Mac - and she folded the pages and stuffed them unsteadily into an envelope. The line was there, outside the window, and she hooked on the packet, zipped up her fleece and checked the rope for a last time as the flutter of white disappeared soundlessly up the cliff. The synthetic rope the kids had unearthed was much better than her makeshift version, and luckily she'd hauled it after her unthinkingly, swinging from her sheets like a very long tail during her frantic scramble to escape James' hug. Gemma climbed much less cautiously out of the window this time, and began to slide expertly down the rope past layer upon layer of lighted windows.

Below the jut of the vast Marshmont complex, the cliff curved in, then outward to a ledge just wide enough to hold her, trailing back towards the steep, wooded hillside abutting the sheer sandstone face. Gemma checked for a better option, but she was running out of rope, and so gingerly untied the knot and set off edging carefully along the rough surface. Ten minutes later she broke into a loping trot down the rough path through the trees between the road and the cliff. Trying to outrun a wolfpack in the woods - idiocy, but better than waiting in her rooms for them to come and find her. Fuck her. The damned liquid at the join of her thighs was unceasing.

But her blood was up. Damn them. There was something heating about this chase - she wasn't going to let any of them to catch her. Not one of them.

Some hours later, as the weak morning sun began to peer out over the mountains, she limped, hot and panting, down the last foothill towards the base of this damned endless mountain. She could hear the faint rumble of occasional traffic down there, in the trees, and it gave her hope. She peered longingly down at the deep pool to her right- the stream had crossed under the road and the path hours ago, and that was the last drink she'd had. For hours it had splashed enticingly down dangerous, damp precipices to her right, and then, at last -here - it landed in that delicious, accessible giant cup.

She hesitated, and glanced back for the thousandth, millionth time.

A flicker of movement in the distant trees, the glimmer of sunlight glinting on fur, and her heart jolted in fear, in fury. Oh look - she could still run, flat out, precariously down the steep path. Gemma glanced back again at a bend and this time she could see a glint of black eyes, and further back, more rippling fur. She tore a short, strong branch up from the pine floor just before she shot out onto the asphalt of the woods road, and stretched her legs further, faster, away, furious to feel a new surge of tenderness pooling between her thighs. Her damned body didn't want her damaged for lack of lubrication, even if she hated the thought of being caught by one of these panting prowlers. Welcome to the animal kingdom.

They were not going to catch her. Damn Mac. Damn heat.

Sooner than expected, she heard pounding feet and hot breath closing behind her, and spun to face her pursuer, hefting her staff. He slowed to a halt two metres away, and began slowly, meaningfully, to circle her, dark fur ruffled in tension, panting deeply, eyes aflame and intent in every hair. Gemma swallowed, keeping her eyes coldly fixed on his, turning slowly within his boundary to keep pace. 

He was slightly closer now, upwind, and the damn lubrication was pooling between her thighs as his musk drifted down to her. Her damn body knew she couldn't win this, and she felt a shudder of submission in her belly even as her mind snarled no. Then he was downwind, the gleam in his eyes shimmering as his mouth opened and he began to breathe more deeply, drawing her scent into his nostrils, trembling.

Suddenly he spun swiftly on the spot and leapt to meet the attack of a second, smoky wolf who was diving from the trees. The musk of their arousal rolled over Gemma as the pair tumbled past her in a brawling, tearing roll, and she trembled at the fire in her blood. The spike of anger at herself shot through her and she exploded back into a sprint down the road. Dammit, no. She was not a wolf. And whatever she currently was, only Mac was allowed to touch her. Although she was also damned angry with him for making her smell this sexy then leaving her with these rutting dogs. 

By the time she reached the bottom, muscles screaming at her flatout pace, softly pounding feet were closing in swiftly behind her again and she could hear hot, panting breaths. She'd lost her stick in a lurch of unsteady footing, and now just sprinted headlong, despairing, out across the wide road in the early morning sunlight. A screech of tires sounded to her left and she felt a breath of slipstream, heard a startled oath as a deep-voiced motorbike swerved around in front of her and skidded to a halt, just before a heavy weight hit her between her shoulder blades and tumbled her, bruisingly hard, across the metalled surface. Razor sharp teeth closed precisely in her waistband and her jeans were ripped to her knees before Gemma realised. yelled and twisted over, aiming a kick at the dark wolf's nose. He dodged easily and pounced on her again, sticking his nose between her thighs and eagerly snuffling her wet scent as his teeth closed delicately on her panties.

They tore as the wolf spun to dodge a heavy boot aiming at his ribs, howled furiously and gathered himself in a deadly crouch to leap at the burly biker facing him, then abruptly stilled as he saw the handgun aiming between his eyes.

"Don't!" gasped Gemma, rolling to her knees and grabbing the biker's thigh. "He can't help it!" If he felt anything like she did.

"Gotta shoot a rabid mutt, miss. He's crazy."

"He's not rabid, he's -," the biker interrupted her with a screaming yell and dropped the gun as a set of razor-sharp teeth clenched over his wrist, the second, smoky wolf answering the call of a pack member above mating lust. 

Gemma staggered dazedly to her feet as the two wolves, snarling, began to drag the struggling man toward the ditch at the side of the road. "And don't you two hurt him for helping me, either!" she yelled furiously after them. Then she froze as two lust maddened, heated pairs of black eyes turned back to her, glowing. Was she nuts?

Gemma spun and dove for the still-purring bike propped on the kickstand, landing with a moan straddled on her aching, throbbing clit as she kicked into gear and twisted the throttle into a neck-snapping roar of movement off the stand. The leather of the seat behind her ripped under razor claws and hot breath shivered on the back of her neck just as the powerful machine shrieked into speed. Gemma felt the heavy four-legged pillion behind her tumble off as she desperately clamped her hold around the bars and clung on, gasping for air, breathless as she streaked away down the road with tears rolling down her cheeks in the cooling breeze. Her incredulous brain demanded why she had been defending that ravaging beast. But her stomach knew, somewhere in the churning mass of lust, fury and anxiety, that the dark one had been careful not to hurt her. Those teeth had been so precise. Fuck him. Fuck Madam – she was the one behind this setup.

Gemma crouched low over the bike, trembling as she twisted the throttle, faster. Away. Away from them all.

Shit. Shit. Shit. How long did this damned heat last? Two days? Five? More?





Thanks again so much for all the comments, good and bad – especially to Little Pixel for the request for more background description – I always know exactly where they are but yup, guilty, not very good at detailing that, so I've tried harder. And thanks and apologies to Jamac1024, your critique was very clear and helpful – yes, my writing style is disjointed when writing disjointed feelings, which seems to be a lot of the time when writing for Gemma, it's usually Mac's fault. But I've at least tried to finish her sentences this time unless she's interrupted, don't know if that'll help. 

Sorry I can't answer everyone's comments individually, but thanks for all support and feedback! 



Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 05a



The night was sill, calm, the faint shimmer of the moon dim in the sky as the pitch of night faded with the coming dawn. It was still difficult to clearly see any more than the faint outlines of the rolling hills around the hollow where the farm buildings nestled, and the dark shadow standing still as death beside the back door was indiscernible from the night.

Mac waited beside the dark gape of the doorway, motionless, his entire focus directing and channelling his wolves in the almost silent, furious battle going on inside the farm complex. One of the juniors behind him was shuddering slightly in tension, and Mac noted the lapse with the corner of here-and-now awareness that never entirely tuned out. Steady, he shot the order backward silently.

Finally, the awaited image flashed from Debbie, and Mac refocused on the black opening, poised. He seized and lifted the figure that came streaking out of the doorway before it had a chance to see him, then allowed the lycan to scream, as had most of his predecessors, before he silenced him and threw him to the crew behind. The alpha turned silently and slipped off around the building to the kitchen window, his shadows following.

The teeming seethe of images and cries in his mind were whirling, melding, dancing in their ceaseless pattern and he could feel his internal concentration balanced, braced against the melee, pulling in harmony on every fibre of his being to hold steady and sustain his calm, his control and clarity.

Mac directed Graeme over to the front door and himself took down the three lycans who tried to force a breakout through the kitchen, before moving on toward the garage, tightening the pattern of Mackeld warriors fighting inside to force the invaders back down to the ground floor. The mental images conveyed from his pack were melding into a seamless stream - Tzo's troop were making a stand, regrouping in the passageway between the living room and the garage as they didn't dare to break out of the building, knowing that the Mackeld was waiting somewhere in the dark outside.

The had heard what had happened to their packmates when they had attempted to run.

Mac halted his fighters while he conveyed the idea of yielding to the invaders, and got a silent Fuck You in response. Tzo was notoriously not at all lenient on the families of warriors who didn't fight to their last breath; there was no joy in living if your family died for it. Tzo wolves were allowed to retreat but not to surrender.

Live to kill his people another day? -- fuck that. Mac streaked through the garage and led the four poised Mackeld warriors in an abrupt charge down on the remaining eleven enemies braced in the passageway. As he leapt into the melee he could feel the burn of Will and Karl and Rebecca's exasperated fury in his mind, but he ignored the silent censure from his seconds. He had kept mainly out of the battle this far, but he was damned if he was going to send his wolves in against that formation while he hung back. So what if Tzo's fighters noticed that his skin was a bit grey, his frame gaunt, and his reflexes fractionally less fast than they should be. They wouldn't have time to convey anything back to their Alpha- he had the last bunch of them cornered now and was positively enjoying holding their entire focus.

The weak, early morning sun was gleaming on the slate roof of the old farmhouse by the time it had all quietened down. Will was rapidly cleaning and stitching closed a deep gash on Mac's left shoulder, grumbling to himself under his breath while his patient tilted back his stool and leaned tiredly on the mellow pine boards of the kitchen wall. Mac could feel his battle focus gently relaxing, the creeping guilt that always rose afterwards beginning to colour his mind. He tensed slightly as the pounding in his head from holding focus for so long began to bore into his skull, intensifying as he silently acknowledged and disengaged from each pack member in turn, assessing their wellbeing with each brief exchange, hiding his own. Yes, his responses were actually way too slow -- damned silver. He cracked open an eye.

The warm pine kitchen was a shambles, the splintered pieces of the smashed chairs and cupboards had been scraped messily into a corner to make space for the wounded, and the drying blood on the floor was mixed with flour, broken eggs, spilt wine and shards of glass. His wounded wolves were spaced around the walls, the least badly hurt standing quietly, while others occupied the remaining chairs or the long stone settle beside the doorway opposite him. Each was having pieces of shrapnel extracted, or bark antiseptic carefully coated onto various wounds, before the skin closed over and any contamination began to fester. Most were back in human form, slowing their bodies' healing in order to give the pack-mates tending to them more time to work.

However, three of the wounded were still lycan, leftover tension from the battle or the pain of their injuries not allowing them to relax enough to make the shift. Mac centred himself and conveyed to each of the three, the calm he had mastered over the years leaching into them with the quiet words he sent, settling them, and they in turn slowly shimmered to human, briefly meeting his gaze in thanks. He felt the wince in one of the minds he spoke to. Helen had never been in a battle before, never had to hold her focus so hard for so long, and it hurt. Many of the wolves moving quietly around the kitchen were frowning, the assorted grimaces twisting their features testimony that the piquant, the battle headache, was grating through their minds in the aftermath.

Then the slight shudder of an unsteady intake of pained breath drew Mac's eyes to the tableau in the centre of the room.

His cousin, Katherine Mackeld, was standing over the sturdy pine table with his sister Rebecca, tears rolling slowly down her face as they gently, silently cleaned and groomed the blood and dirt from her mate's body. The heavy lycan form seemed smaller and older in death, a quiet copy of a boisterous wolf. Katherine's youngest son had an arm around her shoulders, staring down at his father, expressionless, as his quiet, tired voice continued to describe the ambush in the middle of the night, then the ferocious retreat they'd fought while holding on for the Alpha to answer the distress call. Four of the ranch fighters had died in the failed ambush, and six more with his father Michael as they held the retreat, but they'd defended the stairway, with the non-warriors safe on the upper storey. There was quiet pride mixed with the pain in the hoarse young voice, and silence fell as he completed his report.

Mac tried to fully release his own focus, but a tenuous thread of tension held. There was nothing further he could do here. He could feel Karl out of sight, directing the rest of the crew, Mackelds from this ranch and the main Range quietly clearing up the signs of the battle throughout the rest of the complex. Damned scentless ambush -- Tzo was now using the stuff as well as the Grey, and he had to find out how they were masking scent. It had to be silver, there was no other block that effective. And as far as he knew, Mackeld pack was still the only target they used this weapon against. The Grey was cunning - the MacKeld-Grey feud was now so deep that the council would not credit the reports Mac had sent, and there was no point collecting any of the enemy fighters to try to prove the lack of scent again - by the time they were transported to the council centre, they would just smell of death. There was nothing he could do.

Tzo still hadn't won any major ground, yet. Mac checked all of the outer watchwolves across the Range, still uneasy. Something, somewhere was wrong, but he couldn't pinpoint it. All clear. All perfectly clear. Dammit, he was just spooked by what Gemma had told him before Michael's call. Relax, he ordered himself, mind skimming the whole circuit for a third time. Nothing. His smothered the tension and slowly felt his control sink, still not convinced that there was no longer the need to maintain it.

A distress call shot in with the lowering of his focus, and Mac winced at the jolt of panic rebounding in his mind at the conveyance. Will's hand gripped his uninjured shoulder hard and the doctor growled softly, "Whatever it is, you can't do any more right now, boss." The wolves in the room all glanced uneasily over at the grey, gaunt hulk of the Alpha, he could see the concern in their eyes, the fear for him. There was also a warm buzz of disbelieving, fear-tinged awe from his seconds - all that silver and their Alpha was still fighting.

Mac ignored them as he absorbed Sharon Fealman's message -- something was wrong at Marshmont. He sat up, abruptly alert. This was it. Her son James had managed to convey a panicked yelp to her hours ago, but she couldn't reach that far without Stephan to find out why, and Stephan had been in the fight at the ranch. She hadn't been able to breach Mac's battle focus to let him know. Yes, she'd conveyed to Peter but the Range second couldn't reach the cub either. It was too far.

Mac snapped his mind from the ranch kitchen, and tuned to the distant cub. As soon as he felt the Alpha contact his thoughts, James cringed with terrified apology, dropped, and rolled onto his back as shame and guilt raced through his mind, tangled with images of his pounce on Gemma, and the raging arousal still evident at the trace of her unforgettable, intoxicating scent. Mac's skin bristled tightly as his blood began to rage, while he absorbed the realisation and controlled his own arousal at the recognition of that doft. How the hell was that possible?

However it happened, it happened. He felt himself shift to lycan, trembling, but didn't even try to hold it, focussing on preventing the fury that washed through him from gaining mental control. Her Marsh guards must have scented it coming. Cool it. That won't help her. His skin was cold, tingling with the physical manifestation of a held-in snarl as he pulled himself back in, fighting his thoughts as they tried to tear free in rage. He'd been in battle focus since just after the call from Gemma. What if -- had someone caught his picchu? She was human. She couldn't withstand -- he'd torn her himself when he'd first taken her. Mac shook his head as he felt the howl rising, gritting his teeth and forcing down the rage. He focused back on the messenger.

The MacKeld cub was out of doors somewhere -- James was rolling on stubby, dry grass coated in pine needles, and Mac's mind followed the whelp's through a deluge of rapid thoughts and images. They were slinking back up the mountain to the Academy -- all three of the Mackeld trainees, illegally, and very dangerously, awol, as they'd been tracing the mating-hunt of his human for him, trying to stay out of the way of the exceedingly highly strung wolves chasing her. James' ear throbbed painfully, part of it had been torn away when they had run into one of the slower hunters; they'd bellied to him when he'd attacked, and he had let them go with a savage, snarled reprimand, before the hunter had refocused on Gemma's scent trail. Mac bristled at James' memory of the glazed, heated lust in Jerome Marsh's eyes, the growl rolling from in his throat.

Yet the cubs had still, later, circled back to trace Gemma's scent down to the stench of the main road, even more careful to remain well out of the way of the dangerous pack of hunters. They liked the human, her notes to them had made them laugh, especially those about Madam. Incongruously, into James' mind flashed the joyfully savoured memory of when he'd met Lee - the Marsh prime hunter, three-time winner of the NA Circuit- stalking up the stairs at Marshmont towards the fifth floor with a fluffy white polar bear toy clasped in one huge hand, his eyes darkly daring the cub to say anything. Mac smiled wryly, despite the rage and fear shuddering through him. That was his Gemma.

She'd better not be hurt.

James' mind was tumbling on; the cubs knew that the girl was the Alpha's -- they kind of thought of her as one of their own pack. When she'd gotten to the main road she must have found a lift in some vehicle, there was the scent of another human where her trail had disappeared, and the hunters had all headed northeast, following the roadway, in pursuit. Mac could feel the echo of awe in the cub's mind that a human girl had managed to evade the elite of the Marsh wolves that far. Mike and Tapio had caught up with her but she'd still gotten away from them, somehow. Wow.

Mac's blood was shuddering hot and cold through his veins. Yes, he knew how resourceful, how stubborn Gemma was, but she couldn't evade the rut for ever. Her blood would start to call her back -- the run was only the first stage. Let her be changed enough for the male rut doft to subdue her once she was caught, a small part of him prayed. Let her not be hurt. The majority of him hated the idea. She was his. He wanted to kill every one of the fuckers -- and he wanted her to fight.

She couldn't win.

He could feel the heat of fury rising in his throat again, and smothered it automatically. God, it was hard.

First things first. Mac forced his mind to focus again, to calm, and returned to the young wolf, writhing, throat vulnerable, on the edge of a pine forest hundreds of miles away, waiting for his punishment. Mac told him to be still, and listen, then in clipped words conveyed congratulations and deep thanks to the scared cub for his resourcefulness, both in rescuing Gemma from her idiotic escapade halfway down the Marshmont cliff -- he was going to have a few words with her -- and for leading the others in tracking her as far as they had, and conveying the knowledge back to their Alpha.

If he hadn't been in this damn fight , he'd have got the message a lot earlier.

James was still trembling, waiting, motionless on the ground. Mac surveyed him coldly, and then sighed. 'You are only fourteen, still striving to learn control,' he reminded the cub sternly, then directed him to Harrison's Ways to Survive in the Marshmont library, assuring him that the assault on the Alpha's human would be forgotten as soon as he'd mastered the exercises in the chapter on sexual restraint. Mac could feel the grateful fawn of relief echoing back at him as his focus splintered.

The control gained from those exercises would still give the cub no chance against alfamme mating doft, but it was a start. Hell, most alphas found it nearly impossible to withstand that scent. Dammit. The rage was getting harder to contain.

"Alfie!" Mac heard his brother's voice calling his private nickname through a fog of far-focus and rage -- the earlier calls had barely registered while he was tuned to James, but as he pulled fully back into himself, the sound was a full-volume worried bellow above his head.

"What?" he snarled back, the full weight of fury of knowing that he was probably already too late, that Gemma had probably already been caught, been torn and savaged by some damn uncaring, undisciplined soon-to-be-dead cur, rolling out in the word, and all movement in the kitchen shimmered to a breathless halt.

Karl's eyes were wary, worried, as he looked down at his Alpha, his older brother, absorbing the explosive level of anger simmering just below the surface in him. He murmured softly, "Whatever it is, you're already over-extended, too tired to ..." then broke off at the look on Mac's face. He sighed and changed tack and tone, "What do you want me to do, boss?"

"Finish up here," replied Mac tersely, swatting away Will's hand as it smeared a cream over the stitches on his knitting shoulder. "And get me fast transport to Huxley County." He sprang to his feet and turned past the doctor, flipping up his shirt to briefly bare the aching scar on his stomach, ignoring the hisses and gasps from his audience. "Will, you're going to have do whatever obnoxious stuff you have planned in the car." He ignored cries of protest from Will and Rebecca and his brother's sigh as he stepped over to the table, "And find me some speed."

Karl flitted out of the door and the room fell silent as the Alpha looked down at the body of his old ally, his friend and his father's before him, cold and motionless on the scrubbed pine boards. Mac traced a finger gently over the familiar, loved contours and touched the soft fur on his temple, drawing himself back into focus, collected, for the farewell that was deserved. "We'll win this somehow, Michael," he promised him softly, then lifted his head and met Katherine's eyes. For one moment, tightly controlled, he lowered his shields and conveyed to the widow the full weight of his feeling for her mate, wordlessly raging in shared sorrow the depth of his regret for this loss, this wolf, fiercely loyal, the kindest he had known.

Her head drooped as fresh tears ran silently down her cheeks, and she sighed a breathless, broken sob as she swayed on her feet. Then she stepped forward to lean into the hollow of his shoulder, face pressed into the cloth. Resting, seeking comfort. Sharing.

Mac's hand lifted and cradled her to him for a long moment.

There was a wet sheen of tears in Ben's eyes as he met Mac's over the top of his mother's head, and he blinked as he conveyed fiercely, 'Don't you leave us again.' Mac nodded in acknowledgement of the rebuke for the strain of his three year exile, as the lanky wolf teen turned his mother back within his embrace, and hugged her convulsively against him. She sighed, and shook her head, stepping back and straightening as she smiled at her son, wiping her eyes, before turning back to Mac again.

They smiled at each other, gently, sadly. Conveying shared emotions.

"May your hunt be successful, Alpha." Katherine said the words of the traditional farewell clearly, her smile filtering through tears, wavering as the phrase ended.

"May your ..." the words of the reply choked him, and Mac turned abruptly to the door, striding out to the car waiting on the gravelled driveway.

...

May your home be at peace.

'Look after them,' he conveyed fiercely to Karl.

'Look after yourself,' his brother replied equally fiercely, "Don't you dare drop alphaship back on me, you malingerer." Mac snorted as he slid onto the back seat beside Will, slumping back against the cool leather. God, he needed Gemma. She relaxed him, lifted his strain in this whole fucked-up, silently screaming war. A smile tugged at his mouth as he remembered her breathless teasing last night. Then abruptly his brows snapped to a frown as he recalled where she'd been at the time. Leaving her scent. In those rooms.

'Marsh,' he conveyed harshly as the car purred into motion, his fury at his warlord thundering through the far-reaching call. The silence echoed back. Marsh was focussed. Hunting.

*

Sorry all, it's nearly impossible to find the time to write in the summer holidays and Chapter 6 keeps being wrong and rewritten again and again just to help. Yesterday I changed the ending in my mind for about the fifth time, and am finally happy with it, but I haven't written it yet and we're just off on holiday so I'm posting the beginning as an extra intermission chapter 5a to let you know what's going on and that I haven't disappeared.

In answer to someone's question (sorry, not online to check who), I am almost half way through the whole plot so there should be between 12 and 15 chapters all in all. I promise not to stop until the end unless there is a signed petition from at least 100 of you begging me to please shut up. J



Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 06



The coffee shop and internet cafe looked somewhat tatty and uncared for, the windows slightly smeared and the paintwork peeling lightly off the old boards. Tatty suited Gemma just fine. She'd blend in perfectly. She'd never wanted a bath and clean clothes so much in her life, her skin felt as if it was keening, pleading with her to get this cake of sweat and dust OFF. Plus certain other evidence of her perpetually aroused state. Weirdly, despite the Marsh wolves referring to this as her blood heat, there was at least none of that around - her body seemed to have gone off at a tangent from the normal course, and was trying to drag her with it into this uncharted whirlpool of pure, ferocious lust. 

However, dirt was preferable to being caught, and while she didn't think her unwelcome suitors were going to be put off by a little sweat, she'd take any help she could get. It felt like she was tiptoeing through the eye of a hurricane, waiting for the second half to catch up with her. Any second. Shit.

She shivered lightly.

She was walking stiffly, footsore and aching, down the unpaved dusty slope of the hill towards the shop in the soft morning sunshine. Her legs were spaced slightly further apart than usual - it was just that they were stiff from all the running and didn't work properly. It had nothing to do with avoiding further unwanted stimulation. Not a bit. Nope. No.

When Gemma had finally spotted an Internet sign, she'd blazed straight past to the top of the hill on the bike, making a dazed, relieved beeline for the first likely-looking fence she could see. A fence that she'd be able to get back onto the monster bike from. There were disadvantages to borrowing (ahem) bikes off guys who were at least a foot taller than she was. Like not being able to stop without somewhere to prop the bike, as she couldn't reach the ground with even the tips of her toes, and knew the machine would probably refuse to stop keeling over when she finally could put her foot down, and would then use her leg as a nice pillow if she didn't jump fast enough. 

She really didn't think lying trapped under a motorbike waiting to see who found her first would make her day any better.

Not that she didn't like the bike. She appreciated it, was exceedingly grateful for its existence and eagerness to sprint at the drop of a hat. 

God, she was weary, her mind felt like it was dribbling little patches of disconnected idiocy, fudging coyly sideways whenever she tried to get it to focus on the problem at hand. Like how to escape the ravening wolf pack on her tail. Running all night after three nights of too little sleep was no joke - too little sleep due to somebody's idea of a good wet dream waking her up every few hours... Mac should really be ashamed of himself, some of the stuff he got up to in her dreams... no, don't go there. No. I said NO. Why are you not listening? No, I did NOT want answers on a pornographic postcard.

Ooh, she was so damn aroused. All the time. It was exhausting. Her skin felt like there were little feathers brushing over every single inch, softly, tantalising, unbearable. And her nipples were little hard bullets, rubbing against her t-shirt, while her clit and cunt throbbed, demanding touch, demanding attention. Incessantly. Increasingly insistently. This was why she couldn't think. Every thought led down to her cunt. What it wanted. Needed. Not even getting off the bike had provided any respite, she was going to have to buy herself a gag soon to stop herself from groaning. Screaming.

Mac. Mac. Mac. Get here. Now.

He didn't even know she needed him. Unless he'd contacted the cubs.

Internet, the faint spark of rational thought remaining in her brain squeaked at her, and she stumbled back into movement down the hill. She hadn't realised that she'd stopped. Or that her hands had been softly stroking southward toward the zip of her jeans. Doh. 

She stuffed her fingers into the front pockets to prevent them wandering off on their own anywhere embarrassing. Which was easier to do than usual, the jeans were looser. This had something to do with her having knotted the elastic from her shredded panties through the belt loops to stop the rear of the trousers dangling below her knees. Then she'd tied her fleece around her waist, over the top, to avoid flashing the neighbourhood with her bare buttocks through the huge rips in the denim.

The light breeze that sneaked through the tears and caressed the heated, wet, tingling skin between her thighs was just so not helping. Her blood felt as though it was panting. She was kind of glad she was dazed from physical exhaustion and hunger. She had a feeling that if she'd been alert, she'd have been slavering and whimpering aloud.

Life was a little strange at the moment.

 

As she wavered wearily on down the road, Gemma passed a side street, and suddenly felt an electric shock shiver down from the top of her spine. Her skin tightened and the small hairs across her arms raised to alert as a feather of intense feeling caressed over her torso. Anticipation radiated through her veins. Her lips parted to pant gently, and her eyes clouded with lust as she angled herself to the right, body following instinct with no thought. Absolutely glorious, the scent melted into her like warm chocolate, enticing, luscious.

Too far right. Not there. 

She turned herself back slightly, mind blank of all but the need to find him, to trace back along that delicious scent trail, and she swayed as the waves of eagerness washed higher, higher, pussy throbbing with pure want.

There.

That way.

Her nipples were erect, taut, drawing her forward as she paced softly, thoughts fogged with lustful images, in the wake of this musk. Her skin was screaming with joyous anticipation and her tongue traced along her upper lip.

Then suddenly, from nowhere, a blast of anger slammed into her and she staggered to a halt, still burning under the lust, but with fury searing through her veins, fighting the want, clearing her eyes as her body swayed under the internal onslaught.

Wrong scent.

WRONG.

Breath rasping harshly in the air, she swayed on the spot, and then managed to drag herself around, her skin, her bones, her blood all desperately screaming no! as she forced them to turn away. She could taste the tang of the salt iron in her mouth where she had bitten through her lower lip to prevent the screaming howl from escaping. Her feet scraped along the ground as she compelled herself inch by slow, fighting inch back to the main street, body yowling, struggling in fierce protest while her mind battered her with the white-hot needle-point burns of wrong piercing into her with every breath.

Bloody hell.

Anger shot another jolt of rage through her, anger that it was so damn hard to force herself into retreat, and it spurred her on to stagger across the street drunkenly. She weaved on her unsteady feet as lust and anger fought for supremacy, then collapsed to lean both palms against the cool glass of a shop front, gasping. No. It was getting harder the further she hauled herself from the source of that scent. Tearing herself in two.

Bloody HELL. NO.

Desperately, her body was fighting to turn back. To follow. Her mind was raging, empty of any thought beyond fury as the two sides struggled. Her senses were calling, desperately pleading, yearning towards that wolf-musk. Yearning to taste, to smell, to nuzzle, to touch the male wolf; to present her aching, wet pussy to him and have him mount her, mate her, fulfil and subdue this fierce, aggressive need. Her blood was tumbling in a melee of anticipated, ecstatic release, wrenching her, sucking her down the side-street after that scent.

Her mind was slamming waves of incandescent anger against the deluge of want, each wave crashing in and slamming her back into sense, into herself, halting her sway to follow. The sense of wrongness swamped her, briefly subsuming the burning lust before each spike of fury sank and her small frame teetered and swung back again under the inexorable pull. Which made her furious.

Exhausting. 

Her small, curvaceous frame was bent almost double as she leaned her palms against the glass, her long, dark, wind-blown waves of hair hanging in a dusty curtain about her face, shielding the contorted agony of her expression as she desperately fought the desire pounding at her, through her, her glazed eyes fixed, unseeing, on a small shiny emblem in the window display.

The blood was a sharp, welcome contrast in her mouth as she prevented herself from screaming at the feeling of being ripped apart, pulled in two by the raging forces inside her. Hands tensed into claws, shoulders hunched, she leaned closer against the glass, panting as she pressed her heated forehead against the smooth surface, even as she felt herself sway back towards that street. A cold finger of fear traced down her spine as she struggled under the lash of the rage. She couldn't maintain this level of fury, it would have to burn out. Whereas the lust - the lust was slowly swamping the fury. Fear cleared Gemma's her mind slightly, and her eyes settled on the small item on display in front of her. 

Cross.

Then she shuddered, clenching them shut again in agony as she teetered under the renewed onslaught between the warring fires inside her.

A silver cross.

Her eyes opened again, this time intent.

Silver.

Abruptly, her brain cleared, settled, and a cold clarity spread out through her frame from the coolness in her mind, smothering the trembling shivers creasing her as she stared hard at the necklace in the window, forehead furrowed in worry.

Mac. Poisoned.

His name in her mind solidified the steady chill advancing through her body, cooling the raging lust, anchoring it, and she wondered why the hell thoughts of Mac hadn't surfaced earlier when that male musk had sideblasted her. All the objection that her instincts had come up with was the unthinking sense that that scent was wrong - but she hadn't been able to focus on why, there had been no clarity in the feeling. Until now. The thought of the poison still eating into Mac's belly cleared her head further, fear echoing in her mind. 

He hadn't said much last night. In fact, he'd been too busy ordering her off the phone and out of Marsh's rooms to be counted as chatty, but the way he had reacted to the news - and more, the reaction of the other two on the line, the roughness in their voices, had told her that there was something serious to worry about here. That they were seriously worried about him. Gemma straightened, gingerly stretching out her aching limbs as the shattering chill spreading through her smothering the lingering tug of the burning lust, and she swayed as she faced the fear - how ill was he? 

She swallowed the blood in her mouth as she felt a hollow emptiness echo through her mind, and swayed under the feeling.

How the hell was she going to find a cure for him? 

Mac was right - not that she was going to tell His Smugness this - she was a little spooked - scared - ok, terrified, about going back to her own lab. It was not somewhere she felt safe with the Grey on the prowl, not after he'd pulled that stunt with security last time. The memory of the vicious fury in Nick's black eyes the last time she had seen him seemed bleached into her mind. Who knew who else the Grey leader had corrupted, coerced or bribed? 

Gemma shivered again in the warm sun.

There was an alien, aching coldness to the scabbed-over wound on Mac's abdomen. Help. She must help. But if the Grey caught her before she found something, then she couldn't help Mac, so what to do? She wavered in uncertainty, mind echoing with worry as she lamented the lack of her usual facilities to work with. Lack of opportunity. She couldn't go there. Too risky. Shit, shit, shit, but she had to do something.

Her mind was echoing blankly, circling in empty, useless thoughts and her memory idly traced up from the wound in Mac's toned abdomen to the sleek, sculpted planes of his muscular chest. A tingle of heat simmered across her skin, then suddenly her pussy clenched in need and the fire roared into life in her veins. The flames in her blood surged back to engulf her, clouding her brain but the terror rose also; she quickly hurled her focus back to the memory of the chill, parasitic feel of that taut scab frozen into his skin, fighting fire with ice-cold fear of what might happen to him.

Concentrate.

She had to find a way to heal Mac. For both of them. But - no lab?

Since when did you get stuck on thinking there's only one way of tackling a problem? the you-are-so-dim voice in her head echoed sarcastically.

Her breathing was light, tense, and her mind cold, the fire subsiding again to a dim smoulder sunk beneath the cool reason commanding her attention. How to find Mac an antidote without access to her lab? Gemma turned and walked carefully into the shop, thinking hard while she fished her own scribbled copy of the poison formula out from her fleece pocket, together with her bank card.

Brief shop stop. Then Internet.

 

The Marsh Alpha blinked incredulously, watching from the second storey window of the inadequate bedroom he'd hastily hired in the hotel, while the little were-girl turned and walked into the jewellers. He had been impressed that she'd managed to turn at all, once she'd started after his scent trail, and had been anticipating having that fire beneath him as he watched how hard she had fought the pull of his musk. But to then turn her back entirely? To refocus?

What the hell have you found, here, Mac?

His loins tightened further and his aching cock pulsed demandingly - he hadn't even scented her, all he had caught was the trail in his chambers, but god, he wanted her even more now. His body was shuddering with contained lust. It had been long years since he had last scented a wereem on heat, but he didn't remember being this intoxicated by just their footprints in his carpet. All were-girls smelt Alfamme when on heat, because they all had Alpha shiele in them, the shiele of their Alpha, their mordeur. But he'd never heard of one with Alfamme control. 

More like the opposite.

A small smile lifted his lips and a predatory gleam lighted his eyes as he watched the girl re-emerge from the shop and head on down the main street, out of sight, brow furrowed in a scowl at the sheet of paper in her small hand. Her focus held her oblivious to his musk trail. A thrill of excitement shuddered along his burning skin, lifting the tiny hairs. He could barely remember the last time he had had to work to entice a mate; even the on rare, sweet chances which arose to chase down an unmatched Alfamme, the female would belly to him, quivering with delight as soon as he cornered her enough for his scent to roll over her.

The pulse of blood throbbing in his veins was growing more insistent as a bead of his seed moistened the end of his cock. Oh, he wanted this one. He would delight in hunting her down and matching her fierceness until her struggles melted and she lifted tail - or actually that delectable ass, in the human form. He had no objection to humans. His erection swelled at the image in his mind and Marsh had to concentrate on cooling his raging blood for a moment, before refocusing on the problem at hand. 

How to tempt the little wereem out of human sight without getting so close that his control wavered? An Alpha - and a Warlord - had a certain reputation to maintain. He couldn't go subduing the curvaceous little dark beauty and rutting her in public, it might reignite some of the legends among the humans that his people had spent decades carefully dampening. 

His cock surged in ecstasy and his teeth lengthened at the thought of her small form pinned under him as he mounted her. Blood raging, Marsh briefly considered just killing any witnesses.

No.

Sometimes it was such a pain, having to maintain this legendary control.

 

A few hours later, Gemma's head felt light, her brain clear as she carefully re-read the advertisement that she had drafted on the university website. The desk and floor around her were strewn with scribbled workings, the flowery kitten-patterned notepaper which was all she'd been able to buy off the begrudging proprietor was decorated with her untidy scrawl, circular brown coffee-cup stains and the odd smudge from a greasy pastry.

She smiled as she reached the bottom of the page, satisfied, stretching her tense, aching shoulders and fingers, and rubbing her blurry eyes. The dormant smoulder between her thighs rippled into a humming purr as her fierce concentration lifted slightly. 

She had needed to set the paper for applicant for the research internship anyway, and it usually attracted the elite students. This would be a good challenge for them. 

And it had not taken as long as she had feared to work out the possible avenues for them to test - she never usually worked completely theoretically, but her mind had a clear-cut focus that she'd never before attained. It was also interesting - it had taken her a while to recognise the formula for blood in the workings copied from Anne's textbook detailing the reaction of the poison in the wolf body, because there was a lot more iron at the heart of the organic polymer than usual. Evidently wolf blood wasn't exactly the same as human.

So hopefully none of the applicants would realise what they were working on. 

Gemma scoffed at herself at the very idea. Werewolves don't exist, remember?

Her engorged cunt-lips throbbed between her thighs. Hopefully her wolf would be around for a lot longer. Around here. Right here. Any second. Now. She tore her mind away from images of Mac pressing her down onto the computer desk and pulling her thighs apart, and struggled to refocus dazed eyes on the screen, scrambling the mouse across the page to the Post button. He's poisoned. Weak. Remember? A flash of the chill of reason cooled through her, and she pulled herself together, glaring at the page. 

This had to work. Or at least one of them did. After the intense hours of poring over the online literature and urgently scribbling on her notepad, Gemma felt fiercely hopeful that one of her three antidotes would work as a cure for him.

She prayed.

She also needed at least one of the students to be able to follow her methods and mix them right. It was an unusual way of auditioning. To say the least. But if even one of them managed to combine the precision and the delicate techniques required to produce the formulas she'd just invented in their own school labs, then Gemma had a feeling she'd be sending that star student the coveted welcome-to-the-department pack in a few months. 

She also prayed that Nick wouldn't go so far in staking her out as to check the intern posting. A little smile lit her face - she doubted even the Grey would have managed to corrupt the holier-than-thou head of faculty, who was the only other person connected with her that she knew would definitely read the ad.

The smile broadened into a not very pleasant grin as she imagined the reaction of her boss once he found out that she'd only allowed applicants a week to return their solutions - with carriage pre-paid by the university. So he'd scream at her a bit for the extra cost, and because he'd have to deal with the irate parents complaining that their Einstein offspring hadn't stood a chance with the timescale and the practicality of the set task. She had greater problems right now. Like creating a cure for a poisoned werewolf - sorry, wolf. 




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 06



Not that that was how she'd described the silver pollution in the task she'd just set.

It was so surreal, this mix of reality and wolf world.

Her pussy surged again with awakening demand, body throbbing into life, dammit. Going over the problem in her head was not working to keep the lust at bay any longer, not now that she had done all she could here. Now she felt hopeful. She could feel the urgent desire rising like sap through her system, demanding attention, demanding - dammit, Mac. Now. She jammed her finger down angrily on the button to post the advert. Why the hell wasn't he responding?

Gemma jumped as she heard the wheezing breath of the fat woman who ran the cafe at her elbow. Even if the round woman didn't spend a lot on upkeep of her establishment, she was a damn good pastry cook, evidenced by the hordes of sugar junkies who had been flocking to the place all morning. Gemma had practically breathed in the first three or four items she had bought, but had managed to savour her way more slowly and appreciatively through the rest.

"Have you finished, dear?" The woman asked, her voice echoing funnily through the blood drumming in Gemma's ears. Then the owner's voice changed and she gasped when she spotted a flake of pastry on the desk by the computer keyboard.

"Crumbs on my keyboard!" She clasped her hands theatrically to her ample bosom, pointing a finger in classic, overdone accusation at the offending morsel.

Simultaneously, Gemma's instant messenger pinged and her heart leaped, pussy squirming with delight as her eyes zoomed in on the 'Mac is online' popup which appeared in the corner of the screen.

Finally!!

"I'm sorry," Gemma gasped, barely aware of the woman still hovering at her elbow as she turned to hammer the keys in a frustrated message, "But I don't think I got any on the keyboard, I was careful."

> I thought I told you to answer your messages faster!?!

"You may think that you were being careful, young lady, but I bet you've dropped crumbs between the keys - I told you not to eat at the computer desks, but I saw you..."

> Thank god, Gem. You OK?

What was bothering this woman? "I'm sorry, but look, I'm sure the computer's OK, I was sitting over my papers while I ate," Gemma responded distractedly. How the hell was she supposed to respond appropriately to Mac with the owner looming beside her?

> NO. Wolf NEEDED. Sidville, MK. NOW!

Dammit, the woman could read into that what she liked, if she'd just go AWAY. But the cafe owner had worked up a full head of steam while Gemma typed, unsurprisingly annoyed at the lack of attention she was getting, "... don't serve food or drinks to customers using the computers, they're liable to spill all over the keyboard and then it's nearly impossible to get the crumbs out from between the keys..." 

Gemma barely heard the long, loud complaint, watching the screen intently while her blood writhed insistently and her pussy felt as though a gentle finger was stroking inside. This was taking him way too long to respond - what was he doing? She jammed in an angry extra line.

> Make that 5 minutes ago.

The voice of the irritating woman beside her rose indignantly. Gemma could hardly blame her, but - get a life. "...never work right after that and then you get other customers complaining that some of the keys are stuck. I ask you - it's only because some people don't look after anything that's not their own. You wouldn't believe the number of times I've had to stop customers from..." 

This was so surreal. Her boyfriend - wolfmate - whatever - had been poisoned, a pack of salivating wolves was after her - what was the phrase? - oh yeah, on the rut - and she was being subjected to a deluge of complaint about the major problem of Crumbs In Keyboards. Relativity eat your heart out.

> Eta 2 hours. On my way. HAS someone hurt you?

Two whole hours! No! She was going to explode! A pulse of liquid oozed down her thighs. Stop it, stop it - she was better off not thinking about Mac. Or why the wolves were after her. What one would do if he caught her - why her body was so damn prepared - no, she was blocking any thoughts of that. And especially of him. No. Stop it. Cool it. Do not think about licking his damn throat again.

Two fucking hours! "I'll pay for the damn keyboard," Gemma gasped irately, cutting off the whine beside her as the fire raged higher in her blood, making her struggle not squirm on her seat and reach between her thighs. It was worse when she was actually talking to him. Oh. Oh. Oh. 

> Not hurt, no - I ACHE - needed you five HOURS ago - you're late. BAD WOLF.

Gemma was beyond caring what the coffee shop owner read into this any longer. Then she became dimly aware, slightly guiltily, that the large woman had sniffed loudly and waddled off back to the till, just before Mac's reply appeared and her brain sizzled back to the screen.

> I'm coming as fast as I can.

> DON'T USE THE FU*KING 'C' WORD!!!

Gemma was grinning to herself despite the rage in her blood as she pounded her full frustration into her latest, free response and pressed send.

The 'Mac is typing a reply' message lingered on the screen, and she glared at it, frustrated. Get here now. Or at least talk to me. She could feel her insides melting in the scorching lust.

> Damn. Grey's chauffeur just sprinted down to his garage, screeched the car 

> around and picked up Nick. Guess Grey has hacked in and is reading this message 

> same time you are. Get going, Gem. Head the same direction as Kate & Bethan 

> would after Christmas in Kat and use transport so no scent trail. I'll find you. 

What? 

> GO.

Tears sprang to Gemma's eyes - tears of anger and exhaustion. Damn Grey - hacking into Mac's IM. She'd thought she was safe now - or would be in two long hours. But no. Oh shit. And what the hell did Mac mean, sending her cryptic messages when she was so fucking tired? All that rubbish about Bethan and Kate and Christmas in Kat? She stared at the screen, tears leaking down her face, and then realised with a shock of fear that she maybe couldn't afford these seconds of stunned delay as a third message appeared on the screen.

> Please, Gem. GO.

At least he'd learned to say please.

> I hear and obey, bwana.

She smiled a little sarcastic smile at her reply as she lurched to her feet, despite the shiver from the memory of the fury in Nick's eyes, which seemed burned into her retinas. Mac - if he didn't get to her first, she was going to bloody well bite him herself. Hard. Somewhere nasty. And she'd probably be a werewolf by then anyway, from the sound of it, so it'd be effective. 

Her smile widened as she surged to her feet. They screeched in blistered pain and her legs folded as the abused muscles cramped in a searing burn and she collapsed back into the seat. Damn. 

Gemma slowly eased her abused limbs back into motion, tempting them to hobble over to the till with the promise of a big fat meat pasty to take up the hill to the bike. Begrudgingly, they began to follow her instructions, wincing with every tender step. Make that a whopping big meat pasty. One with the fluffy pastry and yummy curry undertones. 

The bill was extortionate, but Gemma was beyond caring about irrelevancies like how she was going to meet her outgoing payments this month. 

Clue, clue, clue, the words pounded in her head as she limped painfully back up the hill. Dammit, Mac, why did you have to get cryptic right now? As if she didn't know. But she didn't want to have to think any more - her brain was aching from the last couple of hours. And this was a wolf problem, right? She wanted him here, dealing with it. Well, there were more elegant ways of describing what she wanted from him. Mac. Dammit, Mac. What she really wanted was him to fuck her, hard and fast, and then let her curl up safe in that warm embrace and sleep.

Ooo. Better not think of that just now. Stop it. Think of something else. No, I meant something completely different, not just a different bit of his anatomy. And quit with the innocently surprised face. 

A contented memory flashed across her mind, of cuddling inside the warmth of Mac's arm on the sofa at their Christmas house party, feeling the rumble in his chest as he had howled in derisive appreciation at Kate and Bethan's appalling-to-the-point-of-hilarious double-act. The corners of Gemma's mouth twitched :

 "There's a little yellow idol to the north of Kathmandu."

Kat. Kathmandu. Not exactly subtle, Mac. North it is.

She sighed, and wearily, painfully clambered onto the fence to swing a leg across and ease herself back astride the bike, settling gently onto her aching cunt. Oooh. Like.

Stop it. Stop it. Stop it.

Turn the engine on. Go on. It's better with the engine on.

Shut it. Shut it. Shut UP.

Gemma was too busy berating herself, struggling to subdue her lust, to notice the two men unfolding from the car down the street and pacing meaningfully towards her. She pulled the bike key out of her pocket and then yanked herself backwards, shuddering, heart racing, as a hand came down lightly on her shoulder while a voice drawled, "Ma'am?"

She twisted out of reach, terrified, scrambling with ungainly movements off the rear of the seat, but the second one was already there, and she suddenly stilled as she recognised the uniforms. The cops looked at her suspiciously.

"May I ask if you have a safety helmet, Ma'am?" The older one drawled as he stood challengingly in front of her, his gaze ironic as he looked at her manically wind-whipped and dusty, frazzled hair. She froze, staring at him wide-eyed.

No way.

There was a long pause while they stared at each other, his gaze growing more derisive while Gemma maintained her rabbit-in-the-headlights look, until she finally shook her head, faintly. She didn't think she could speak. The second cop, behind her, was already talking into his radio, slowly reading out the licence plate of the monster bike, eyes wandering bemusedly over the ripped, shredded padding of the pillion seat, and the deep scratches on the underlying metal.

Oh my god, I don't believe this, thought Gemma, heart thudding painfully.

"Is this your motorbike, Ma'am?" The first one asked a second question, his eyes sarcastic as he waited for her to lie and say yes. An eyebrow lifted in faint surprise when, after a second dumb pause, she shook her head again. Numbly. There wasn't a lot of point in lying here, they had the licence plate number, she was way too small to ride it, wrongly dressed and just tired of all this shit. Gobsmacked.

I just - no way. No way. This can't be happening.

"Well then, would you mind accompanying us to the station to answer a few questions?"

Yes, she thought faintly.

Where on the 'my-life-is-surreal' range of weird problems did getting arrested for stealing the bike fit into all this? Was this the point where she was supposed to tell the cops to let her go because she was being chased by a lust-maddened pack of wolves from one direction, and an extra homicidal one who wanted to turn her into a werewolf slave from another? Did she ask the police for help? What help?

She shook her head for a third time, dazedly, feeling as though she was floating in a detached bubble, two inches off the ground, even as the fire shimmered relentlessly in her veins. 

"I take it you already know that you have the right to remain silent, Ma'am," the sarcastic cop drawled further, then waved her past him, imperatively. She limped forward towards the marked car parked a little way along the top of the hill, still on dazed autopilot. The policeman fell into step beside her and continued to drone out her rights.

Her rights.

Rights, thought Gemma, brain clearing slightly as her heart clenched suddenly in hope while she halted by the cop car. Phone call. Mac. Her cunt throbbed with that merciless ache, and she swayed, closing her eyes against the surge of longing. Please, please. No-one else, please. She felt cold as she remembered just how damn far away he was. But he knew how much she needed him. 

Oh, did she need him. Liquid surged again between her thighs, legs feeling weak as she trembled all over. Dammit.

"Do you require assistance entering the vehicle, Ma'am?" she faded back in, hearing a sarcastic voice biting terse words above her head, and quickly reopened her eyes and folded herself into the back seat through the door he was holding open. 

At least you human males still smell just as attractive as ever, she thought grouchily at the sarcastic cop.

 

 

Ten minutes later, Gemma was gazing out of the window fixedly, losing her fight against drooping eyelids as she watched the hypnotic light flicker through the trees lining the road. They were driving to the next, larger town - apparently, that was where the police station was. And weren't they heading north? She thought so, vaguely. Good.

Then abruptly a shiver rang up her neck, lifting the short hairs and she tensed as she caught a quiet edge of a sharply breathed word -Marsh? - from the two cops in the front seat. Tensing, Gemma listened intently. Their low murmurs were almost smothered under the surrounding noise, but despite the worried echo of her heartbeat pounding in her ears, Gemma felt as though she was tuning in, sifting effortlessly through the background blur to pinpoint their very quiet tones underneath the harsh growl of the engine. Concentrating, she could hear them as though she was suddenly sitting between them.

"..didn't realise there was a bulletin out on a stolen motorbike, must belong to some really rich fucker."

"Probably the son of a senator - if the comm was contacted by Chief March down in Belmont, it'll have to be a congressman or the cousin of a Kennedy at least, he doesn't usually mess about."

"Yeah, I've heard that Marsh usually sends people flying through the window if they try to lean on or bribe the BPD for favours."

"Like I said, nothing less than the president or a Kenne- what's that?"

Gemma felt the sharp prickle of worry in her stomach begin to curl into a knot as the vehicle slowed, and then rolled to a halt in the middle of a long, empty stretch of forested road. She looked about, and her light shiver increased, tension twisting through her limbs as she focussed on the huge tree fallen across the road ahead of them. It had fallen on a long, straight stretch, where the cops would have plenty of time to see it and stop. Providentially.

No.

The wind could, at best, be described as a very light breeze. Not enough to topple trees.

Oh-oh.

Her blood started to race at full gallop, eyes darting suspiciously, desperately, around, searching the surroundings, the sun filtering through the gentle slopes covered in pines. The younger cop was talking into his radio again, and the older had gotten out to survey the blockage, when suddenly Gemma's door was open, her seatbelt undone, and she was hauled out sideways and draped over a sinewy shoulder. In the blink of an eye, the muscular young male holding her had turned and sprinted back for the trees; Gemma was just drawing breath to scream when they reached the cover of the canopy, and she heard an irate yell from one of the cops as they plunged into the dappled light.

The harsh breath she took swamped Gemma's senses with the intense, impeccable scent of aroused male wolf, and her insides melted as her mind clouded over, heat pulsing through her. The crash of lust wasn't as mindblowing as it had been back in the town, though. The familiar, intense anger stabbed into her as a flash of green eyes glowered in her memory - Mac's eyes - and she twisted violently, trying to free herself from the warm arms holding her to her captor's shoulder. 

The sinewy wolf pulled her down into a tighter embrace, cradled to his chest, and bent his head to snuffle hungrily at the pulse point on her neck while he ran swiftly on, whining. Then his warm tongue swiped over her shimmering skin in an excited lick, and he faltered to a halt in a small sun-dappled clearing in the trees, breathing harshly as he lowered her onto her back, resting her gently on the pine needles of the forest floor, following her down to lick feverishly at the scent coating her neck.

Gemma pushed desperately at his unmoving, shirt-clad chest, fighting, fighting the warm, melting pool of lust rising through her veins as she struggled to keep her own control. No. He grabbed her wrists and swept her hands above her head, one in each palm, before he wedged a leg between hers and began to grind his erection intensely against her hip, panting into her neck between swipes of that warm, invasive tongue. A wave of lust swamped her reason briefly.

No. Only Mac. Dammit. 

Gemma resurfaced, as violent, shuddering rage shook her slight frame. A fog of teeming emotion lit red behind her eyes, burning her passion into fury. This was wrong too, just wrong. He was wrong. She twisted violently under the wolf and bit savagely at the skin of his throat, struggling to escape the suffocating embrace.

He laughed, a little hitched whimper of excitement breaking into the sound, and easily twisted his neck out of the grip of her blunt teeth. Then he dove back in to lick another long, slow savour of her taste, inhaling the scent of her neck, shuddering with arousal atop her.

A high-pitched yowl of rage escaped the girl pinned to the ground, and she jerked her chin to the side, slamming her head dizzyingly against his to block his access.

"Get OFF!" rage tightened her vocal chords so that she sounded infuriatingly like an enraged Barbie.

The wolf ignored her, resettling his heavy weight on her tight curves and grinding up against her with intense twists of his hips, his quick breaths deepening with excitement before he settled his wide open mouth over the pounding pulse on her neck and began to suckle, hard, teeth scraping lightly over the faint tracings of faded mottling. He began to shimmer and tan fur lengthened on his skin.

"Get off! Get OFF! GET OFF!!" Gemma was incandescent, screaming fury as she bucked and heaved ineffectually under the heavy weight and fought against the bruising grips around her wrists. She managed to twist her right hand free while he was preoccupied with his breathless excitement, and slammed her fingers to press hard against his exposed cheek. 

The wolf howled as the small silver ring on her pinkie burned against his skin, and rolled dizzyingly fast away from her, rising to four feet in wolf form two feet away, a shiver running through his frame as he glared back at her. His teeth bared in a silent snarl.

A second, vicious snarl sounded across the clearing from somewhere above her head.

The tan wolf stilled, jerking his head up to glare at the intruder as he spun to face him, an answering snarl erupting automatically from his throat. Then Gemma saw a flicker of fear shadow her captor's eyes and felt her own heart thud with relief in the split second before the tan wolf hurled himself furiously to engage the intruder. She twisted onto her front to see, and glumly, irritatedly confirmed what her ears, her skin, had told her. It wasn't Mac.

The newcomer was a tawny chocolate and cream brown, much larger than the tan wolf and more collected in his movements, centred and graceful. In the time it took her to right herself, the tan wolf was on his back at the feet of his challenger, the ruff of his throat pinned in the heavy jaws. The pair stilled, the triumphant wolf glaring down into the eyes of the prone one. After an echoing, silent pause, the defeated wolf whined, wriggled submissively, and was released. He gently licked the nose of the victor, who stepped back and allowed him to roll to his feet. In the blink of an eye, the tan wolf disappeared into the trees with his tail clipped unhappily between his legs.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 06



It all took seconds. Damn. This new guy was powerful.

An unwanted shimmer of pleasure trembled across Gemma's skin, and she growled quietly at herself while she hauled herself back onto her knees. She sat back on her heels facing the newcomer, shuddering as she glowered, and met his jet-black, glittering hot gaze defiantly.

"I don't want you either," she bit out carefully.

The eyes seemed to brighten, fire burning higher and his ears twitched briefly to attention. Then his head lowered to rest sunk between his shoulders, nose reaching toward her as he sniffed delicately, his ears folded back along his head. Eyes gleaming, he began slowly, meaningfully, to trot toward her.

Heat coursed searingly through Gemma, making her shudder and her eyes lose focus at the deluge of lust evoked by that slow strut. Here finally was a wolf to be reckoned with. Her blood was singing. Her mind was raging no, but she had a hollow feeling in her stomach - she knew she couldn't fight both of them this time - both him and herself.

"No!" The despairing call in Gemma's mind echoed from the lithe, slight figure of a young woman who streaked into the clearing and fell to her knees beside the advancing wolf, heedless of her own danger as she slid urgent hands into his silky ruff and tugged his head around to face hers, staring into that black gaze, her own eyes pleading. The wolf growled ferociously, frustratedly, but she ignored the deadly, bared teeth inches from her face, staring into his eyes, and the tall wolf begrudgingly allowed her to tug him to a halt.

"Don't. Oh don't, please. No. You said no. Please," the dark-skinned girl begged him softly.

A shudder shook the tense figure of the mocha wolf and he closed his eyes, shaking his head violently, pushing his nose in to snuffle the girl's neck. The serenely beautiful Asian-Indian features of the newcomer lifted to Gemma and she glared at her across one powerful furred shoulder, furious accusation seething in her tear-bright eyes.

"What kind of idiot are you, challenging an Alpha, for God's sake? Or do you want him to take you up on it?" she accused.

Gemma sank further back on her heels and just stared at the Indian girl, nonplussed. The ramped-up fear and arousal from that prowling approach was still shuddering in her veins, making her sway slightly. Dimly, she felt surprised that she could still be surprised.

The wolf shimmered and abruptly, Marsh surged to his feet in front of the lithe, dusky-skinned woman, his hand caressing briefly over her sleek black hair in wordless thanks. He was clad in black suit trousers and an expensive white sweat-soaked shirt, and looked a lot more battered than last time Gemma had seen him. He ran a tired hand through his chocolate brown locks as he sighed and squeezed the bridge of his nose, trembling lightly.

"And if you don't want me to take you up on it, then I suggest you don't trail your enticing mating doft through my bedroom." His rebuke was hot, growling with terse emphasis.

Gemma was still gaping, disbelieving, and the clearing echoed with crashes of silent, growing feeling for a few moments as she absorbed the accusation, before fury brought her surging to her own feet.

"If anyone - like your wife , or your men, had told me what was going on, then I wouldn't have done so," she bit back, starting to stomp toward him in her anger. The Alpha flung up an urgent hand, palm out towards her to halt her advance, shaking his head swiftly as he shuddered and retreated a step.

"No. No closer," he bit out. "I can just about control it with the wind at this angle and you at that distance, but don't push it, girl." The words were growled with a heated edge. Gemma caught a hint of the dark, bewitching musk that had drawn her unthinkingly down the sidestreet in Sidville, and shuddered, her own eyes glazing over as she backed off three hurried steps before stumbling and landing on her arse. She clenched her fingers into the grass to hold herself as the want battered at her. 

That had been him? Marsh?

A little twinge of regret ghosted through her mind. She stomped on it, fury spiking.

Marsh shuddered, murmuring, "Damn!" as the increased heat of her aroused doft reached him, and the dark, slight woman stepped forward and twined an arm around his waist, leaning into him as though offering support, while he dropped his head and scented deeply of her black hair.

Gemma gaped at him from her position on the floor. The pull ached through her, blood screeching to touch him, to get closer, much closer, but the feelings didn't govern her mindlessly as they had earlier, and she just sat shuddering on the forest floor, nails clawed into the earth beside her to hold herself from inching towards him. She kept diving into images of Mac to pull herself back from the brink - she had six months of them to hold the lust for this Alpha at bay - and Marsh had said that he could control it so she could, too. Wait a sec.

Was Marsh really intending to control it?

She squeaked. It was meant to be a coherent question, but her throat was too parched, mind too flabbergasted, with thoughts tumbling in disjointed sentences even in her head. Evidently the tall, lean man understood her though, and answered.

"Mac broke through my hunt-focus two hours ago by ceding from the Aster alliance," the Aster Warlord growled the words softly, a pained shadow fleeting across his face. "It is insane - but he is furious at my damn bitch for setting you up like this." Something dangerous flickered behind the brown-flecked black eyes, and his quiet tone was packed with intense, buried feeling as he continued, "I cannot afford - none of us here in the Central Ranges - including the MacKeld pack - can afford not to hold together at the moment while Tzo is advancing. We need him." A dark, frustrated pause, and Marsh sighed, "I need him. Enough that yes, I'll make sure nothing - untoward - happens to his inconvenient human, to the best of my ability." 

Gemma could see Marsh shuddering lightly as he closed his eyes against the internal battle with his lust, dipping his head to again scent the hair of the woman leaning lightly against him. 

Inconvenient human? She guessed that was accurate, from Marsh's point of view.

"Moreover," he glanced down at the girl who had her arm around his waist, a teasing light softening the proud glitter of his gaze, the shiver in his frame lessening slightly, "As Jasmine points out, rape carries the death penalty among us also, and you didn't appear to be about to melt and lift tail to that puppy, no matter how hard he was trying to subdue you. You evidently aren't fully a wereem no matter how strong your doft, and human girls must be different."

Damn right.

Their eyes met across the open space, and Gemma felt a shimmer of lust feather back up her spine at the power of that gaze, a teasing bud of moisture escaping between her thighs. Dammit.

A speculative gleam came into those soft brown-speckled black orbs, glowing with heat, and Marsh brightened, smiling slowly across at her with a wicked little tilt to the corner of his mouth. "Of course, if you decide that you prefer another - contender, then Mac'll just have to - um - gracefully bow out." He raised an expressive dark eyebrow and spread his hands to her, a silent invitation.

Gemma shuddered, and this time it was her turn to shake her head briskly, an attempt to shake him out of it. She took careful, shallow breaths but when she opened her mouth her tongue seemed to tingle with the taste of his musk. She knew why Marsh had spread his arms, teasing his hot scent to shimmer through the air. Damn musk. Damn, damn achingly enticing, rich, strong, increasingly siren-sweet scent. Her body swayed and she shook under the slam of anger rising in response to the cresting lust. She shook her head violently and snorted, trying to breathe him away. Hold it. Think of Mac.

Mac.

Mac had sent this powerful Alpha a challenge - an ultimatum. For her. To protect her, his inconvenient human. As Marsh said, she could say yes if she wanted. Or no. Mac had given her back her choice - as far as the damn call in her blood would let her choose. The physical superiority of the wolves was no longer an issue. She had the choice, whether to mate one of them or not. If she could only control herself.

The knowledge was purring through her veins and reminding her who she really, rationally, did want. Mac was so worth the fierce struggle to ignore that damned enticing musk teasing her nostrils. Damn damn damn. She pulled her control together, shakily strapping it back over the tattered gaps. 

"Then I'm safe?" Her voice was gruff with compressed tears, ignoring the invitation. Mac. Again.

The powerful, attractive Alpha facing her quirked a little surprised smile, and rolled his hips suggestively, a disappointed mock pout curling one corner of his mouth even as his eyes brightened further at the challenge she presented, burning. Gemma held her breath as the musk rolled in her direction, scowling at him. She stuck her tongue out - he deserved it. He shuddered, his smile twisted, and he sighed, smile breaking into an appreciative grin as he hugged the girl he was embracing to him. 

"Damn. You really are something, little manu."

The Indian girl's lips twitched, a teasing sparkle in the beautiful dark eyes as she turned them up to the Alpha, and she murmured something that made him slant a sarcastic eye back down at her before he turned to Gemma again.

"Are you safe?" he continued. "Well, I have found, subdued and sent home all the Marsh wolves who were too - excited - to listen to an order, yes," he spoke softly in a grave voice, although his gaze was teasing, heated, as it roamed acquisitively over Gemma's petite, curvaceous form while he spoke. Wolf relationships were weird - he was still hugging the other girl to him and she leaned her slight, graceful figure peacefully against his powerful frame, perfectly still. 

"If you could let Mac know this, I would appreciate it. He is too angry to listen to me right now," Marsh added.

Gemma's belly pulsed with liquid fire, a sudden cresting surge of sweet delight - yup - still protecting her. Even at this distance. Her lips curled into a soft smile. Overprotective idiot. She was getting used to it. She knew who she wanted to - subdue her , and she shuddered at the thought, the heated images flickering through her mind, raising her pulse to an erratic dance as a pulse of liquid heat surged between her thighs. 

Submission. Gemma's eyes flickered to where the tan wolf had disappeared, remembering the clarity of that act of wolf submission. She shuddered to a different shiver. Marsh only just caught them all - that was close.

The chocolate brown eyes had followed hers, and the wolf frowned slightly, his expression serious as he turned back to meet her gaze. He abruptly let go of the woman - Jasmine? - and began to gently back off toward the surrounding pines, "Yes - however, you may be safe from the Marsh pack but that was one of Vanilchov's. He scented you in the nearby town when you were being arrested and set up his little ambush." 

How did Marsh know this? It was eerie, how much the wolves knew about her movements. Like, how had Mac known that Nick was reading her IM?

"As an Alpha, I'm perfectly entitled to challenge him for a mate, even on his own range as we now are, but I can't take you with me without - giving in to my urges," He halted briefly and closed his eyes, then reopened them on raging black fire, wordlessly calling to her, as he continued, "which are getting stronger as I've mentioned Mac to you again and you're obviously reacting to that, and you smell damn attractive." 

She shuddered, and blushed, more heat pulsing between her thighs.

Marsh stepped back soundlessly, trembling lightly, into the dappled shadow of the trees and halted, quirking an eyebrow at her in a last burning, enticing question. She shook her head stubbornly. He scowled.

"That pup'll have let his Alpha know about this by now," the Alpha continued, "and Vanil, who is not one to miss out on an opportunity to piss off Mac, is probably already on his way here with the intent of subduing you himself. You sparked his interest too, when you faced down Lou at the university."

What? Not another?

"So I have - we have brought you some assistance," he corrected himself, with a flicker of a glance at the woman, who was smiling serenely at him. "A thank-you for stopping that biker shooting Mike, little manu - I am grateful, even if the idiot almost deserved to be shot for behaving like a rabid wolf on a public highway." 

The slight, dark beauty strode back to the tall, beautifully moulded male, briefly touching him on the shoulder in acknowledgement and farewell, before she turned her jet black eyes, now sparkling with pleasurable anticipation, to meet Gemma's.

"Also in apology and slight atonement for the actions of Madam Marsh," Marsh finished gruffly, an echo of anger reflecting deep in his voice. Then the man shimmered into the powerful wolf and flashed off into the forest in one seamless, graceful blur of movement.

Well. Mind whirling with the overload of suitor information, Gemma stood mute, heart racing, facing the dark young woman and the spot where Marsh had just disappeared. Someone else was chasing her now? Wasn't Vanil the platinum-blond muscled one who'd been spitting into Mac's face? It figured.

And assistance? In what? 

The smooth black hair framed a perfectly oval, young, beautiful brown face; the short nose was wrinkled into mischief and her bow mouth curved in a friendly smile. This time. 

"Glad to meet you, Dr. Smith, I'm Jasmine. I teach sjeste lust control and rut evasion at the Academy." The girl said this airily, easily. It was as if she'd never snapped Gemma's nose off three minutes ago.

Sjeste? Rut evasion? queried a corner of Gemma's mind, faintly. She felt stunned, unable to move her brain past the safe - not safe - safe - treadmill that her world seemed to whirl her through at the moment. And there was the distracting, disappointed whine in her blood at the disappearance of Marsh. At least she'd felt safe with him around. More than just safe. Hot. Damn hot.

Get here, Mac.

The woman's mouth tilted in a light, teasing smile and one eyebrow lifted in light sarcasm. "Let's just see what I can teach a human in the few short hours until your Alpha turns up." 

Her Alpha.

Jasmine seemed nice, Gemma thought cautiously. Who was she? What was she to Marsh? And what could she teach a human that would work against wolves? She smiled tentatively back, but wasn't sure about this girl yet. Or other things. 

"Evasion? You mean female wolves hate the rut too?" she queried.

The black brows twitched together in evident astonishment. "Sjeste hate the rut? No!" Jasmine smiled again, hot, naughty memories behind the eyes, "But the longer you evade the chase, the more heated the mating. Making stronger cubs."

A flash of memory of - heated - Mac seared through Gemma's veins and she closed her eyes as a wash of colour flared across her skin. Maybe she'd run when he got here. Oh yeah. Yum yum yum. 

Like it'd do her any good. 

Like she really wanted it to. Hah.

Trembling lightly, she heard a brisk sniff and opened her eyes to see Jasmine standing tautly erect, her nose in the air, turning her head slightly to scent the light breeze, an intent look in her black eyes.

"We need to get moving. I can scent a distant cheesemoulder on your trail - he'll be a good dreg of a nose-led idiot to teach you your first tactics on."

What?

The Indian girl smiled gleefully, "You wait - you'll be able to lead him around in circles, I promise. If you're clever, only those who can still think can catch you. And that takes a good, strong wolf. Especially with a doft as tight as yours - I've never seen Dad have to struggle that hard to keep control."

Dad? 

Gemma bristled warily.

Marsh seemed OK - if what he said was true. And he had subdued that tan wolf. And left. 

But if Marsh was the girl's Dad, then wouldn't Madam be..? 

Jasmine saw the coldness growing in Gemma's eyes, and her own black brows twitched together in sudden anger, sparkles firing in the black as she made a short, violently negative movement with one hand.

"No way. She's not my mother. Stepmom is what you humans would call it, I guess." There was a quiet seething in her tone, "And I would guarantee that Dad's finally going to boot her for this - inciting conflict among the allies in the middle of a war. Stupid, self-centred Louse. She is an absolutely bone, a led-by-the-pussy bitch, and he may love fucking her, but this is way over the line. She just finds it impossible to believe that anything could be more important than her own perfection and sex," Jasmine was breathing harshly, angrily, as she gasped out the heated words. Then abruptly her brown face lit with delight, "And god did you drive her up the wall, facing her down in front of four Alphas." The girl ended her little rant on a high note. But she was still breathing hard.

"Guess you hate people thinking you're related, right?" Gemma murmured, a provocative sparkle in her eyes. The question set her companion off again.

"Have you eyes, manu? My Dad's human side is Caucasian - you think I'd get this exquisite skin tone if the Louse was my mother?" Jasmine stopped abruptly and twitched her nose in the air, tensing slightly to alert, adding with a soft growl, "Please pick your feet up, Dr. Smith - time to fuddle the brain of the already rut-fuddled wolf approaching."

OK. This was beginning to sound like it might be fun. And she could feel herself warming to Jasmine every time the younger girl referred to Madam as the Louse. 

"Right. Call me Gemma."

Almost like fun. Pick up your feet. Gemma sighed and limped wincingly slowly toward the trees. Ow. Ow. Ow.

Jasmine stilled her own effortless, smooth gait and looked at Gemma. Then she echoed the sigh, wrinkling her nose, and waved the shorter girl slightly to her left.

"There's a stream that way. If you wash your feet, I'll heal them for you. Eugh. But I'll have to shift. No way am I licking your toes in human form."

Gemma wrinkled her nose back, and found that they were grinning at each other, her heart lightening as they crossed into the shade of the trees. A companion.

"Have you ever thought of seeing anyone about your weird foot-licking fetish?" she asked.

"Watch it, little manu," retorted the slender girl to her right. "I can find other ways of improving your pace."

 

Fuddling the wolf was fun.

There was a playful little smile on her face as Gemma leaned back against the trunk and watched from her perch high in the branches, grinning as the creature below them began to weave desperately around the deep pool where her trail disappeared. The drum of demanding heat in her blood had been soothed again by the effort of forcing herself to think with focus when setting up the misleading trail, and Jasmine had explained that this was a common beneficial side effect.

The wolf abruptly dashed off downstream, nose to the ground, frantically searching for a new scent, careering splashily from bank to bank of the narrow, flowing stream. He called triumphantly, a crooning kind of howl echoing back from around the second bend when he found the scent of the handprint she'd left on the rock midstream down there. Gemma sighed happily as she watched the ruffled fur disappearing into the green dappled shade as the wolf set off at full sprint following the water away from them. 




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 06



Gemma tilted her head and grinned down at Jasmine on a lower branch. The Indian girl was shaking her own head and rolling her eyes after the retreating figure. 

"Told you," the wolf girl snorted. "When they're this heated, it's like playing hide and seek with a toddler." She paused for a second, eyes slightly unfocussed as she scented the breeze, then continued, "OK, he's out of range. We can get moving, find you some food. You'll need refuelling, Mac can't be far now." Her eyes gleamed naughtily up at her human companion. Gemma's skin felt brittle, taut with lust and she felt a flush run across her cheekbones with the heat reviving in her blood. Energy. Mac. Mmm.

She ignored the taunt, excited by a sudden idea, "Can you talk to Mac? I mean, convey, whatever?" 

"Sorry, no can do, little human." Jasmine began to swing down through the branches with lithe, unconscious grace.

Damn. And little was a bit rich, coming from a girl three years younger than herself. Even if she was a bit taller. Like everyone else on the planet over the age of ten.

"I'm petite," corrected Gemma haughtily, "so I believe the correct phrase is, 'elegantly petite manu', you will find, oh unable-to-communicate-clearly sjeste." Along with rut evasion, she'd been having wolf language lessons while they travelled through the wooded hills. A sjeste was a young female wolf, or sjeste were several young females wolves - Gemma had commented on the similarity between sjeste and sheep, there being no difference between the term for one or several, and been pushed into the stream. Manu was slang for a human. 

Gemma began to lower herself through the branches after the younger girl, grinning at the snort from her new friend, and Jasmine crossed her eyes and stuck out her tongue when Gemma landed carefully on the ground under their tree.

"No, I believe the correct phrase is cheeky manu," the wolf girl retorted. "I can't convey to Mac because I'm not an Alfamme yet. Not reached that level. Nor am I in his pack. And he's too focussed on hunting you - and too furious - to respond to Dad, so we can't do relay either. C'mon, cheeky manu."

Gemma sighed as she scuffed the grass with her toes. Jasmine was already off, weaving between the trees with her steady, effortless lope. OK, so Gemma's feet didn't hurt any more but OW she was sick of running. She stuck her hands on her hips and scowled after her companion.

"I'll only run if you tell me what picchu means," she called stubbornly.

Jasmine spun on the spot, grinning again, a cheerful, taunting grin as she halted. "So walk, cheeky little manu. I told you, you have to ask Mac. It's not a word I use." Gemma growled under her breath and lurched into slow movement, grumbling to herself. What did that mean?

"And there are no threats in scent range so we can go at your snail pace anyway," Jasmine continued sunnily as she waited.

Gemma stalked past her.

"How do you know which way to go, anyway?" she grumbled as Jasmine began to guide them further up the slope out of the valley, angling slowly towards the craggy peaks just visible beyond the rolling, thickly-forested hills. Anything to distract herself, stop her mind from sinking further into lurid, lustful fantasies.

"Well, Mac's ignored Dad's offer of a lift from Sandby," replied Jasmine. Gemma gave her a look, and the wolf girl grinned and explained, "The nearest wolf airfield." 

Wolf airfield? An image of a wolf in a world war one flying helmet with goggles perched on his long, furry nose darted into Gemma's mind.

".. and this is the fastest route through the Cappachians - he can probably even beat car speed as he doesn't have to go round via Denby pass, and can swim across the narrow point of lake Armande."

He was coming on foot? Slow! "You're sure he hasn't caught a cab round?" questioned Gemma grouchily. Her skin was aching, seared to stretched tenderness with the desire to be touched, and it was rubbing off on her mood.

"A human cab?" responded Jasmine incredulously. Then added strongly, "Positive."

"Why not?" growled Gemma.

"Because the petrochemical stench makes us ill. He'd be incapacitated, and it takes forever to get it out of the fur. We keep them off wolf territory as far as possible." Jasmine slanted a teasing eye across at Gemma, "You might be a little disappointed if he just lay around groaning and vomiting. And you can bet that's not what he wants to do either."

What Mac wanted. Mmmmm. Cool it. Cool it! Think of something coherent. Anything. Anything!

"I rode in a car with Madam," Gemma's voice had risen to a high pitch, but she managed to breathe out the whole sentence, and even to drawl the last word in slightly squeaky sarcasm. She focussed desperately on memories of that silent, brooding drive. Just hanging in there.

"Electric," responded Jasmine succinctly. "With solar panels. Every range has a few, but wolves mainly go everywhere on foot. Unless it's really long distance or urgent. The Louse, of course, likes the ostentation of rolling around in her Rolls."

"Plane?" Gemma squeaked. She wished it was the steep wooded incline they were walking up that was making her so breathless. It was, she assured herself, dragging her stubborn mind away from indulging in memories of other times her breath had been particularly short. Absent. Caught in her throat as he surged a heavy thrust up her passage. Jasmine's answer filtered slowly through her burning, molten preoccupation.

"..some kind of fuel cells - I think it's very explosive, can't remember. Just not the stinky stuff you lot use." The wolf girl wrinkled her nose. "But we know he ordered a plane from Huxley to Sandby, so to get to Sidville from Snake pass," Jasmine indicated a gap between two of the jagged peaks with her hand, "he's got three valleys he can follow - we've crossed two now and the next - the valley of Lake Manitree, well it's the most direct anyway. We haven't crossed his trail."

Next valley.

Gemma's stomach started doing cartwheels while her limbs trembled, and she quickened her pace.

"Ah - knew you could go faster," scoffed her companion quietly.

Shortly afterwards, they reached the stony crest of the ridge and paused together, looking down across the grassy slope to the tree-lined borders of a wide expanse of glittering blue water. Hills in the distance lifted on the other side of the lake; spruces, pines and birch basking together in the warm sunshine. Mountains closed the end of the wide valley, the green, tree-lined slopes falling away to craggy summits.

Jasmine's nose twitched. She lifted it gently, scenting the breeze as she slowly straightened to her full height. Gemma watched her. The black eyes glittered. A delicate flush spread across Jasmine's cheekbones, and a shiver ran through her slender frame as her lips parted slightly.

The glittering gaze turned to Gemma. Jasmine was breathing in short, gentle pants, wide-eyed. Then she swallowed and softly murmured, "Wow." There was a touch of envy, of almost challenge in the black gaze as she met the human's eyes.

A gust of warm, scent-laden breeze swirled around them and Gemma tensed, fingers curling into claws as she caught his musk. She snarled viciously at her companion, leaning forward challengingly, then blinked, stopped, and clapped her hands to her mouth, horrified.

But she could feel her nails biting into her cheeks as she snarled even more ferociously past her palms, advancing an aggressive step towards her new friend.

Who wasn't there. Jasmine whisked around with a snort of laughter and a furry golden and grey back bounded off down the hillside, streaking downwind, away. Gemma caught the words, "I'm gone!" floating across the empty space in front of her, as her fighting blood sank and was smothered in the lust that exploded through her, consuming every pore.

The fury also rose again in her mind - she was accustomed to the pull now, but this time they were both pulling together, and it was unstoppable. The ache in her nipples intensified to a tingling fire and she felt a surge of hot, liquid tension melting and cramping in waves of lust between her thighs as she climbed a panting plateau of excitement, almost peaking just from his musk, and the knowledge that he was here. She began a fast trot down the hillside, aching, burning, fuming.

He was here!

He was late.

The tension of the hours since she first scented the boy, the aching, unceasing torment of her own arousal, the urgency of the chase, the furious fights, the internal struggle- the tumult of feelings all intensified the anger in her mind and her blood. She was seething, melting in a furnace of furious lust as she bounded over the coarse grass, tugging off the small ring on her pinkie and stowing it away inside her fleece pocket.

He wasn't getting her that easily. 

Make him earn it.

Gemma halted, trembling with harshly controlled lust on a lower crest and surveyed the lush landscape below her where the forest spread up from the lake shore. Her breath caught a little at the speed of the white fur streaking through the trees at the foot of the hill, weaving an effortless, breathtakingly fast course beside the water towards her hill. He was so beautiful, so in tune with his surroundings. So powerful. Her blood pulsed.

He still had to earn it.

He'd better.

Gemma's eyes narrowed as she spotted a good ambush point and she broke into her own run, bounding joyfully down the hill, the clarity of the heat in her mind, the simmer in her blood and on her skin all drawing her, pulling together to intercept him, weariness forgotten.

Mac jerked his head up, sniffing sharply, and swerved to a skidding halt on a flat hollow of sandy earth wedged between the lake shore and a tall scar of rock just as Gemma landed lightly on the curved smooth summit of the sandstone slab above him. She grabbed an overhanging tree branch to steady herself as she stood at the edge, staring down at his sleek, huge form. Her feet had loosed a light shower of sand and small stones, which scattered on the white fur head even as in one graceful, urgent lunge, Mac surged onto two feet, into lycan form, and leaped up against the smooth rock face, reaching for her with a straining right arm. Gemma quickly drew her left ankle back further out of reach, her eyes glittering down as she glared at him, hand on her hip, while he landed back at the base of her rock.

"You're late!" she growled accusingly, and kicked off her abused trainers. Her feet were planted hip width apart and she could feel the lust pooling, crashing through her as his hot male scent broke over her. Hot, hot, and oh so male. Liquid seeped down between her thighs and she growled again as the male musk curled around, melting her. Her skin tightened as he looked up and she caught the black glitter of answering lust in his eyes, the black spreading, obliterating the last remaining glimmers of green in his gaze as her own doft melted into him. The air shimmered between them.

Mac half-whined, half-snarled as he gathered himself and leaped against the rock again, his powerful lunge aided with urgent, surging, perfectly-timed pulls of his arms. Impossibly, his momentum and fierce determination powered him all the way up the long, smooth slab. Gemma's breath caught in her throat and her heart jumped in fierce pleasure at his triumph, his impossible feat, when his face appeared over the top of her rock, eyes burning intent into her. Then anger spiked and she lifted a dusty foot and nudged it sharply against his forehead, pushing him back as his balance wavered on the brink. Her heart skipped again and she had to jump to evade the swift swipe of his hand grabbing for her ankle even as he tumbled back down to the bottom and rolled smoothly to all fours.

Not that easy. She glared at him, challengingly as she slowly undid the haphazard bits of cloth holding together her jeans, dropped them to her ankles, and kicked them aside.

A wide, ferociously answering grin split Mac's face as he met the challenge in her angry gaze. There was a flash of white fur and the white wolf streaked to disappear silently around the side of the slab, seeking another way up.

Damn, he moved fast.

Gemma's blood pulsed again in hot excitement, and she swiftly tossed aside her fleece and dove off her rock at a shallow angle into the calm blue waters of the lake. The cool liquid seemed to part effortlessly, evaporating away from the burn of her skin as she powered into a fast crawl towards the cliff of the opposite shore.

She heard a second splash behind her, and could feel her skin tightening further, further, at the knowledge that he was chasing. On her tail. Mmm.

Catch me if you can. Damn you.

She accelerated, speeding gracefully away from him in her favourite crawl, sure that she could out-swim a wolf in the water. Far out, she glanced back and a pulse of urgent arousal slammed through her, fracturing her stroke when saw how close he was behind her. Her breath caught and she spluttered at the mouthful of water. Damn. The lycan could swim. Fast. As she desperately broke into a faster stroke, the memory of that glimpse of the power of him chasing after her melted into her already overheated blood and she lost way, her limbs tangling in flustered excitement. 

Double damn. She glanced back again. Closer. Still closer. Then the furious burn echoed in her head - make him work - and she centred herself and powered back to full speed, extending herself into a challenging, all-out stroke.

He's still going to catch you before you reach the opposite cliff. The excitement pulsed again, momentarily clouding her eyes. Her skin tightened with anticipation of him reaching her, and the burn drove her to curve her path urgently towards a small wooded island near at hand to their right. Mac closed the distance rapidly as he cut the corner, and she could heard him a breathtakingly short distance behind her as she splashed into the thigh-deep shallows, scrambling to heave herself onto the grassy bank. His hoarse, heavily excited breathing was gaining swiftly as she rolled across the soft green carpet towards a tall Scots pine. 

Too close.

Gemma finished her roll with a swing to her feet, grabbing up a wrist-thick branch the length of her forearm and a handful of sandy earth as she swung to face him.

Mac rose to his full height two metres away in the thigh deep water, breathing harshly. The shimmer of the sunlight reflecting across his form and dancing off the water surrounding him blurred the detail of his trembling frame, but the fire in the eyes burning into hers captured her breath, holding her still.

There was a prickle across her skin, a light rake of unsettled feeling across her senses. Mac seemed larger. He was larger, the sleek fur plastered to his shoulders and upper arms beginning to bulk his form as the water ran out of it. He was more densely packed, coiled into a rougher, more solid, aggressive, fighting form - the leashed power of him stirring the air between them and trembling across her skin as he waded smoothly forward.

The shade of a tree fell across him, and her breath caught audibly as she bit her lip, frozen in place as her wide eyes adjusted to the softer light and she stared at him. He stopped.

Bloody hell.

He was a monster - a raw, feral fighting machine, packed tight into the looming, heavy frame, breathing power. A vicious, wild, untamed version of her laidback, laughing flatmate. Her gaze traced over him, the shimmer in her blood tightening as the wariness melted into appreciation. A beautiful monster.

The features were broadly the same, lightly dusted with very short fur the gorgeous colour of his human hair. The flecks of green rising in the black gaze warmed her, and she dropped her gaze to trace over the well-known, strong nose and the blunt chin. 

He needed a shave. Everywhere.

Were his ears slightly more pointed? His jaw slightly heavier? Or did the fur just make them seem so, blurring the outlines. The beautiful, sleek pelt moulded to his powerful frame was lifting, fluffing out in the warm breeze. That tawny gold swirled with streaks of dark and light - clean, healthy soft hairs that her fingers longed to tease, to stroke through. The fur was longer on his back and upper arms, reaching almost two inches across his shoulders while shorter hairs defined his forearms and heavily muscled chest. An arrow of longer hairs curved down from his chest across his belly, ridging through the very fine, almost invisible, tiny hairs covering his abdominal muscles before fading at his groin, which was hairless.

Her eyes lingered briefly on the slightly swollen, small blue PVC patch taped tightly to his stomach across the wound, but then they were drawn, inexorably, to the right, to the swollen, moist, proud head of his taut, throbbing erection. It swelled larger as her eyes lingered, widening, and she moistened suddenly dry lips.

Was he bigger there too?

Mac trembled as her gaze traced over him, but made no attempt to advance nearer. His fists were clenching and unclenching against his thighs, and Gemma noticed that the nails were black, standing out starkly against the tawny fur of his fingers. They didn't look to be longer than usual.

He was beautiful. Powerful and sleek.

Her breath was short, chest rising and falling in light pants as her eyes lifted again, tracing slowly over the sculpted lines of his chest to meet his gaze. The green swirl in the black melted into her and she felt a drench of liquid warmth pulsing, melting through her body, soothing down the tension in her spine.

He was still Mac.

Mac lifted an eyebrow questioningly.

"Scared?"

His voice was deeper, coming from that huge barrel of muscle. Huskier. Or maybe that was because of her. Her scent. Gemma tilted her head slightly to one side, raising both eyebrows in return as she pretended to ponder the question. Trembling lightly in turn. Respite over. Goody.

"Of you?" her tone was softly sarcastic, derisive, and her lips twitched at the sudden spark in the green-black eyes at her taunting tone.

Mac grinned and dove for her, exploding into movement so suddenly that her heart slammed against her ribs and the fire in her belly roared in satisfaction. The fire fuelled the anger but it was cooler, quieter now. 

She was supposed to fight. 

He was supposed to win.

But not that easily.

She had already dropped into a light stance and swung the heavily branch at him, striving to make him swerve backwards.

But Mac grabbed the weapon too swiftly for her to see, and abruptly she was in the air, swinging towards him by her own weight and her grip on the wood as he lifted it above his head. She dropped and landed eight inches from him, the heat of his smoothly muscled, harshly panting body tingling along the wet surface of her aching skin, lust burning demandingly through every particle. Then she flung the handful of dusty earth and dry pine needle into that intent, demanding grin even as he reached for her.

"You were LATE!" she snarled, springing for the tree as he reared back, coughing and swiping his hand over his dusty mouth, eyes closed.

Not that easy!

She was leaping to reach for the third tier of branches, hauling herself further up towards the smaller twigs where he couldn't follow, when she heard him stop coughing and chuckle huskily. The tree swayed as he leaped into the lowest branches.

Glancing down, Gemma was mesmerised by the molten black maelstrom in his eyes, and her breath caught as she was drawn into that heat, melting, feeling the burn of it igniting her skin as her own senses faded into nothing but awareness of him.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 06



He smiled up at her and softly, tauntingly crooned, "I'm going to catch you." A shudder shook her slight frame as the words burned in fire across her skin, tingling, and she felt the molten, liquid core of her pool and trace a path down her leg as pleasure pulsed through her.

Mac's eyes glazed over slightly, glittering madly as her musk ran over him, and he panted heavily and lunged for the branch at her feet. A spike of pleasure, of anticipation shot through Gemma with the word No! now reverberating like a playful song in her head, and she laughed as she dove back into the lake over his head.

Catch me! 

She curved the dive, angling back under the water toward the shore of the island, surfacing and leaping back onto the grassy bank as the ripples of his following dive lapped her skin, before spinning to see which way he was heading. If her ruse had worked.

A squeak escaped her at the end of her spin as she was enveloped in a huge, breathtaking hug, Mac colliding with her in his own leap after her onto the shore. He twisted as they spun together in the air, exploding on another laugh as he landed flat on his back on the grass with her cradled on top of him in his arms, her breath knocked out of her by the sudden pounce.

And the sudden feel of him. Skin against skin. Wet skin. Hot, wet, slick, lightly-furred skin. Her body was shuddering as she melted against him, feeling the last strands of anger evaporating.

Mac laughed huskily as he smelt the change in her scent, murmuring softly into her ear, "Gotcha."

Then he nibbled the lobe gently, murmuring, "Mmmmm," as her doft melted around him, and his cock hardened impossibly to the fierce, demanding, unstoppable urge to mate. His mate.

Gemma's blood exploded, and she arched, skin screaming with want against him as she let out a breathless, high-pitched cry, unbearably stimulated by the rich musk that rolled over her and the sharp tang of pleasure reverberating out from where his teeth pressed into her ear.

She couldn't see, couldn't sense anything outside the circle of his arms as he rolled her urgently beneath him and pulled her thighs apart. Her hands slid up his arms, clamping tight around the hard muscle as she arched on a second cry when his throbbing, swollen cock slammed home urgently in her wet, aching pussy. The burn of him breaching her was a forceful ache, a pleasure and a pain, completion, and she sobbed out a second moan, curving her belly up towards him as his demanding thrusts began to shake her small frame. His fur was brushing gently, teasing her brittle, oversensitive skin with each powerful slam into her and she cried out abruptly, stretching and breaking into shudders of pleasure as an orgasm wracked her with the feel of him. Finally. 

Mac's breathing was harsh, hoarse as he lifted one of her thighs and pressed her foot back to his shoulder, turning her slightly sideway to increase the depth of his plunging cock. Thoughts fractured, blood demanding, he increased the pace of his urgent penetrations and held her in place for the incredibly fast, broken staccato rhythm of his hips against her. His mate. His. A soft howl was rising in his throat as the pleasure intensified, and she tightened around him again, crying out in pleasure and bucking up to meet him as he rode her. Mac held back for a brace of aching, intense, pulsing seconds before the howl escaped and he exploded into pleasure, dropping to sinking his teeth possessively into her neck as he thrust and spurted his seed inside her rippling sheath. 

Through the pleasure of her shuddering, crashing orgasm, Gemma felt the sharp possession of the hard bite sinking into her flesh as his hips ground against her and his cock swelled further to explode in her tight sheath. She arched again, crying out in aching, beautiful wonder as she exploded in turn, pushed higher, further than the stars. The ripples went on, and on, unceasing, unbearable, beautiful as slowly, slowly, she sank back into herself.

Mac was gently licking the tender spot on her neck - his spot - as his cock slowly hardened again inside her. She felt a sudden flash of hatred sear across her skin at the memory of those others - Marsh wolves - scenting it. Mac lifted his head to see what had caused the shudder, the tension in his mate, and Gemma raised a trembling hand and gently brushed it over the light fur covering those oh-so-well know features. It was soft, baby-down on his face, tawny, the dark and light streaks accentuating the angles of his face. 

How come he wasn't a wolf? Gemma's intended words emerged as a slightly grunted squeak, and Mac smiled and dropped his head to lick a long possessive swipe up the scent trail between her breasts. His cock hardened to swollen readiness instantly, pulsing against her passage walls and he smiled down at her wide-eyed expression as he licked the last flavour of her delicious doft off his lips, looking down into her heated, shiny face. Her soft little smile pleased him. He didn't think she even knew it was there - it was his smile. The smile for him. Because of him. He began to rock inside her pussy in short, soft little lunges.

"Ma-!" His name was cut off as he pleasured her with the hard little thrusts, increasing in tempo, and Gemma gasped, arching as the melting, tightening sensation radiated out from the friction of his cock sliding, pulsing inside her. She couldn't speak, arching up against him and pleading with her body as he increased the pace, slamming into her with heavy, short bursts. 

Mac slid out of her suddenly, making her gasp in protest as he rolled them both, his scent wrapping around her, hugging her. Then he separated and landed with a splash off the bank in the thigh-deep water by the lake-shore, gently hauling her by her ankles until her buttocks were hovering precariously on the edge of the bank. Her legs naturally parted from their weight and she reached urgently for him, empty, as he folded her knees back against her chest and advanced between them. Mac bent to kiss her, and then slid his cock back smoothly into her wet pussy as he thrust his tongue into her mouth. He lifted and began to slam in harder, the change in angle giving him deeper reach as he grunted with each bottomed out thrust and felt the heated lust surge through his veins as she came under him again while he tweaked her nipples and pounded urgently into her. Her scent as she came - just intoxicating. 

Oh god. Oh god. The tension was peaking, repeated waves of intense pleasure wracking through Gemma as he rode her hard. She didn't know this was possible, to keep this feeling, this intensity, this bursting, melting, cresting sensation repeating again and again as he mated her. Her eyes blacked out again as the pleasure in her body burst around him, and she writhed on an echoing cry impaled on his throbbing, thrusting cock. He kept on. And on. She couldn't bear it, couldn't stand any more of the aching, intense pleasure. She cramped again, screaming as she arched into a third wave as he leaned further over her and rocked hard, furious, slapping pounding between her thighs. Then as her unbearably sensitized body released the clamping hold on her muscles, she heard him growling in satisfaction and felt him swell inside her, bursting to spurt his seed. Fire burned through her and she screamed in release at the intensely possessive pleasure-pain of his teeth biting down on the tender skin of her neck, aching to peak again, her own cries echoing in her head as she blacked out. 

Gemma was folded over her knees, leaning on her forearms, head resting exhausted on the grass between her hands as she slowly came back to herself. Mac was feathering light kisses over her spine, standing behind her still in the lake, his newly erect cock brushing against her buttocks as he leant over her, trembling lightly in tension as he held himself back. He held a cupped hand to her lips and she drank the cool liquid eagerly. His cock surged against her soft cheeks.

Gemma groaned, dropping her head back to the soft turf and muttered tiredly, "I need to sleep."

His warm sigh tingled arousal against her back, and felt him grasp her hips gently, firmly in both hands, teasing his cock against the entrance to her pussy. She pulsed in hot, liquid want, despite the bonelessness of her entire body. Yes. Yes. Yes. But she couldn't lift her head off the grass.

"Mac, I'm exhausted."

"One more, please, picchu. Then you can sleep for a while. Please?"

For a while. Her lips twitched, face down in the grass. She could get into being on heat. 

"Mmm. So long as I don't have to do anything," she grumped drowsily into the blades tickling her lips. 

His thumb brushed against her cheek and he pressed gently on her jaw to turn her face sideways. 

"And what does that word mean?" she grumbled, then a scent teased at her nostrils and eager pleasure exploded through her, tightening every pore into instant, racing urgency so that she arched back up against him, pressing her buttocks insistently against his heavy, throbbing arousal. She parted her lips to pant as her blood erupted again in a surge of want.

He laughed huskily and thrust his tongue inside her ear at the same time as he carefully slid the tip of his index finger into her mouth, the drop of precum that he'd been teasing her nostrils with exploding on her tongue, heat surging to her nipples. No way did she want to sleep now. She suckled, hard, and he laughed again, carefully withdrawing his short nail from between her lips before he got too excited.

"That's my girl." The smug satisfaction in his voice grated on Gemma and she growled, slamming her buttocks back urgently against him. 

"Stop blethering on and fuck me."

He growled in return, a laugh in the sound, and wound one hand through her hair, pulling her head backwards so that her buttocks arched enticingly up towards him. He nudged them slightly wider to give him access, pressing his throbbing cock against her soft arse cheek as he leaned across her back, bending down to murmur again in her ear as he held her immobilised, panting, on her hands and knees, trembling with readiness.

"As requested, you don't have to do anything - just brace yourself. And keep on moaning, I love that."

He laughed as she folded her lips stubbornly closed - arrogant wolf - then he slammed in and began to rut on her hard, breathing harshly into her skin as he surged with pleasure within her. Gemma's hypersensitive passage crested on the first penetration, and despite her stubborn determination to deny the smug wolf, she couldn't prevent the moan which escaped her as he thrust in hard, harder. Wow. His breath was torture in her ears, the feel of it against her skin tingling in her nipples and the hard, relentless force of him pounding into her was right, so right. She moaned, louder again as she felt the burst of moisture trickle down her thighs again. Harder. Harder. He seemed to hear her voiceless plea through the moans, and the pace picked up impossibly until she was beaten hard with the slap of his hips against her buttocks. Gemma collapsed down onto her forearms, moaning in a high-pitched croon as he pounded relentlessly into her from behind, then arched back with a scream of pleasure as the grass brushed over her achingly tight nipples with the next forceful lunge of his hips. He thrust hard through each aching, moaning peak of her pleasure, riding the intensely delicious sensation of the ripples of her pussy squeezing around his cock, then released a full-throated howl of satisfaction as she collapsed under him, writhing, moaning, undone. He followed her down, surging the last, hardest thrusts inside her as he firmly, gently bit down on his mate and exploded in a third surge of intense, impeccable pleasure as he spurted within her.

Gemma's last, dazed awareness as his healing tongue lifted from her neck was of being gently, tenderly rolled into a warm fur embrace. "Why aren't you a wolf?" she murmured, half-asleep as she snuggled up against his chest, wrapping an arm around his waist, enjoying the soft brush of the down against her achingly sensitive skin. Her fantasy had come true.

Mac sighed, and stroked a gentle hand over her back as he cradled her to him. "You mean a loup? This is the wolf. And your scent is also wolf at the moment, Gem, so I can respond as myself. I won't hurt you like this." 

Her head was sinking softly into clouds of sleep-filled satiation. Her voice was a thread of sound, "This is you?"

"This is me," he responded softly, the hand sweeping gently down her spine. "Sleep, picchu."

Gemma 's brain drifted under the caress of the word, the endearment, as his warm hands soothed her body. That was another question - but she was too tired to ask now. Too tired. Too content. She slept.

 

Thanks for your patience! And all the votes and comments- comments are really appreciated as it's great to hear what you think.



Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 07



Gemma drifted out of a deep, contented sleep. She was lying curled half on her side, half on her front, tucked snugly into the crook of Mac's shoulder, fingers tangled lightly in the silken hairs of his chest. One of his arms was curved over her back, protective and warm, and his fingers were tracing a feather-light trail across the curve of her hip. A shimmer of gentle heat followed in their wake.

She never managed to waken before him. Sometimes he had gone hunting, either for food or for something else that he had decided she needed. Sometimes she awoke to find him carrying her through the forested hills, curled up in the soft fur he had brought for her. But in their six days entwined together so closely, she had yet to see him sleep.

The tangy scent of him, wild and slightly smoky, teased at her nostrils. So male. Her skin began to tighten, slowly, adoring his touch and the awareness. He was here. Mac. Her Mac. It was so difficult to stop her lightly tingling fingers from stroking softly, deeper into his fur, tracing the hard muscles, the light ridges of old scars hidden under the pelt. But she had so little time like this to savour, so little peace, so little simple enjoyment of him without the roaring fire engulfing them both. As soon as he realised that she was awake - or as soon as her own libido decided that she was awake -.

His blood speeded up under her ear, she could feel it beginning to race as his breath deepened. 

Damn. 

Yippee! 

He knew. He always knew. 

A jolt of awareness exploded in her belly, and she could feel the raging lust ignite, a flare of heat sheering through her as her blood combusted. Gemma squirmed against him, feeling his cock harden and begin to race against her thigh. The light, teasing fingers traced down to brush through the soft covering of hair between her thighs. Gemma's blood pulsed, longing, and her mind began to darken with the boiling clouds of want. She turned her hips to press her buttocks back against him without thought, legs parting a little way in invitation when his fingertips brushed lower.

His hand dipped to cup over her pussy, and one finger stroked gently into the valley, collecting moisture from her opening to swirl it teasingly around the hard little nub of her clit. God. The hoarse, rasping breaths on the air were hers, and she parted her legs wider, fingers clenching in his chest fur, moaning when he stroked one hard finger into her while his thumb played with her aching clit. 

"Always so delightfully ready, my picchu," he purred the growl into her ear, delicately tweaking her little nub as he withdrew his fingers so that she arched with a cry, then laying his full weight upon her. Gemma's hands stroked up to his broad shoulders and she combed her fingers through the thick, bewitchingly soft pelt, enjoying the silken brush against her skin while her legs automatically, eagerly, widened when he pressed his hard thighs between them. Always. 

"Pity you're so reluctant," she retorted teasingly, squirming a little under his weight to rub her belly gently against the straining, moist-tipped erection throbbing between them. The sound he released was a slight groan, slight growl, and he lifted up, pulling one of her legs wider to position her for his cock.

"You slept for hours," he grumbled as he slowly breached her, stretching her walls around his hard, pulsing readiness. He had been waiting. As usual.

"You exhausted me," Gemma gasped back, her voice cutting off on a rising, breathless squeak when he bottomed out, filling her, stretching her with his unbearable, delicious, heavy organ. He stilled, a little smirk on his lips as he looked down from where he was braced above her, keeping his weight just off her chest so that his fur teased her erect nipples.

"Oh-oh," he murmured teasingly, "Did I just hear you speak while I was in you, little mate? Without the magic word?"

Ho ho ho, Mr. Wolf. Gemma's eyes gleamed back up him and she folded her lips together, arching against his body, tightening her inner muscles around his cock while she slid her hands gently down to his forearms, brushing over the soft fur. She wasn't going to let him win this time. 

Mac's eyes slid half-closed in pleasure, gleaming, lips parting. The trouble was, hers did too. The feel of him, throbbing motionless inside her. Exquisite. But she wanted him to move. And he was waiting, damn him. So she did it again, arching further and rippling her muscles around his deeply embedded, hard member. Mac's head tilted back, his eyes glazed over and mouth parted to let out a long, deep sigh of pleasure.

She milked gently around his cock a third time and he began to pant, heatedly, as a shiver ran through his powerful frame. Gemma's eyes were gleaming, but she felt a different, powerful jolt run through her when his head tilted back down and his eyes met hers, glittering, predatory, and fierce.

Damn his eyes. He could make her melt just with that hot, erotic glare.

Mac braced himself on one arm, eyes gleaming challengingly back into hers while he stroked a warm hand around to cup and squeeze her left breast, gently rolling the nipple between his fingers. Gemma lifted into a back-breaking arch, moaning from the pleasure, straining into the pull of his hand kneading expertly around her tender, aching mound. Pleasure lanced through from her chest to the tight, throbbing pulse between her thighs and the fire of his touch, his scent and the presence of him poised over her, in her, burned in searing fire through her blood, demanding more, demanding friction, heat, possession. Now.

Dammit, she wanted him to move. Now. Please. Quivering, taut with the delicious feeling, she sighed under his circling touch, biting on her lower lip to hold back the word.

His hand began to glide down, across her soft belly, and her skin erupted in wanton desperation, just from the anticipation. Dammit, he didn't play fair - she knew what he could do with his fingers, and if he still wouldn't thrust -. Gemma gasped, thoughts cut off as he slid that teasing finger back against her nub. No, she couldn't - oh. She groaned, lifting and squeezing around the stiff, throbbing cock embedded in her, hearing his breath hitch from the sensation but she was unable to pull herself back together, to focus, to plan - she couldn't think, just - Oh, not that. Oh. Yes. Please, god, yes. Just give it to me, don't - aw -, dammit, Mac, yes, yes, please - I can't -.

"Mac, please!" the words exploded from her, then she cried out wordlessly, back arching violently off the rug, the intense pleasure sheeting through her when her mate cut her off, slamming his cock in a breathtakingly swift withdrawal and advance in her slick, aching sheath. Oooo - despite knowing he was waiting to do that, despite knowing how smug it made him each time he proved he could pull the words from her, Gemma writhed breathlessly underneath the pleasure of it. It was glorious, she loved this game. Damn him.

Mac stilled again and her eyes opened. He was looming above her, a smile on his face - slight triumph, slight shamefacedness. He couldn't resist this play, loved re-affirming what he could do to her, but he waited to watch her eyes as they reopened. She glowered up at him, and reached her hands up urgently to yank him down for a deep, long kiss.

"For god's sake, Mac, just pound me into the ground," she gasped as she re-surfaced, and saw the eager, gleaming light ignite in his eyes. He leaned forward and swept her legs up and around so that she could hold her own ankles before he began to surge powerfully into her, the blood in her veins beating higher with each slam of his thighs against hers. Oh god oh god oh - the grinding of his hips as he bottomed out each time, the scent of his arousal, the brush of his fur - Mac. Gemma screamed as she arched in pleasure, her eyes blacking out, and she rippled around the frenzied thrusts of him inside her. 

Mac grunted as the sensation of her orgasm caught him, lifting back slightly to increase the angle while he pounded into her cunt, quickening, swelling, increasing the delicious sensation. 

Gemma could feel herself sliding off the rug and onto the grass at the urgent force of his shattering thrusts. Mac groaned and his erection swelled further inside her, urgent hands biting into her hips to hold his mate in position for the pleasure of each deep, full penetration, again and again. His groan intensified into a growl, growing breathless with each forceful surge up her slick pussy while the tingling pleasure built, built, crested, then abruptly surged down his spine to explode exquisitely out of his cock. His mate was whimpering in pleasure as she was stretched by the swell of his organ pulsing inside her, while he grunted as he spurted again and again.

The ripples of his exploding within her stroked shatteringly, beautifully, along the depths of Gemma's intensely sensitised passage, making her melt and cry out under him again, breathless in liquid pleasure, soaring, Their mingled harsh, deep breathing was echoing through the air when Mac slowly rested his full weight down on her, teeth closing in a gentle, exquisite nip over the tender skin at her neck.

Gemma's slowly, contentedly drifted back to awareness, fingers tangling, brushing through his shoulder fur as the ripples of pleasure inside her eventually subsided. His hair was so smooth, so silken. Whispering against her fingertips. Mac sighed contentedly and rolled again, separating from her, removing his weight. His forearm lifted to shade his eyes from the morning sun while he lay still for a moment. Then he surged to his feet. He was always so damn energetic. 

And he calls this feeble.

Thinking back to the days in her flat, Gemma was quite impressed. The completely laid-back lack-of-hurry which had characterised the human Mac back home had successfully hidden this teeming energy underneath; despite the fact that he'd been holding down a night job, and working as a photographer, she had somehow gained the impression that he'd slept most of the day while she was out.

I doubt it.

"I'll get breakfast, picchu," her wolf murmured as he strode off toward the nearby trees. Gemma admired his taut buttocks and smiled from her prone position, flattened, contented, on the grass. His pet name for her stroked softly over her skin - apparently it was a Finnish corruption of a wolf dialect of Spanish - or something like that - courtesy of a distant great grandmother. Mac seemed to have very mottled ancestry. It translated roughly as little jug of sweetness, a private endearment passed down in his family, which he kept just for her. 

So Jasmine had probably been telling the truth when she claimed that she didn't know what it meant. The wolf girl had not merely been winding Gemma up.

"I'll have a wash," she called back, flopping reluctantly into a roll toward the running water she could hear. She didn't have much time. Her mate growled under his breath, disapprovingly, and she grinned to herself. That had been one of their main fights. Mac didn't think she should wash in a lake or river - he preferred to lick her clean. And he was quite adamant that his scent should mark her all over, at all times. However, Gemma had decided that she wanted a break - there was very little time while she was awake that she wasn't flirting for his touch, being ferociously, thoroughly mated, or being stuffed with food. And if he licked her clean - well, she knew where that would go. 

So she had requested that he stop them somewhere where she could bathe at each new camp. And had discovered that for someone who could hear a leaf landing on soft grass, Mac could become remarkably deaf. She got a bit more insistent. Mac had listened unhappily to her arguments about needing a pause to recover from the constant, mind-blowing orgasms - he was aware that she didn't have the stamina of a sjeste. He'd winced a little when she'd described how tender her overactive pussy was, how it needed the cool water to wash after each sexual explosion - although actually, she just wanted to feel clean. So he'd quietly agreed. 

However, the sneaky wolf had known that a wash between each mating would be impossible - there was no way she was able to drag herself away from him between each tempestuous union, often there was no more than a few moments of kissing as he swelled again inside her. Mmm. So she'd settled on washing once a day. Before breakfast - when her body was hollow, stomach roaring for food, and the molten, relentless urge was for once eclipsed, after only one heated mating, by the demanding food-hunger. She could sneak in a wash while he prepared their meal, if she was quick. She grabbed the soft soap. 

Freezing, freezing, cold water. Bother that wolf. She was sure he picked the coldest rivers he could find, trying to get her to change her mind. When Gemma stumbled shivering back onto the bank after the fastest wash ever, Mac was there, popping a chunk of lightly roasted venison in her mouth and engulfing her in a sun-warmed towel. While she savoured the rich taste melting on her tongue - thinking slightly wistfully about cereal and toast - he briskly rubbed her dry, rubbed her warm, muttering, "Stubborn idiot." 

He fed her some berries with the other pieces of meat, smiling as she bit gently at his fingertips when she took his offerings, before returning to his brisk rubbing. Then when her skin and scalp were glowing from the cold and the heat and the friction, he dropped the towel and stepped in to press his chest lightly against her back, twining his body and arms around her, stroking his fur against her slowly, deliberately. Gemma shivered and held still, leaning slightly into him, delighting in the feather-light brush of the soft hair across her vividly sensitive skin. He wound around her side, lifting her arm and sliding it luxuriously through his fur, stropping her with his musk. Her eyes gleamed up at him and he smiled back down at her while he moved slowly, thoroughly, renewing the scent claim on every inch of her body. His.

She didn't object to this bit of her wash. She could feel the curl of satisfied pleasure that purred in some some deep, inner core.

They ended up curled together as usual by the small smouldering embers of the fire he had lit - he was paranoid about her getting cold, after that first night when he'd gotten back from the hunt to discover just how unresilient humans are to the elements. Gemma was tucked between his spread thighs on her folded rug, hands resting on the soft jeans clinging lovingly to the taut muscles of his bent legs - Mac dressed for meals, too. Partially. His bare chest was warming her back through the soft fabric of the warm (and easily removable) deceptively simple green jersey dress he had brought for her. Her toes were toasting on her pillow by the fire. She snuggled her head contentedly into the fur of his shoulder, drying hair draped down his back, smiling as she accepted another piece of his kill from his hands. That had been the really major fight, but she knew better now. 

She should have realised how deep the hurt from that first night had gone earlier - but they came from completely different worlds. And while he could blend into her world, she had little experience in his. He'd gotten back from that first hunt to find her awake and frozen, stumbling about on the tiny island looking for something, anything to warm herself with. And she'd been absolutely ravenous - but not quite enough to gag down any of the deer carcass raw. It had been hanging over his shoulder, glassy eyed and looking very dead. 

Yes, he had anticipated the raw meat problem. Mac had proudly produced a box of matches, but had clearly never built a fire in his life. Then there had not been enough dry wood on their island to sustain any flames, and they had had to swim back to the mainland in the chill black water in the moonlight. On reaching the shore, Gemma had been almost unable to move, the wracking shudders of cold achingly deep and dangerous. 

Mac had been desperate, fighting to coax some life into glowing embers while he kept himself wrapped around her, wet fur clinging to frozen skin where she burrowed as close as she could to the heat of him. The fire had finally grumbled into life but the hunks of venison torn out by his teeth, when he had hurriedly cooked them, had ended up raw on the inside, with a burnt black crust, revolting. And he'd wanted to post morsels of it into her mouth. Eugh. She had been too tired and cold and hungry and horny to be tactful, and they had had a major fight before winding up entwined around each other and rutting madly.

Then there had been another fight the next morning when she'd woken up in a different hollow, beside a different dead animal, and she still wouldn't let him feed her. The meat had been better cooked that time, he had built the fire before she woke, but still, it had been impossible to choke down pieces of saltless, semi-raw meat with the carcass lying beside the fire, delicate, stiffened legs swaying, ungainly in death, when he tore a few pieces off for himself. And she was perfectly capable of picking up her own food, thanks very much Mr. Domineering Wolf. Yelling into each others' faces had made the sex even more heated; desperate, demanding and ferocious.

The second evening she'd woken up in a third place, curled in a warm rug, surrounded by takeout. Chinese, Thai, Japanese, hamburgers and a big crusty pizza - she'd sampled her way through everything, wolfing down the still-warm food into her starving empty pit of a stomach. Only some sixth sense had made her lift her head, her mouth stuffed, a burger in one hand and aromatic duck in the other, to see the sad green eyes watching from the shadow of the trees. They'd disappeared before she could blink.

That night and the following day, between eating and sleeping, he'd still bedded her constantly, the urge was unstoppable. But he'd treated her with a gentle, tentative sweetness that made her want to cry - or hit him - he was being so damn careful not to offend her further that she could barely breathe. And he hadn't been Mac - he had seemed shy of revolting her, wouldn't eat in front of her and wouldn't bring his kill back with him, surrounding her instead with take-out boxes and disappearing while she ate. 

Over the course of the third day she'd begged him with increasing urgency to eat his food with her, and then to let her share his kill - dammit, she could teach him how to cook if he insisted on doing it himself. 

Sad, deaf wolf. Gemma had pleaded, demanded, coaxed, kicked him, but none of it had worked - they had found a tentative truce ground, and he wasn't going to rock the boat. He was so damn stubborn.

So she had stopped eating. 

It should have been harder than it was, going without food, considering the amount of exercise the two of them could not resist. But she'd been infected by his sadness - despite the physical closeness, it was as if a wedge was sneaking between them, slowly, gently pushing them apart. She had only refused to accept food from his fingers, but it felt like she'd spat in his face. And he showed no resentment, he was just - wary. Like he didn't understand why she'd been so angry, and didn't want to push her into another vitriolic fight like that. Didn't want the hurt.

He'd been appalled at first when he had found all of his offerings untouched that evening, face tightening in despair, until Gemma had told him she wouldn't eat unless he fed it to her. Then she'd seen the first spark of Mac in him, after a day of unproductive provocation. Black swirls firing in his eyes, the wolf had tugged her insistently to him and lowered his head to kiss her breathless. "Let's see what you say after a few hours of exercise," he'd growled, lowering her to the ground and following her down. 




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 07



She'd refused to back down though, waking increasingly frequently in the night with the clamping pains in her stomach, but distracting herself by rolling over and smothering her wolf with kisses. It had been interesting to note that he couldn't resist her, either.

Just before dawn her stomach had been aching so badly that it had woken her despite her exhaustion, and then had kept her awake, lying alone in her bed. She'd been rocking herself, shivering in a ball curled around her groaning emptiness when she'd felt Mac drop lightly behind her, cuddling her into the heat of him, his warmth welcome even through the rug. Then a small, delicious-smelling morsel of tender roasted duck had been held to her lips, making her stomach spasm desperately even as her blood simmered with hope.

"Stubborn, ornery human," her mate had growled into her ear, and Gemma had smiled contentedly when she'd heard that the caustic Mac was back. The duck was freshly roasted and had none of the slightly dry smell of takeout, she knew that he had caught and cooked it himself - but he'd dipped it in oyster sauce, and the heavenly scent tormented her echoing stomach. 

Reaching her teeth forward to gently lift the piece of meat from his hand, she had finally understood. There was something so damn intimate in letting him feed her, look after her this completely, licking the juices of his kill off his fingers while he smiled ruefully down at her, his bulk curled protective and warm around her back. This must be a wolf thing, and although she liked it, it had still sent a little tingle of unease up her spine, being so decadent and lazy - and subservient. 

He'd told her not to worry, it would only last while she was on heat. Afterwards - well, woe betide her if she dared filch any more pieces of his toast.

She had eaten most of the duck he had brought, and the peach to accompany it, which he had fed to her slice by slice until she began to suck gently on the tip of one piece, eyes gleaming naughtily up at him. That meal had ended there, and having him roll her impatiently onto all fours, pinning her under him so he could fuck her brutally was exquisite. Welcome home.

Gemma smiled at her memories, relaxing back contentedly against the warmth of her mate. They were both learning.

Mac lifted another cube of venison to her lips - there was some tangy marinade he'd soaked it in, and it tasted extra delicious this morning. Gemma leaned forwards eagerly to bite it out of his fingers, and Mac laughed softly, delightedly. Her insides squirmed, heart melting in soft pleasure. Yesterday evening, when she'd woken alone with a fuzzy mouth and been rummaging in his startlingly new backpack for her toothbrush, she'd bashed her knuckles against a hardback. Incredulous, she'd pulled it out - he was so bored while she slept that he had to read? - and had found a small publication called 'Camp Cordon Bleu'. The memory of it made her blink back tears. 

Mmm. Gemma curled slightly to one side, snuggling against him as she chewed on her breakfast, and brushed her fingers gently through the soft, silken fur of his upper arm and shoulder. She loved combing her fingers through the occasional tangles, teasing out a burr or a cake of dried mud until she could smother her nose in its silkiness, rubbing her face delightedly into the softness, breathing in the clear, hot scent of him. 

She almost sank into a hypnotic trance, watching her fingers brushing smoothly through the deep, soft pelt, and, mind drifting lazily, she commented, "I still feel a bit like a slave girl, accepting food from her master's hand." She opened her mouth without thinking as he lifted a cherry to her lips.

"If I wanted a sex slave, picchu, I'd just bite you again. Properly." Mac caressed his free hand across her neck meaningfully. Although he hadn't broken her skin once since the first time he caught her on the rut, the tender area above her collar bone was covered in a hieroglyph of hickeys. From the delicate, precise way he nipped her as they mated, and the pleased gleam in his eye whenever he surveyed the marks, Gemma had a feeling that they were a stark hands-off-or-else warning to any wolf who saw them. When she'd taxed her smug lover with her suspicion, he had just avoided the issue by nibbling across the area in a trail of fire, swamping her question with incoherent ecstasy. Although somewhere outside the lust she'd thought she'd heard a voice mutter gruffly, "Well if you will keep washing my scent off."

Sex slave. Mmmmm. Gemma's pussy throbbed in sudden, urgent delight, insides melting. Her lips twitched. "Not tempted at all?" she queried airily, sliding her hand slowly up his leg. She felt the bulge against her buttock swell, and he sighed a half-growl.

"I don't think you'd like being locked up when I wasn't fucking you, Gem. Wereem - female weres - are completely wanton, completely indiscriminate when it comes to lifting tail. They can't say no. Any male will do, any time, and I'm not letting some other wolf mount you."

Hah. Nor am I.

"You sound as if you know them well." Her voice was perfectly casual, but the clawed fingers digging into his thigh were a bit of a give-away.

His fingers stroked lightly in her scalp. She could feel him keeping quiet, and began to burn with jealousy. 

"Mac?" her tone was soft, with a hint of danger. His breath hitched as he smothered a laugh, pleased at her reaction. 

"The last wereem died when I was a cub, Gem. I remember when Isaiya - our grandmother - took us to visit her, we were about five. I thought she smelt a bit funny, but that's all."

Gemma smiled to herself, relaxing from the irritated tension prickling across her skin, instead picturing a five-year-old wolf's disinterested dismissal of the siren scent of a were.

She still had other questions about them.

"That's all? Then how do you know how a wereem would act? How do you know they go insane?" she demanded. This was important to her.

Mac wrapped his arms tighter and cuddled her closer against him. He knew what she was getting at, and his tone was a little sad. "Well, she was insane, Gem. Her eyes were - unsettling. Totally unfocussed, lost internally. And it's in our history. Our legends, our culture - there are many tales of the weres, male and female - some were good friends to the wolves, but friendship never changed the way they ended. Tales of short, tragic lives."

Damn, thought Gemma wistfully as his strength engulfed her. Wolf culture - Mac's culture. The history, the legends, the traditions that made up the life he was born to, the life he had returned to. The backdrop of his life. She kept getting lost in just the language. Every time she learned one word he introduced another. But she had to keep trying to learn, to get closer, it was entwined into her - he was entwined into her by now.

"Would you tell me one?" she asked softly.

He kissed the top of her head lingeringly, tightening his arms around her in a gentle, rocking hug. "Storytelling is an art, Gem. We share our lives, our legends through the spoken word, told and retold to the cubs under the stars. History enacted and exulted for the pack to remember who we were, certainly, but mostly to celebrate who we are. I couldn't do even a short tale justice."

She was jealous of his knowledge - this knowledge that all wolves shared. But he wouldn't share with her. "Why not?" she whispered.

He curled closer around her, breathing the words into her ear. "Because of your heat, my picchu. I am feeding you slowly, slowly, to savour the warmth of you lying softly in my arms, but my blood is growing impatient again already, and yours will be more so."

Dammit, dammit, true. 

But she wanted a story.

"You're an Alpha, aren't you? Control yourself!" Gemma grumbled.

She could feel Mac's smile against her ear, and he nibbled gently on the lobe, sending a frisson of awareness burning across her skin.

"I can control myself, little mate. But I think we both know that you can't."

HAH!

"Yes, I can," she growled back. A voice in the back of her head was wailing, Shut up, idiot! No way! No you can't!!  She ignored it. And trembled. 

So she was cold. 

Not.

His chest was vibrating underneath her, and she heard the laugh in his voice. "Gemma, you're so competitive - I can scent your arousal rising demandingly - why restrain yourself?"

"I want a wolf story."

"But I want to mate you."

Her blood leapt eagerly, straining at his soft, heated words. Her pussy clenched in longing.

"And you want me to mate you," he added huskily as her scent intensified.

Damn right, growled the voice in her head. She ignored it, stubbornly clinging onto her wistful wish.

And then he slid his hands up to clamp squeezing over her aching breasts, thrusting his tongue into her ear, and the wisp of alternative desire evaporated in fiery, wanton desperation. She whimpered and ground her hips back against his straining erection, excitement peaking, the wetness seeping onto her thighs. 

Abruptly she was rolled onto all fours, the dress flipped up across her back as urgent fingers bit into her hips and she was jerked back, impaled on the rock-hard cock jutting behind her. Mac slammed his thighs against her buttocks, the force causing her arms to buckle so her entire, naked torso was plastered against the soft grass, and his weight smothered her under him while he urgently thrust and ground his rampant cock down into her melting pussy. Gemma's cries were muffled in the grass, then she came violently under him, squirming breathlessly beneath his weight when he reached down and forced her twitching legs wide. He continued to spear her forcefully, grunting in intense pleasure, the speed of his thrusts increasing until he was pistoning into her like a sledgehammer, enjoying the jerky little cries of his mate as he flattened her. Gemma felt her legs stiffening again painfully as he impaled her mercilessly; all of her muscles tensed in a second, exquisite explosion of pleasure, and Mac cried aloud in ecstasy at the sensation while he forced his cock through her taut, rippling passage and came violently.

Gemma lay, panting under the force of her orgasm and his weight, blood hammering through her veins, and felt his teeth nip possessively at her shoulder.

"I'll tell you a story when you're no longer on heat, my little picchu," the words were growled softly against her skin, sending a shiver down her spine. Then Mac lifted his torso off her, braced on his forearms, and began to kiss his way gently down the sensitive flesh while his fingers and palms teased their way underneath her to cup around her naked breasts. His cock was already hardening again within her pussy. Gemma melted further, fresh liquid bathing his cock, and heard his swift intake of breath at her increased doft, feeling his member stiffen to full extent, stretching her passage with the heavy breach of his girth. He rocked back abruptly onto his feet, her boneless form held tight to him, and slid his fingers down to caress gently over her clit while he surged to full height.

Gemma cried out wordlessly, her legs weaving in the air from the sensations arcing through her over-sensitive body. She gasped as the cool air swirled against her overheated skin while he withdrew his cock, spun her so her back was against a tree, and pulled her legs high while his arms slid around her waist, her knees hooked over his elbows, and he thrust heavily back inside her.

"Mac!" The cry burst from her as he stretched her with his cock, and he pressed a brief kiss to her lips before pulling back to begin slamming into her with renewed passion. Wow. Unh. 

The build-up was heavier, slower, her skin tightening to unbearable sensitivity as her mate savoured the lush sensation of her slick, soft sheath around his cock, looking down at the tight peaks of her nipples and the abundant wetness covering his cock, a little smile gleaming in his eyes as he jerked up repeatedly into her.

"Say my name again," he growled the words harshly. His breath caught in the middle of the phrase, and the little halt, the hoarseness of his dry throat, seared satisfaction through her. Gemma felt her passage tighten further when she breathed her favourite word, and he thrust hard into her to meet it. She cried his name a second time, then a third, faster, faster, and he kept time with her, impaling her in a hard, smooth rhythm as her voice rose in excitement.

"Mac! Mac! Mac!" 

His thrusts were shaking the tree, forearms behind her cradling her from the harsh bark, and she could feel her eyes black out and blood begin to boil as the sensations intensified. Building, building - no, she couldn't. Too much. Too much. She groaned his name as her leg muscles began to tighten, to stiffen again, toes pointing. Blood pounding, her mind was going blank, the driving, ceaseless rhythm blinding her to all else and his name was lost in an endless, yelping moan, rising and falling as he drove into her. Mac tightened his arms around her and bent in to scent her throat, the doft of her peaking excitement tingling down his spine. His control blanked in a surge of pleasure and he began to fuck relentlessly, pounding into her.

Gemma screamed and arched, mind breaking in two as her body was wrenched into the most excruciatingly intense orgasm, shocks of pleasure shuddering shatteringly through her, and she lost touch with the world.

 

The slant of the afternoon sun glittering through the branches woke Gemma the second time. She was lying curled on her front, cuddling her pillow, tucked snugly into her rug. Her fingers were tangled lightly in the soft folds, seeking, missing the warm down of her wolf. 

A curl of disappointment writhed through her. He wasn't there.

Gemma blinked the bleariness out of her eyes and sat slowly up upon the leafy bower he had woven to keep her off the ground, gingerly stretching her over-used muscles. Way, way, over used. Deliciously so. Mmmm. Her eyes swept around the clearing, disappointedly verifying the absence of wolf. He had rebuilt the fire, she could see the transparent swirls of heat rising from the rough circle of cleared turf, but there was no wolf crouched by the flames humming as he cooked.

Gemma grinned to herself as the happiness bubbling inside her drove her to roll to her feet, stretching out her aching leg muscles. Ow. Too many, too, too intense orgasms. 

Double mmmm. 

She knew why he was missing. Now that she was reaching the end of her heat, both her doft and her urge to mate were becoming more intense, unbearably delicious, and it was driving Mac wild. Even wilder than before (which she hadn't thought possible). Moreover, his musk was getting more irresistible in response, so she wasn't able - or willing - to stop herself from pouncing on him constantly either. With the result that they were extra starving, and had wolfed down so much between recent couplings that her mate had had to go hunting again. An in-betweeney hunt, based from the same camp. And he disliked hunting the same area twice, calling it irresponsible.

His own fault for inspiring so much exercise.

Her blood was simmering, stomach beginning to growl volubly, and the flush of desire on her skin was almost painful in its tautness, but Gemma couldn't stop smiling. She picked up her second dress and pulled it over her head. The soft fabric slunk enticingly around her hips, hugging her curves and she spun excitedly on the spot to make the knee-length skirt fan around her in a whirl of rich autumn colours. It also gave her another reason for feeling giddy than just - Mac. 

Thinking about Mac. He loved this dress on her. And off her.

Stop it. 

Right.

She had to get moving or she'd go insane, just mooching here thinking about him. Thinking about what they'd do when he got back. Do with her on her back. Maybe. 

If she collected some firewood, then they could spend more time together on the more important things when he did get back. 

Life was good. 

So long as Mac didn't catch her doing any chores...

Her blood pulsed with excitement and she grinned again. She liked the way he stopped her.

Her mate was being damn intractable about her helping out with the day-to-day looking after of the pair of them. So he was stubborn. What a surprise. She had tried, several times, but he went very still, eyebrows twitching into a frown whenever she tried to do anything useful, and he would either lift the backpack she was trying to pack out of her reach or pull her to him and distract her from cooking or lighting the fire. Very damn successfully. 

She was on heat, he'd explained once. He was her mate. So he would look after her every need right now, not just the most burning, urgent one. A green-black lazily heated eye had slanted sideways. He was rewarded enough for his trouble. Then he'd bitten gently on her pouting lower lip and she'd snorted with laughter, pulling him closer while her pussy clenched in renewed need. She liked rewarding him. Loved it.

Gemma quickly forced herself into movement, and began walking through the trees, picking up the driest sticks she could find, desperate to move before she melted back into a heap of aching need on her bed. Humming to herself, she forced aside all the heated memories of how she'd woken up every other morning in this forest. Sort of. They didn't really budge, so she resolutely ignored them. Almost. Nearly almost. And desperately tried not to succumb to the fire seething along her skin. Knowing Mac would return swiftly, brilliantly eager to fuck her, made it so much easier to wait.

Well, a little bit easier. 

A very little.

This drive was so damn compelling. If only she had as much energy as he - but she kept keeling over into a little heap after each series of orgasms. Not that she was really complaining, here. And nor was he, but she was aware that if she really had been a wolf he wouldn't have had to restrain himself quite so much, and it made her feel faintly guilty, inadequate. She had a feeling a lot of his restless energy came from wanting to fuck her a lot more often than he did.

Lip protruding broodingly, Gemma stepped forward and leaned down to pick up a long dry branch just beyond the bulk of a large beech trunk. And froze, startled to hear a shattering wolf howl sound directly in front of her, a howl screamed through the air like an expletive. Her head jerked up, and her shocked eyes met the flaming green ones of the white wolf mid-leap, just before Mac collided with her heavily, tumbling her back to roll in the short grass between the trees. 

Stunned and out of breath, she lay as the sky spun through the trees above her. What the hell? 

It was only a few sticks, for Pete's sake.

Simultaneous, angry snarls sounded left and right around them among the beeches, and Mac whirled to his feet over her in lycan-wolf form, facing the other voices aggressively.

"She didn't know!" he snapped angrily, the last word muffled under the fur of a huge brown wolf who leaped onto him from one side. Her Alpha rolled easily onto his back under his antagonist, grasping his ruff in both hands and catapulting the brown wolf back into the trees with a violent heave of his bent legs, almost too swiftly for Gemma to see. But her shocked eyes did focus on the two large grey wolves who then pounced on her mate simultaneously from either side as he continued the roll back to his feet. Then she was distracted by the third light smoky yellow wolf diving over her own legs to join the attack. Suddenly, Mac and the challenging wolves were a blur of whirling, snarling fur and she watched frozen, heart in her mouth. And a bit perplexed.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 07



Yes, they were big. But she'd seen him throw off six large wolves as if they were pieces of fluff, and it had taken at least ten to hold him down that evening back at the flat. What was Mac playing at?

A shiver lit down her spine, and she staggered back to her feet, fumbling blindly on the ground for one of the sticks she'd collected while her eyes were held by the beautiful, raging torrent of teeth and fur tumbling together in front of her.

How much silver was Mac carrying? There wasn't anything noticeably wrong with him, as far as she could tell in his lycan form, except for the pvc patches taped to his stomach that were renewed somehow, somewhere, every night while he was out on hunt. He claimed that he was fine, kissing aside her questions. He would say that.

The brown wolf reappeared at the side of the clearing again, shimmering into lycan form, and his eyes were dancing amber-black flames of fury while he streaked back to join in the fight. "Tooth and tail, MacKeld! Slighting the sjestval? For shame!" he cursed, as he leapt onto the back of the fighting Alpha and locked a brawny, furred arm around his neck from behind, slowly forcing back the head to expose the throat.

Mac tossed one of the other wolves across the clearing, and brought a clawed hand up to clamp onto the lock around his neck, halting the arm. "She didn't -!" His gasp was chocked off as the elbow around his throat tightened. The grey wolf who Mac had thrown easily in a long arc past Gemma's nose - see? Piece of fluff - whirled even as he landed, diving to leap back into the fray. Then he twisted again in mid-air to swipe a heavy paw at his new adversary, sensing rather than seeing the side-attack to his flank. His sharp claws raked deep cuts into the back of Gemma's hand with a blow that sent the branch spinning from her grasp, and she yelped involuntarily, more from surprise at the speed of his counterattack than due to any slow following-on sensation like pain.

At the sound, every wolf in the clearing froze in a moment of shocked stillness.

Then Mac exploded to his full height with a furious snarl, shedding the two hanging-on wolves effortlessly to their light yowls of pain, and hurling the brown hulk over his shoulders in a spinning throw which smashed the lycan into a small tree so hard that the trunk snapped.

"She doesn't know!" he yelled wrathfully, shimmering with anger while he leaped to snap his palm around the throat of the wolf who had injured her. Mac spun and slammed the wolf off his feet against a nearby tree, his long, deeply furious growl rolling around the clearing. The attacking wolves all shivered involuntarily and shrank at the rage in the sound, in the air.

"What don't I know?" echoed Gemma frustratedly. 

There was another frozen pause. Then the brown lycan rolled wincing to his feet, murmuring, "Fuck. Tell her, MacKeld." He turned his eyes soberly to blink a moment of sympathy at the wolf pinned against the tree, then slunk off painfully into the forest. The other two wolves shook themselves lightly, shivering at the fury emanating from Mac, rolled to their feet, and each also sneaked a compassionate glance at the light grey wolf while they silently retreated, melting into the trees. That left only Gemma, Mac, and the hefty wolf suspended by his throat against the beech, choking purple inside the angry Alpha's grip, feet scrabbling desperately in the empty air.

Mac's chest was still rumbling, and the fury in him, the heat, was firing the whole clearing, seeming to flare through the air, building as he breathed harshly, eyes burning into the whelp, hold tightening. The sense of his anger against her skin soothed Gemma, wrapping her in his warmth and strength, and she stepped in behind her mate softly, laying her unhurt left hand carefully on the arm holding the wolf aloft. Mac's skin was trembling, lip constantly lifting as he glared at the cur who had wounded her.

"If I didn't know - nor did he, Mac."

The grip tightened further and, wordlessly, Mac slid his free left hand down to lift her deeply scored, bleeding right up into his line of vision. His eyes brightened in anger, boring into the other wolf. The grey lycan began to choke painful, pitiful-sounding breaths into his lungs, eyes rolling back in his head as his struggles grew more feeble, eyes wild in panic.

Gemma stepped in closer, leaning lightly against her wolf's back, laying her head against his powerful shoulder from behind, snuggling her face into the long, soft fur. 

"Please, Mac. It's only a few scratches. Let him go. Please."

The choking sounds were growing softer, fading into feeble wheezing rasps while Mac gently lifted her hand to his lips and swept a warm tongue over the deep scores. Gemma felt the tingling, hot pain as the cuts closed, keeping her face buried into his back, trying to escape the tortured, panicked eyes of the choking wolf. The raging tremble of fury in Mac slowly lessened as he licked over the wounds, until the last cut sealed, and Gemma heard a heavy thud hit the grass under the tree, followed by the broken wheezing of the light grey wolf at their feet, desperately pulling air back into his burning lungs.

There was a brief pause, broken only by the pitiful gasps, and then Mac growled, low and cold. The choking wolf managed to hunch himself into a roll onto his back, and curved his head back and to the side, throat exposed in a deep arch between Mac's feet, holding still while the breath wheezed painfully through his partially crushed larynx.

Evidently the posture meant something in wolf, because Mac barked, "Yes. Get out." The light grey wolf licked gently at Mac's ankle, then lurched to his feet, turned, and loped unsteadily for the trees, halting breaths punctuating his footfalls.

"Thanks," murmured Gemma, squeezing her wolf's muscular torso from behind. "What was all that about?"

Mac sighed slowly, relaxing as the final tension left him, and spun to lift her up in his arms and squeeze a light squeak out her with his own breathtaking, relieved hug.

"I would've told you before, but you have never shown the least signs of wanting to go for a wander." His voice was slightly louder than necessary as he replaced her on her feet and carefully let go, and he seemed partially to be addressing the surrounding trees. Gemma straightened slightly, and peered out into the green gaps between the trunks. Nothing.

"Are they still there?" she asked softly, running a hand up his arm to loop over his shoulder while she stepped back closer to his bulk.

Mac snorted at the ridiculous idea that they wouldn't be there.

"You are still on heat, picchu. Every time I step out of the ruhkreis to hunt, the three who have won the most recent desafios attack in turn," Gemma listened incredulously, and with rising anger, to the slight tinge of smug pleasure in his tone, her mind darting along avenues opened by his stark commentary. Desafio she knew was the Spanish for fight - a defiance, a challenge. So, the other wolves fought amongst themselves? For what - the right to challenge him? Challenge Mac for what - for her? Three at once? 

She shivered, and a tendril of anger lit along her skin. Like that was going to work. Just how many wolves were there out there? And - she and Mac had been wrapped around each other for six days now. He must have hunted at least ten times, more. Did he really mean that he was attacked by three wolves every time he went hunting?

There was no fear on her skin. This was Mac they were fighting. But she was steamed that they thought defeating Mac would get them anywhere with her. And why hadn't he thrown those latest four out of the clearing instantly? Why were they holding back in the trees?

"What? Rue - what?" 

"Ruhkreis, Gem. A circle of peace - it's part of the mating. I mark one around you every time we halt, and the others would never come inside to bother you, or come closer when we are together. The mating peace is an absolute among wolves. Moreover, most would usually never challenge an Alpha." She could hear the smile in his voice, and he bent his head to nuzzle her neck. "But your doft is so delicious, my picchu, that before every hunt I have to fight my way past three cocky idiots who think that they would be better mates for you."

Mac was exuding smug satisfaction, and it was patently obvious to Gemma that her mate revelled in fighting off his rivals. Wolves. 

"And you love it," she growled back. 

"Haven't fought this many desafios - formal challenges - in years," he agreed happily, nibbling her earlobe. 

Gemma's eyes were sparkling in anger as she glared out into the woods. "Don't I have any say in this?"

"Of course." Mac slanted a sobering eye down at her, and moved back, releasing her from his hug but keeping a light hand on each arm. She swayed and unthinkingly stepped back towards him, leaning in, but he held her away and nodded toward the large beech she had been about to pass on her way to collect firewood. 

A small smile tugged at his lips when she whined softly. Of course she whined. He was holding them apart. Why?

"Can't you scent it, Gem? My ruhkreis borders at that tree. If you cross outside, it means you are looking for a new mate." His voice softened, tinged with shame, and his shoulders hunched a little as he glared at his feet, bare toes tapping. "It's your choice - I am not allowed to stop you from stepping out - that's why the wolves around here were so furious that they attacked together. Usually on the rut males will never work together, each views each other as a rival. But they protect the circle and the sjestval - your choice - and I didn't allow you that." He halted and swallowed, looking down searchingly into her eyes suddenly. "I wanted to explain to you what you were doing first."

Gemma batted his hand off her arm, suddenly livid at how close she'd been to plunging herself back into - that. That maelstrom of bitter, desperate warring between need and right, lust or - Mac, that had raged through her before he'd finally turned up.

"You didn't think to explain this before?" she glared at him. Stupid wolf.

"You've never shown any interest in moving out of my protection before," he responded tersely, a light growl to the tone as he glared back at her. "But it is your choice, Gemma." His face contorted in a brief rictus. "Although I do have to warn you that I'm not going to accept it in a civilised, human fashion. If you step out, I'll just have to standing fight all of them down to prove to you that I am the best mate you're going to find." His eyes were gleaming a light, intent challenge down at her. 

"Idiot," snorted Gemma, glancing away from the call in those eyes before she swayed back into him. She knew he was the best mate she was going to find. Ever. Her blood was keening to get closer to him, but the anger suffused her and she stepped further away and walked gently up to halt just this side of the tree, eyes searching the blank green woods beyond.

She caught a hint of it - a very faint wisp of his musk, but honestly, if he hadn't told her, she'd never have noticed.

Mac was quivering in tension, poised to fight beside her, and she could feel the hurt growing in him that she stayed apart. But the anger was boiling through her - anger at all of the other wolves for this ceaseless, senseless fighting over her. Anger at herself for the little curl of excited heat coiling in her belly at the thought of them fighting. Of him fighting. For her. She was also angry at her mate, for not explaining this earlier.

He's been busy, her subconscious reminded her, flashing a full-colour replay of just how busy they had both been, and her skin flared with renewed heat. Mac stiffened further beside her when her doft strengthened with lust. Idiot. Who did he think she was thinking of?

"They won't come in?"

"No. Never. Even if some worthless, faithless cur tried, the others would set upon him. The peace of the circle is an absolute, Gem. The only way in is past me, by winning the desafio, one on one. They would never have dreamt of invading it if they hadn't seen me stopping you from stepping out, disregarding your choice, the sjestval. Except I thought that it wasn't one." His voice was soft, apologetic.

Mac was apologising on behalf of the other wolves? That must be why he had gone easy on them - until one of them inadvertently hurt her - he had kind of approved of what they were doing. Defending her choice. But was he apologising for himself also? For stopping her from doing something she would never, ever in a million years have dreamt of doing had she known what was what? Idiot. Did he really think she wanted someone else?

Gemma thought of shouting rude things to the obtuse wolves lurking in the trees, but honestly, there were stronger urges building in her. Unstoppably. He defeated three wolves per hunt to keep this peaceful, glorious, heated time together? Maybe it was time to reward him again? 

Yes!!

She lifted one foot, softly, feeling the shudder of increased tension ripple through Mac when she did so. 

Idiot. Idiot. Idiot. 

Then she swooped in a turn, ducking past him and sprinting back towards the campfire, hooting. "Hah! Fooled you!" 

There was a hissing growl behind her, before the pad of footsteps approached at breathtaking speed, and her blood leapt in anticipation. He lifted her easily off her feet from behind, wrapping unmoving arms around her torso as they twisted in midair, but this time she landed suspended in his arms above the short grass, before she was rapidly rolled beneath him, pinned spread-eagled under his weight.

The uncanny tinge to the scent of him shot a jolt of panic down her spine, and she shivered lightly, muscles spasming in shock, just before she met jet-black, furious eyes, and her heart shrank within her even as her mind lit in response.

"That was not a good idea, Gemma," Mac growled out tersely. 

Honestly - he was so damn autocratic, so possessive at the moment. Did he think the outstanding, constant sex had turned her into a malleable, submissive doormat? Her melting pussy squirmed in delight, shrieking yes! She ignored it and tried to stare brazenly back up at him. It was a little difficult with the quiver in her stomach. And that bitter scent was sending a warning through her, increasing the panic pooling inside. He was so angry. With her, this time.

"What?" she managed to respond coolly. "Did the wolf lose his sense of humour?"

The black, glittering sparkles in his eyes took on the eerie back-light, sending a shiver through her whole body, and the next second he was on his feet, hauling her to hers.

"When you flirt with other wolves? Damn right."

"I did NOT flirt with -."

He lifted her mid-sentence, so that they were now nose to nose, and she was caught by the power of that glittering fury, falling silent, feeling his angry breath against her cheek, sensing, scenting the towering rage he was holding in check. But his voice was soft, the control paramount. "You stepped towards the ruhkreis, Gemma. Full of lust. Free of me. We all wondered what you were going to do, and their excitement spiked in anticipation, hope, desire."

"Then they're idiots," she snapped back the interjection, although her heart was shouting Shut up! at her. Then she caught it, just a hint in the corner of his eye, the hint of something else, a little droop of - hopelessness. Sadness? She hadn't seen that sadness in days, but she recognised it, and it stopped her as nothing else could, her heart plummeting, stunned into silence.

"You teased them." The anger was purring through his voice, but she could now also hear the faint edge of pain. Gemma felt cool air against her skin and realised that he was moving her, but couldn't look away from the powerful black glitter in that burning gaze, the internal tremor growing while her eyes searched his for that hint of soft despair. The smooth bark of a tree pressed against her back.

"They have been burning, aching, fighting for you desperately for six days, tortured by the music of your scent," the quiet words were deadly, searing across her skin, making her remember the agony of unfulfilled lust that she herself had struggled against for just one day. The painful burn of that unfulfilled need. She was caught by the wordless black anger of his eyes. "And you - you taunted them with your fully aroused doft."

Gemma opened her mouth, dropped her eyes, looked up at her wolf, then just drooped her head again, wordlessly. The heat flared across her cheekbones. He was right. Shit. She swallowed. Human teasing had no place among these scorching fires and furious lusts. She would get burned - she had burned them. She felt deeply ashamed, writhing internally. She hadn't meant to, but she had teased them. Although it had been intended for Mac. She had just forgotten how sensitive all the wolves were to her scent.

"I am aware that you are not a wolf," he seemed to answer her thoughts, letting out a small sigh. She felt tears gathering in her eyes and kept her head down, not wanting him to see them. The sadness. This sadness. She had reminded him of what she didn't want to think about herself. That this was time out, this perfect week. Human and wolf joined. Otherwise incompatible.

Must be a way, the wistful thought surfaced briefly.

"More or less at the moment," she whispered the protest, "I smell like a wolf, no?" Her mate sighed again, his anger releasing when he heard the remorse in her voice, and placed her back on her feet, gently tilting her chin up so that he could read her glistening eyes. "But you don't fully understand us, Gemma. I am an Alpha - I protect the other wolves, and maintain pack order, my own, and, when necessary, others." He tailed into brooding silence, pondering how to continue, how to explain to a human what was self-evident to a wolf.

She knew that. She saw how the other wolves reacted around him, the respect, how they trusted his judgement and looked to him for guidance, even just now, when fighting him. And she could hardly forget the time his attention had been wrenched from her in the middle of mating. He'd been shuddering, thrusting inside her one second, and the next had been motionless on his back beside her, body twitching all the way down to his toes and fingertips, utterly still concentration on his face. She had panicked, thinking he was having some kind of silver-induced fit, and had shivered for several long minutes, arousal swamped in cold fear while she had just watched him. It was dangerous to interrupt a seizure. Eventually, his glazed eyes had refocused, and her heart had sent a shock of relief though her, stunning her with the realisation of how much she cared, when he had smiled apologetically at her.

Apparently a patrol of his wolves had been ambushed, he had reported. They had called for help - their Alpha could mind-merge and direct all twenty of them together as one seamless unit, infinitely increasing their chances of survival as each knew, through him, exactly what their companions did. They had all survived, although there were some serious injuries.

Protecting the pack was part of being an Alpha, and she had learned, then and the two other times his focus had disappeared, to just accept it. It was part of him. Now Mac continued to explain his position, the awkward position she had put him in, choosing his words carefully. 

"Pack boundaries are open during the mating rut, and there are few boundaries between the Aster allies at any time. Most of the wolves out there are Aster - my allies in our war against Tzo. I rank them all, and have defeated the majority of them - definitely the strongest of them - during this week. So to all intents and purposes, in this gathering in this forest, I am currently the Alpha - of this pack of wolves fighting for you. That is how they see me." He sighed again, deeply troubled.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 07



"But now you - my mate, you have just taunted, aroused, and hurt the eight wolves within scent of the beech. They don't understand that you are unaware of their rutdoft - they are so damn aware of yours. They are confused, angry, upset, unsettled, and therefore dangerous." His brow was furrowed in concern. 

"But they are still waiting to see what I will do before they decide how to act. It's my job, both as mate and Alpha, to sort this out so that they understand. And so that they will remain allies to us, to me, and to my wolves."

Gemma blinked. Oh. Damn. She looked up into his eyes, watching the green filtering back into the angry black, warming her slightly through the shiver of shame that was building. She hated that she'd been a tease. Accidentally. Hated putting him in this position, with that furrow of concern creasing his forehead. There must be some way out of this? 

"But wolves must make mistakes sometimes? Apologise?" she pleaded softly.

"Uh - yes," he admitted slowly, "But I don't think you would like our way of apologising, Gem."

Her chin lifted slightly.

"Try me."

A glimmer of humour lightened the eerie glow in his eyes, an anticipatory challenge gleaming in their depths while he straightened his head and lifted one eyebrow. 

"You just saw me punish a wolf for the mistake of injuring my mate, Gemma. If you were a wolf, I would punish you, you would acknowledge and apologise for the mistake, as he did, and all would be forgotten." His mouth twisted. "But humans hold grudges, are not good at healing, and I can't think of a single person I know less likely to acknowledge a mistake and apologise freely like that."

Hah. I can do anything. And there was a time and a place for everything. Although the comment about healing made her insides tremble. However, if it would remove the faint glimmer of sad distance from the back of his gaze, she would do what it took, Gemma decided. 

She looked back, straight into his eyes, meeting that challenging sparkle with a straight, serious look of her own, feeling her insides melting with hope, a quiver of trepidation, and some weird, arousing anticipation. "I do acknowledge my mistake, Mac," she responded, low. "I know I shouldn't have teased them, now that you've explained. If you can sort this out, then I will accept whatever method you - um - think best to settle it. Please?"

There was a humming pause, and her words seemed to hang in the air between them.

Shit. Shit. Shit. She really wasn't sure she wanted to know what that gleam in his eyes meant. She could also still see the doubt in their depths. Well, she'd now seen two wolves do this, and if she really wanted that joyous harmony of the last few days back, then she could do it too. And yes, she was sorry if her unthinking teasing of Mac had flared into that agonising ache for the wolves around here - idiots, whispered a small internal voice - when she had never had any intention of following through. 

On that thought, Gemma forced down the mutinous dregs of pride and dropped to roll onto her back at Mac's feet, tilting her chin back to expose her throat. Damned if she would do this for anybody else. Ever. Or for him even, ever again, for any reason less than a first degree separation order. 

As their eyes met, Gemma's blood pulsed in screaming excitement, shocking her with the level of delight that shivered through her.

Mac's gaze softened as he stood looking down at her, and she caught a faint tinge of surprise - respect? - cross his face. After a moment of silent appraisal, he lifted his head and let out a kind of lilting croon towards the trees outside his circle. A cacophony of hacking barks, snorts and growls answered almost instantly, and Gemma was suddenly in the air, draped over his shoulder with one buttock smarting from a hard slap while Mac sauntered off with her back toward the beech bordering their haven, his marking of the edge of the rue-circle-thingy. 

God, she let him get away with murder. What was he going to do?

Her insides squirmed in anticipation, liquid heat beginning to pool at the junction of her thighs.

Mac abruptly set her back on her feet, grinning down at her, on the very edge of the clearing. She hovered uncertainly just beside her pile of discarded firewood, looking doubtfully back up at her mate.

"Now that that's over with, it's time I fed you, picchu. Wait here while I get my kill."

That was it?!

She stared incredulously after the white ghost wolf who had just melted into the trees beyond the circle, feeling absurdly cheated.

Was it really over with? 

Was he teasing her now?

She didn't want it to be over with. Yes she did. No, she didn't. Oooh. She could scent her own arousal, it was strengthening into a hot, taut coil in her belly.

Damn.

She hovered from one foot to another uncertainly, waiting, quivering in tension as her eyes scanned the trees. But she heard his breath beside her before she saw anything, and felt his hand engulf hers to tug her back toward the campsite before she'd even had a chance to turn toward him. She glimpsed the dead goose hanging over his opposite shoulder when she turned to walk with him. She'd gotten used to the reality of life with a wolf in the forest. And after all, she loved roast goose, as he knew.

His nostrils flared lightly, and ears twitched in excitement at the melting lust in her scent. He pretended to sigh.

"It seems like food will have to wait - you seem to be in need of a little exercise before we eat, picchu."

Yes! Yes! Yes!

"Complain, complain." Damn. However casual and steady she tried to hold it, her voice had accelerated to breathless instantly. "Is my poor ickle mate tired? Is that why we're walking this slowly?"

A happy little laugh escaped her when suddenly she was scooped up to sit on his free arm, her fingers curling tightly into his shoulder fur while he streaked through the trees toward her bed. 

Yippee!!

The excitement of his musk caught her, and It was impossible to stop her lightly tingling fingers from stroking softly, deeper into his fur, tracing the hard muscles pulling and stretching easily as he sprinted, the light ridges of old scars hidden under the pelt. 

His blood was racing under his skin, and it had nothing to do with the speed he was running at. 

Gemma's fingers dove into the thick fur of his shoulders, caressing joyously through the healthy, soft, warm, delicious glide of it over her skin, mesmirised while he slid her around to his chest and bent his head to kiss her fiercely, dissolving her ability to think. A brief sanity flickered - what if they ran into a tree? - then her toes brushed in the warmth of her rug when he lowered her gently, his lips never leaving hers, and she realised that they were already standing on her bed.

She sank again into his kiss, fingers delightedly gliding along the hard muscles of his upper arm, until he winced lightly when they were halted by a glazed patch where the fur was stiffened with a hard, smooth varnish of - what? She twisted aside from his expert mouth and tongue, leaning her head away, trying to pull her wits back together. Dried blood? What on earth? Her fingers were lightly tracing the almost healed scab underneath when she looked back up, startled, worried, into Mac's face. 

He bent forward and kissed her again hard, smiling a little smugly against her lips before he wrapped his arms more tightly around her and fell onto his back on the bed, cushioning her with his arms then spreading her on top of him. "Don't worry, my picchu."

Don't worry about what? Dammit, why did she always lose the power to speak when he kissed her like that? And he knew it. Mac was smirking again at the little squeak that was all she had managed to emit in place of the question. Her pussy was throbbing pleadingly - who cared why he had had blood on his shoulder? He was in pretty fine shape all in all.

Mac inhaled deeply, a satisfied, slightly predatory gleam lighting his eyes when the scent of her arousal intensified, and he rolled them back so he could slide himself up over her, cuddling her into him, sliding a thigh between hers while he nibbled small, savouring bites on her neck.

Hah, he wasn't going to distract her this time. And neck nibbling was less devastating to her vocal chords. Slightly.

"Worry about what?" 

No idea whose was that faint, breathless bimbo voice. 

Her mate sighed exasperatedly into her skin, raising a chain of goosebumps, and without thought, Gemma responded by lifting her chin and rubbing her cheek contentedly against his, melting further under the weight of him.

"One of idiots challenging me for you earlier was just an overgrown puppy." His nibbled kiss on her collarbone prevented Gemma from speaking the question that formed in her head at that statement. Dammit.

"He was a danger to himself." Another kiss, slightly nipping her flesh while his hands angled her neck for access, and his thighs ground her lightly into the ground. Gemma lost the thread of his words for a moment, pressed back up, aching, squirming against his pleasing, flattening bulk. 

"I had to let him bite me." Um? Uh? The nibbled kisses were working lower, and the words soaked through Gemma's brain, finally making sense about two minutes after her mate had murmured them into her skin.

"He was falling over the edge of a drop." Who? Ung. Oh, the challenger. God, Mac, please. Ooh.

"I could smell the hornets at the bottom." His mouth was now teasing oh-so-softly over the very sensitive area on her neck where he had bitten her during their first mating, and her blood was pounding, pleading under the light touch of his aroused breaths, alight to his hot, hot musk.

"I didn't think he'd survive landing on their nest, it was too far back to the river."

The silence echoed when he finished the last sentence, and it took a long while for Gemma to realise that her mate had stopped talking and was now intent on other things. He was skimming light little kisses further down her neck, rubbing his engorged cock gently in the crease of her thighs. Gemma was trying to think, to respond to his explanation, but was distracted by his thigh nudging her knees further apart. She helped. 

But damn if he wasn't evading her questions again.

"Werewolves can be killed by hornets?" She was quite proud of how intelligible that high-pitched sentence was, considering.

Mac growled back, low, as he slid his nose back up her achingly sensitive skin, snuffling into her neck and making her shiver, liquid pleasure pulsing between her thighs, "Wolves, Gem. And yes, there are a few natural hazards we find difficult to heal - most of them poisonous." His lips were moving back along her collar bone, each word breathing more heat into her quivering flesh, stoking the trail of fire in their wake. "Hornets are not as dangerous to us as to humans, but a large swarm like that would probably kill a cub or an askele - an aged wolf - and enough stings can take down even a wolf in his prime."

Then he abruptly rolled her above him, suspended by his arms, and lifted her forward so that he could reach his proud head up to gently suckle and nibble around her breasts, circling toward the aching peaks of her nipples. Oh. Oh. Oh. Wow. 

She knew he wanted her to stop asking questions. So she stubbornly forced another one out.

"You can smell hornets?" Squeaky, squeaky. There must be a lot of helium in the air around here.

"I can smell all other living creatures, outside water." His breath on the wet skin of her peaked nipple while the tip of his tongue circled gently around the aching bud- oooh.

Really, really breathless. "Uh. Right - so you weren't. Uh. Surprised. At all." She could manage this in little words. "When I pow - oh. Oh. Pounced on. You. From that tree two nights ago?"

He had already lifted her, was positioning her for his cock, and her blood had started to pulse through her body like a tide - advancing, receding, advancing while his eloquent tongue circled softly over her aching nipples where he held her so that they were suspended above his face. He growled low in satisfaction while he delicately scraped the tight, tender flesh with the very tips of his teeth, and she cried out and arched urgently against him, writhing, a breathless, wordless plea.

"Do you really think I wanted to stop you, picchu?"

Damn smug wolf.

She moaned as she tugged his head closer, spreading her thighs wide while he lowered her gently, carefully, over his throbbing erection, and his mouth engulfed one breast to suck furiously hard on the burning, aching peak of her nipple.

Gemma lost all desire to speak, and just sank into sensation, sank onto him. Wow. The burn of him breaching her. Perfect. Always.

She braced her own palms against his shoulders, skin trembling from the twin, exquisite sensations, and he smiled up at her, sparkling black eyes, still sucking hard while he gently slid his hands down to cradle her hips when she came to rest with his organ fully embedded in her tight pussy. The stretch. Oh. She groaned as he let go with his lips, then after a broken pause bent sideways, breathless, and lowered the other breast into his reaching mouth, moaning when he captured the neglected peak and began to suckle hard, trying to pull the whole mound in. The hands on her hips tightened, and he began to thrust upwards, holding her at just that angle where the invasion of his cock stroked oh so deeply, penetrating the heart of her.

Oh. Wow. Oh. So deep, so hard, so luscious. He was being tender with her, forceful, but careful with each long, slow thrust, and the burn of him forcing her pussy walls to stretch was writhing through her blood, tightening, tightening the aching demand in her belly.

"Please," Gemma breathed, eyes closed, head back, as she arched over him. Possessed. His warm, large hands slid down to cup over the smooth globes of her buttocks and he squeezed gently while he pulled her even deeper over his cock.

"Please, Mac. Faster." Her breathless gasp was fuelled by the burning need in her pussy, fire stoked mercilessly with each long, deep thrust up into her. The suckling mouth clamped around her breast tightened, the suction almost painful as his fingers dug into her bottom and he obligingly began to rock himself harder within her.

Oh god he was so deep like this. His cock was pistoning up through her belly, the relentless, steady build of this mating implacable, unstoppable. She sometimes thought she couldn't bear to come like this, it was so intense, almost painful, but she couldn't help it, the knot in her stomach just tightened and tightened and tightened with the accelerating, stabbing thrusts. Closer, closer.

Then he released her breast with his mouth and pushed a palm against her chest between them, pushing her back almost upright above him His hands captured her wrists in a blink and pulled them around to press her palms against her own buttocks, using them to curve her torso above him while he held her for his thrusts. She knew he loved this position, could feel his cock swelling harder within her as his eyes fastened fiercely on the swinging globes of her breasts displayed pleasingly above him, and his pounding began to increase in urgency, Gemma arched her spine further, pulling against his grip on her wrists, and forced her breasts out to the deepest curve, enjoying the intently fierce pleasure in his eyes even while they began to bounce almost painfully to the time of his harsh breathing and accelerated surging into her cunt.

Oh god, no. Yes. This. Was. Oh. The building intensity was slower, but deeper, and the approaching pleasure was drawing inexorably through her, melding all of her, every particle, forcing her together, to tighten, intensify, coming, coming closer, she couldn't - arg. No. No. No. The fire in her spine was burning harshly, almost painful in the intensity, muscles quivering, and she couldn't think, heaved by his urgent thrusts, tightening, tightening. Almost. No. Please. Yes. Wow. 

Gemma whited out, exploding into orgasm, shuddering on a yelping cry above him as she felt the swell of Mac's cock bursting within her. The wolf yowled softly in harmony, arching his own back and grinding his cock up into her, his hands squeezing her palms into her own buttocks while he corkscrewed his hips urgently against her, forcing the shattering waves of pleasure to surge through her again and again as he spurted.

Shuddering. 

Wow.

Oh.

Oh.

Long, motionless moments later, Gemma still couldn't see. 

Wow, this was getting more intense. 

She wasn't really sure whether her eyes were open or not - there seemed to be a glow like sun-blindness dancing in front of her, through her, and she was unable to do more than just lie here and bask, waiting, blood shimmering, waiting for Mac to kiss his way back to hardness. He didn't have far to go, even after all that seed he'd just spurted inside her.

Then she felt it, devastatingly, bewilderingly, when her mate withdraw his semi-hard cock, placed her gently on her rug, and rolled away from where he had just tucked her in her bower. 

"Mm?" she managed to squeak a grunt of protest, still unable to open her eyes - or, if they were open, to see. She felt Mac lean back, felt the swift brush of his lips over hers. 

"Cooking, picchu. It won't take me a second - don't worry, I'm not finished with you yet."

Her pussy cramped around a delighted rush of liquid. Never satisfied.

After another long moment she managed to flop inelegantly onto her side and slit open an eye, pulling the rug tighter around her as the sweat on her skin cooled. She watched, faintly revolted, fascinated as ever, while Mac casually extended and retracted his claws as if it was the most natural thing in the world, swiftly and expertly plucking, skinning, cleaning, and cutting up his latest kill, rolling the chunks in a little tin-foil packet of seasoning. A small smile curled at the corner of her mouth and she shut her eyes again, snuggling further into the fake fur. Those retractable claws. Boy, had she gotten into trouble for likening him a pussycat that time.

She squeaked a yelp when suddenly she was engulfed in wolf again, Mac swiping the wet fur of his cold river-washed fingers teasingly across her exposed belly, grinning when she tried to squirm out of his embrace and pull the rug closed again.

"Did you miss me, little mate?"

Her blood seethed with lust even as she growled grumpily, "No" Then she was proved a liar when her nipples tightened to a burning ache and moist welcome pooled anew between her thighs. Mac's nose twitched and he grinned again, dropping his head to burn her lips with a deep, fierce kiss.

Here we go again.

Yippee!

 

 

Gemma awoke next with a jerk, disorientated and shaken. Physically shaken - her heart was leaping into her throat while her body was tossed around in an unsteady, swaying motion. Her spine unhinged at the vicious challenge of the scalp-curling snarl lingering in the air underneath her. Where? What?

She was wrapped snugly in her rug, the hammock ends fastened securely, face buried against the fur. The sturdy tree that held the hammock was shaking, still reverberating against the shock of the weight that had been thrown against it. Echoing, bitter wolf voices were whirling around the ground beneath her, snarl answering snarl as the sounds of a furious fight battered around the nearby trees.

Gemma rolled, struggling to unwrap herself from the cocooning fabric and poke her head out into the warm evening slant of sunlight, blood pounding. Who had got this close? She peered down over the edge of her rug just in time to see a huge platinum blond lycan smash Mac back against the trunk of a neighbouring tree on the edge of the fire-break.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 07



Her heart clenched, fear and anger.

Vanilchov.

He was leaping upon her wolf even as the name formed in her mind, claws extended in terrifying dagger-points, and she squeaked in a breath of fear when he looked about to take Mac's head off with the vicious tools. Then Vanil went sailing back under her tree while Mac twisted with a powerful thrust of his legs, back braced against the trunk.

Gemma's nostrils wrinkled as a rank, meaty smell assailed them.

God, he smelt.

Mac must have moved her while she slept. This new camp was on the edge a broad firebreak between two stretches of forest, the break curving right uphill toward more distant trees, there the gap blended into the mass of forest in the distance. To the left, the wildflower-strewn grasses of the open space flowed down to the grey, rippled water of a gently lapping lake, the bank perhaps twenty yards away.

Vanil rolled to his feet as he landed among the long grass and wildflowers. He twisted in one seamless movement, launching himself at the golden blur of Mac, who was leaping across the open space to engage him. Her wolf spun impossibly in mid air, one leg extended in a scything arch, and his foot collided with the side of the platinum blond lycan's head with neck-snapping force. 

Gemma gasped, chilled and thrilled, but the challenging Alpha was on his feet again before the air left her lungs, twisting to return a vicious punch that sent Mac spinning in a roll across the belt of grass. As Vanil leapt onto him, her mate feinted, then raked a vicious paw up the side of his opponent's leg, and the attacking growl broke off in a yelp. 

Before she could blink, Mac was atop the platinum Alpha, forcing him down into the flowers. Vanil snarled and struggled violently, unable to twist free while slowly Mac twisted his limbs into an immobilising grip. At the last second, the platinum wolf wrenched in a twist from his prone position to butt his head viciously into Mac's stomach while the tawny Alpha pinned him to the ground.

Stomach! Shit! Gemma's own stomach clenched in dread.

Sure enough, her wolf was doubled over, a noise that scared Gemma escaping from his throat. But he simultaneously dived into a roll over a vicious, clawing kick upwards from Vanil, hand pressed to his wound. Then her mate rolled to his feet and twisted easily sideways to evade a second, vicious swipe of one outstretched clawed hand.

The fight changed.

Vanil leaped again, claws extended, and Mac sidestepped once more. But even as the platinum wolf rolled to his feet, he twisted his landing with a low, extended leg sheering the air just above the grass in a blur of white fur. 

Mac leaped lightly over the limb as though this was a child's skipping game. 

With a small, frustrated yowl, the platinum Alpha leaped to recoil from the branch of a tree above the pair of them, swirling in mid air to pounce on her wolf from above. But Mac wasn't there. Vanil's extended claws spiked into the dusty earth where his opponent had been a second before, and he instantly ripped them out again in frustration, scattering flowers and earth, with a harsh, barking howl of anger.

Gemma almost laughed. But the worry choked the sound in her throat.

Before, they had been slogging it out viciously, attack following counterattack as each tried to gain the upper hand. She was pretty sure Mac had been about to win. Now, Mac wasn't playing. He sidestepped, blocked, and rolled to dodge each advance of his opponent, one hand pressed over the patch on his belly, breath hissing through clenched teeth, but he didn't engage. 

Yet Vanil couldn't catch him. Couldn't land a single blow. 

The platinum Alpha seemed faster, which made the fight just bewildering to Gemma, amazing. The speed with which Vanil moved made it impossible that Mac could evade him. But every time, every time, her wolf sidestepped or rolled past each blow at the last moment, hopped over a whirling clawed foot, or just leaned backwards lightly out of reach. It was as though this was a beautifully choreographed, breathtaking action scene, and the pair had rehearsed this match a thousand times. Her Alpha knew exactly what each move was going to be before Vanil made it. Read him like an open book.

How did he do it? Gemma smiled gently to herself, awestruck. Her Mac.

Vanil's attacks were getting more vicious, he was losing his temper, and with it, some of his precision. He sprang furiously in an all-out, curved attack, and landed in the lake when Mac spun out of the way at the last moment. Then suddenly Mac pounced, diving on top of the second Alpha from behind as the water slowed his challenger's movements. 

Her nose wrinkled again. God, Vanil was repulsive, really repulsive to be so rank from this far away.

The sheets of spray that shimmered around where the two Alphas were fighting in the water made it hard to see the action, and Gemma's self-absorbed stomach instead led her eyes to seek out the source of the mouth-watering fragrance underlying that rank old meat smell. Her eyes were drawn longingly to Mac's usual leaf-wrapped packages roasting gently on a flat stone in the middle of the fire; she swallowed, stomach roaring, despite the rotten overtones from the platinum wolf tainting the air.

Shut up, she told her inopportune stomach crossly, trying to focus back through the blur of water sheeting in the lake. Her stomach growled at her.

Wait a sec.

She glanced again worriedly at the fragrant packages baking on the stone, then back at the waterspout whirling in the shallows.

The meat was closer than the wolves, so why was she still repulsed by the overlay of that strong, horrible scent?

Gemma's whole body stilled suddenly in tension, time echoing endlessly in her ears, the fighting Alphas in the water seeming to move in slow motion. That scent. The scent reminded her of - him. Nick. Her heart spluttered back to race in fear and she began desperately searching the view below her branch, her eyes darting around the clearing, the nearby trees, the long grasses below her, from where the smell must be emanating.

Her heart stopped. There.

Two tiers of branches down, just visible around the curve of the trunk, she could see the tips of four black fingernails curled around the top of a small branch, just visible between the sheltering leaves.

Her stomach heaved. So close.

Four vicious-looking black fingernails. Wolf nails. Claws. Nick - she was sure it was Nick - was hidden from the fighting Alphas by the trunk, but when she leaned carefully, noiselessly, to the right and curved her body further out of her furry hammock, she could catch a glimpse of a flop of well-groomed black hair and the rut of his jawline.

And she knew his rank smell. Nick. Eugh.

The bile roiled again in her stomach, rising in her throat in protest at how close to her he was - how close he had crept. Crept while she slept peacefully, unawares. Anger spiked. How the hell had Mac let him get that close?

Then the Alphas exploded back out of the water, rolling together in a snarling, twisting blur of tawny and white-blond fur to slam sickeningly against the foot of a nearby trunk. Why did they not know Nick was here when he smelt so damn vile to even her insensitive nose? Why didn't they attack the Grey instead of messing around with each other? Mac was pinned underneath Vanil, heaving to buck off his opponent, scything with his legs.

Then Gemma's bitter anger and fear were suddenly incinerated by a white sheet of terror that ignited when her eye was caught by a glint of light under her branch.

Light gleaming along the barrel of the gun which the Grey was sighting down, levelling carefully at the pair on the ground.

NO!

No thought, no plan, Gemma rolled desperately in her hammock and dropped head-first onto the Grey wolf, yanking herself sideways by a small branch to slam shoulder-to-shoulder into him. His neck snapped upward and sideways in realisation just before she connected, and with a quiet snarl he ripped his head around, teeth tearing through her neck while the gun exploded, and they collided. Gemma screamed in pain and fear.

They toppled together in a heap, a branch lashing Gemma's face when the teeth tore back out of her, the air rushing past. Then there was a heavy collision shoulder-first into solid ground, an elbow grinding deep into her stomach where he landed on her, and spinning sunlight and leaves above her while she almost blacked out from the pain and lack of air.

The world shorted, white and grey rocking on the edges of her vision while she lay, lungs suspended, unmoving, and the creature atop her spun, heaving himself around on that excruciating elbow in her belly to face the resounding, furious snarl approaching at speed. The sound almost didn't register through the echoing pain inside her head, neck and abdomen.

A flash of platinum blond in the corner of her blurred vision jerked in mid air and seemed to deflate, collapsing heavily to the ground while Gemma registered belatedly that the gun in the Grey's hand had sounded a second time. And a third. Then the air was silent.

Vanil was down. Mac?

The grey wolf rose cautiously to his feet beside her, gun swinging to point beyond her head, beyond the white-blond heap of fur just visible on the edge of her vision.

Mac?

Slowly, slowly, air filtered back into her lungs. It was immaterial really. She didn't need air to listen and that was all she was doing; listening, desperately, for some sound to break the silence where he lay. Over there. Beyond her head. Silence.

Please, Mac.

Nick was steadying the gun again, carefully sighting down towards the tawny body lying motionless beyond Vanil on the ground. Gemma's mind was seething with desperate thoughts. The Grey was going to shoot Mac again, just to make sure, to riddle him with holes, not daring to go closer. Coward. And Mac was deathly still, silent. 

Please, Mac. 

Dead, or dying, and she couldn't do anything, couldn't make her body move so much as a twitch. The Grey was going to make sure he killed her wolf, like he'd killed Vanilchov, she couldn't stop him. But she had to. Something. Somehow, please. HAD to.

Abruptly, her mind sparked with a clear-cut douche of insight, and then ruthlessly, frantically swept clear all thought but one - the memory of the feel of Mac driving into her, stretching her deliciously when he'd taken her by the fire pit last night. The slow, deep lunges while he had held her thighs wide and savoured their third mating. Her body shimmered into ever-ready heat, burning for her mate, melting in desire.

And the rank grey lycan standing over her stilled, his hands trembling as he drew in a deep breath. 

The empty, echoing keen, pleading for Mac, was hovering at the edges of her thoughts. The fury was bitter on her tongue, the fear and disgust lingering on her skin, but Gemma fiercely ignored all the distractions and melted further into heated memories. Her mate's tongue, teasing, taunting her when she'd begged no to a fourth coupling two days ago. Swirling deep, around her nub, swirling her back into begging again, begging more, for a different reason, lifting her hips and crying out...

The gun hand lowered slowly, unconsciously, as Nick began to pull in long, savouring breaths, deep shudders wracking his body. His head dropped and his eyes locked suddenly onto hers. The bestial gleam in them, the glitter of lust, sadistic anticipation and victory swirled jet-black through the grey irises, and the wolf licked his lips, panting lightly. He dropping down to wrap her hand bruisingly, briefly, around the butt of the gun, and then tossed it swiftly into the long grass above their heads, ripping open the fly of his black jeans to release his racing erection while he urgently yanked her thighs apart. 

Mission accomplished, Gemma whole body erupted into mindless rage, and she flew, biting and clawing into his face despite the agony wrenching through her at the movement. The Grey sneered back into her eyes, glaring down, and pinned her hands effortlessly above her head in one of his. Gemma screamed with incoherent anger and bucked, twisted, screaming Mac's name, fighting to get this thing away, off, assailed by his disgusting scent, his vile excitement, his wrongness. Murderer. Him. Kill. 

The Grey lay heavily across her squirming, fighting body to hold her still and enjoyed the frantic, furious jerking of the little wereem's delicious form under his as she howled again with rage. The howl was abruptly cut off in a whimper of pain when he yanked her head viciously sideways, fingers twisted painfully into her hair, and bent and bit deeply across the join of her neck. 

He knew how to subdue a victim. And would take particular pleasure with this one.

His ready cock swelled to aching hardness with the feel of her quelled stillness; the quivering, breathless pain under him. Shuddering with excitement, bathing in her scent, he smeared his swollen organ down, across her hip, nudging between her spread thighs, sliding in the moisture, seeking her entrance while he slid his teeth further, more painfully into her neck to hold her still while he mounted. 

Hold still.

The order drenched into Gemma's mind and she whimpered, urging herself to move, trying so hard to force herself to fight, to tear those teeth from her neck, the fury battering inside her frozen limbs. But no. The feel of his breath fouling her tender skin, his hands pinning her, his weight on her and those deep, fierce teeth laying claim held her frozen. Revolting. Repulsive. The words battered inside her raging mind, and deep instinct locked her limbs and forced her still underneath him.

Tears pricked her eyes as finally, fatalistically, she understood what Mac had warned her of. Couldn't say no. Wereem, she cursed herself, bitterly. Fucking feeble cunt. Her eyes closed as the tears leaked out. Mac. He must be dead.

Gemma drooped under her rapist, mind sinking into dull despair. Let him do what he wanted. Dead. Nothing mattered. Death. Mac. Mac.

As the wereem stilled under him, the Grey lifted back, licking her blood slowly from his teeth, eyes glittering with fierce, possessive pleasure as he took deep, harsh breaths of her delicious doft and his cock hardened impossibly further against her labia. He yanked her head back, blood from his bite welling to trickle down her throat, and stared into her tear-drenched, bitter eyes, glaring the knowledge of what he was about to do into her while he positioned the cum-beaded head of his throbbing, intense erection at the entrance to her pussy. This time she wouldn't fight. 

Open your legs. 

Horror drenched into Gemma when she felt the new order burning into her brain, bending her under the urge to submit. Then she felt a spark of renewed, cold anger fire through her sorrow. Mac would want her to fight. To die first. Like - Mac. Please wait for me.

"Shot with a silver bullet - he's dead now, girl," Nick taunted softly, reading her mind. "No one to stop me biting you and making you my sweet little pet fuck-wereie instead."

Please.

Nick was abruptly yanked backwards off her, a blood-covered, black-nailed hand striking from behind him to clench ferociously around his throat, his windpipe crushed in a vicious choke hold, breath gargling as the extending claws slid deep into his throat. Gemma's heart leapt, life flooding back into her limbs, washing pain through her, the agony crowned with delight.

Mac. Alive.

Her mate was ashen, blood pouring from a deep wound on his upper thigh where it looked as though he had ripped into his own flesh by the tearing, gaping scars and the blood smeared all over his hands, thighs, and stomach. A further thick trail of blood dragged across the flattened grass from where he had lain, and he clearly couldn't rise to his feet. But Mac had an implacable, cold look on his face, eyes boring up into the Grey's, one arm reaching up from his position on one elbow on the grassy floor while her mate tightened, tightened that death grip around the slighter wolf's throat.

Nick struggled to his feet, back bent so his torso was almost horizontal over his assailant, both hands clenched desperately to the fist in his throat, trying to loosen the grip or prevent it from tightening fully while he smashed vicious, heavy kicks into the pouring wound on the bloody thigh of the Alpha. He also stomped heavily on the wound in Mac's stomach, and with his back claws raked fierce fresh cuts deeply through her mate where he lay exposed, unmoving.

Gemma heard a little whimper, but it was her. Mac held on silently, still, unmoveable under the deluge of blows, his eyes boring into the Grey's, his face a grim mask while slowly the blood drained out of it and he turned paler, whiter. But he wouldn't let go.

He wouldn't let go.

Gemma bit back a sob. Of course Mac wouldn't let go - she knew it. It was in his eyes, his face, the whole damn wolf that she knew. He would die first. He was dying, rather. And her proud, stubborn wolf probably still wouldn't fucking let go even in death. 

A gasping sob raked through the air, and Gemma rolled herself desperately to her unsteady knees, ignoring the aching agony that wrenched through her from the deep bite on her neck, and the inconvenient inability to breathe that still didn't seem to have sorted itself yet.

It had to be here somewhere.

Shaking hands scrabbling through the grass, she couldn't see past the burning wetness in her eyes, furious with herself for the useless tears. Now was not the time. She couldn't bear him to die a second time. Please, Mac. Hold on.

She couldn't find it.

Desperately searching through the long grass stems, the wildflowers, she blanked out the sickening, heavy thuds of Nick's feet echoing across the clearing, sweeping her arms in urgent arcs around her. 

Please, please, please.

There!

Her wrist grazed against something hard, and the fading sunlight glimmered on the metal as the gun skittered sideways a few inches. She pounced on it. It seemed impractically heavy in her small hand, hard to lift, hard to focus with the black spots of pain dancing in front of her tear-blurred eyes. She lurched unsteadily on her knees around to where the Grey was hunched over the prone figure of her wolf, ruthlessly slamming kick after kick into Mac to free himself from the claws still clenched to his neck. Mac was a deathly still heap, white, his body flopping like a lifeless corpse under each heavy blow. But his fist was still clenched implacably in Nick's throat.

No!

A faint whimper escaped Gemma as she steadied herself and lifted the gun, and the Grey's head snapped up. His enraged black eyes hollowed with fear and he blanched when he focussed on the shaking barrel facing him.

In deathly panic, he wrenched himself sideways when she fired, tearing a deep chuck from his throat with a spray of blood where he ripped himself free of Mac's unmovable grip. The bullet thwacked into a tree way off to the right, but the panicked Grey was already out of the clearing, hand clamped to the pouring wound, blood running over his fingers, and he choked loudly as he spat out his own blood.

The sounds of the Grey's flight receded while Gemma stared, eyes burning, at the tawny, blood-covered heap lying in the blood-speckled flowers. Sobbing breaths were choking in the air around her while she heaved herself to her feet and staggered over, dropping down beside Mac, the gun skittering unnoticed back into the grass.

God. The blood flow was stopping, the pools on his skin drying and she knew what that meant, when the heart stopped pumping blood. No, please. She winced at the deep purple mottling over his stomach, thighs and chest and the raw, deep cuts that had shredded him, again and again. Another sob escaped and she slid urgent fingers down to close over the gaping, seeping wound on his thigh, pulling together the raw flaps of flesh of the most urgent injury. Eugh. Her bruised stomach heaved on emptiness. No. Not now.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 08



Soft moonlight, filtering through the sleeping forest canopy, lit a strange scene.

Gemma was sitting cross legged behind Mac, flopped against his broad back, her legs and arms curled loosely around as much of his torso as she could manage, and her head resting tiredly on one shoulder blade. The throbbing pain of Nick's bite in her neck, together with the warm, homelike male scent of his human skin in her nostrils, muffled the tension of the scene and eased her back into boneless relaxation. She would have slumped to the ground despite the tirade washing over them, if she hadn't been jammed between the bulk of her wolf and the large tree behind her.

She also had a tingle of relief - and regret - that the insatiable urge to jump his bones every second was missing. Not that the idea didn't appeal, but it was a normal urge, the one she'd always had to subdue, living with him. Strengthened by the new knowledge of exactly how delicious, amazing, being bedded by her wolf was. If only she had the energy to do anything. She smiled lazily against his skin.

Her mate was sitting upright, cross-legged, in front of her, listening calmly, and with apparent relaxation, to the vitriolic abuse from the newly arrived Alpha. The short, stocky, slightly overweight seeming-human was gesticulating wildly as he strode agitatedly around the clearing. Mac didn't move his head, but his eyes followed the dark figure as it passed through the dapples of moonlight and shade. Her wolf remained motionless, watching the words spit out of this new Alpha's mouth, watching him prowl aggressively in front of them.

Under the calm exterior, Gemma could feel her mate's frame trembling lightly, the internal shimmer of a body too far stressed, in too much pain. He still couldn't stand, still had deep mottled bruises and angry open wounds all over his bare torso, and he needed sleep, the healing sleep. Damn this new Alpha. Mac had only broken out of his coma because of the threat to her. She herself had awoken abruptly, finding her mate crushing her to him, rolling them in a swift scatter of wolves to the trees before he swung her behind him and wedged her protectively there between himself and a large trunk just as this new arrival exploded through the wolf-ring at the opposite edge of the re-grouping circle.

Mac couldn't fight. Not yet.

Maybe he wouldn't need to.

Vanilchov - Vanil, the platinum Alpha whom Gemma had only ever seen cursing Mac, spitting into his face, or attacking him, was standing protectively in front of the pair of them. Her heavily muscled ex-suitor was staunchly facing the newcomer, alert and ready. He appeared to be fully healed, apart from two small dark holes adorning his stomach and shoulder, Gemma noted slightly sourly.

Vanil hadn't already been carrying the damn poison for weeks.

The third, unknown Alpha had a nondescript face framed by what looked in the moonlight like brown hair, broad shoulders, and a slight paunch over a powerful frame. His white teeth and whites of his eyes flashed in the darkness where he stepped through the shade of the trees, as he spewed emotion across the clearing.

"Fuck it, what's gotten into you, Vanilchov? Its life is forfeit - shooting a wolf with silver? Clearly the were is deranged already, and needs to be destroyed. Fuck it - you're one of the wolves it shot!" His voice whip-cracked the angry words around the trees and the wolves surrounding them shifted uneasily, eyes aglow.

"Grey shot Mackeld and me," Vanil replied brusquely. Again.

But his words were ignored, again, as the other Alpha made a short, impatient gesture with one hand.

"Yeah?" growled the newcomer, "That's not what my wolves say. You were in shiatz - so how the hell would you know what it was doing while you were out? It was holding the gun when they arrived, and the only scent on the weapon is the wereem's. Mac was also down, and Grey was standing over him, nowhere near the creature when it fired at him too. Why the fuck are you defending it?"

The harsh voice softened, silkily sarcastic, "Or is that it? The rut that drove Mackeld loon-loup is over, but you still fancy a piece of that tasty wereem tail?"

Mac growled softly, but Vanil ignored the insult, stating coldly, "I was awake and charging the aggressor when I was shot. Nicholas Grey shot me twice, with silver, after shooting the Mackeld. No doubt he intended to blame the human, as she would have made a handy scapegoat and there was no scent of him here to testify to his presence."

"Ridiculous!" spluttered the angry Alpha, "No wolf would use silver on another - whereas that creature, it's not even a human, it's a fucking -!!" He howled to a halt, unable to produce an abusive enough word, and heaved in another furious breath, abruptly changing tack.

"No scent? Is your nose twisted? Grey's trail is a clear blaze into the forest. My forest," he glared at the other two Alphas as he continued. "My range. My judgement, here."

Vanilchov's reply bit. "OK. Maybe I should be more clear. Grey left no scent until the Mackeld ripped his throat out. And the reason I live is because the human dug the bullets out of me."

The short, heavy Alpha facing him halted his angry pacing and swung to face them head on, snorting incredulously, "What, are you really claiming Grey can mask scent now, are you buying into Mackeld's tail-catching? Have you joined them in their feud?" His voice deepened in scorn, "What would your Natalie say to this? Mackel -."

Vanil's voice was harsh with warning, snarling an interruption. "She would ask, as I do, what the hell Grey was doing inside Mac's ruhkreis? My challenge. My fight. What was a third wolf doing there? And how did he get past the ring, unnoticed?"

Vanil's icy gaze swept interrogatively, accusingly, around the circle of waiting, watching wolves, and Gemma felt a frisson of unease, of doubt, run around the quivering pack awaiting her fate. Frowns creased many faces as, confused, the watchers surrounding them realised the significance of the Vanilchov Alpha's question, and tried to puzzle out how the Grey could have eluded them on entry. What had they missed?

Masking scent? Impossible. Yet also impossible to slip past the circle. Each wolf had been crowded by the scents of his neighbouring rivals all week. If there had been a gap, someone would have filled it instantly, desperate for space.

Into the stinging, doubtful silence, the platinum-blond Alpha standing in front of Mac and Gemma added softly, "Do you dispute my witness, Silback?"

The last words hung dangerously in the electric air, and the uneasy wolves around the clearing shuddered in increased tension, sending unhappy, awkward glances flicking between the two standing Alphas facing off against each other.

Unnoticed to any except Gemma, Mac abruptly lifted his head, as though scenting, sensing something that startled him. He turned his face to peer intently off to the right, into the dark forest, listening, his attention dragged away.

In the moonlit break between the dark trees, Silback avoided Vanilchov's challenge, switching to attack on a different front, voice softening. "Human? I hardly think so, Vanil. The shiele has taken root - it melted wereem into the rut, and its scent only holds a hint of human now, even without the doft. It's turning. It stands no chance. Let me put it out of its misery, before its insanity messes things up any further." His glance also swept the clearing, and his voice took on an edge of scornful rebuke, "I'm surprised none of my whelps had the balls to take care of it already, while you both were in shiatz."

Vanil's back twitched, and a crooked smile lifted the corner of his mouth. "Be my guest," he responded calmly, to Gemma's shock, and stepped lightly aside. The platinum Alpha turned to keep Silback in view, eyes gleaming with amused anticipation as he watched him focus in on Mac and Gemma.

Gemma lifted her head warily to meet the fierce, clinically killing gaze of the broad, stocky Alpha over Mac's bulk, and she shivered uncontrollably. Then his eyes seemed drawn inescapably to her neck, to the multiple rows of Mac-tooth hieroglyphs nibbled and nipped into the skin over her collar bone, and even in the moonlight, she could see him blench.

Mac turned his head back calmly from whatever had been holding his attention, and met the burning eyes of the fulminating Alpha challengingly.

"Are you insane?" Silback almost howled.

"Try me," Mac growled back.

"Human - or were. Whichever. Has sleeping with the fucking enemy bewitched you?"

"Humans are not the -."

"Humans have caused this whole fucking war, Mackeld. If it weren't for humans, you wouldn't have Tzo's lot pouring over your borders, trying to smother the whole of Aster under his rule. Yet you're defending that creature. Marked with your naulu! I say again, has it infected you with its insanity?"

The squat, powerful Alpha broke off abruptly and turned to face the East himself, incredulity lighting his features, followed by awe, disbelief, and then dawning, dazed excitement. Vanil was already standing alert, trembling, facing the way Mac had first turned, his eyes gleaming, cheeks lightly flushed.

Other wolves around the clearing began to sense whatever it was. Gemma lifted her head, a faint quiver at the shimmer of feeling in the air feathering down her spine. The seething mass of anger and worry was quietening, giving way to excitement, and growing wonder. Slowly all of the noses, wolf, human or lycan, turned to point into the darkness under the trees which the three Alphas already faced. Utter silence fell, broken only by the tense, excited breathing of over fifty trembling wolves.

Gemma could feel her own blood beating excitedly in her veins; the shimmer inside Mac was deepening in response to the rising tension in the forest clearing, excitement, anticipation, and eagerness bouncing between the collection of alert wolves.  

The waiting seconds seemed endless.

Silence preceded his arrival for several aching, pulsing heartbeats, and the wolves seemed to stop breathing when finally, silently, four huge males brushed into the clearing, smoothly clearing a path through the circle of trembling, excited wolves.

Then came the wolf, quietly, softly pacing.

He was tailed by a substantial following of others, male and female, who fanned out behind and beside him where he halted; all were in human form.

Yet the others were irrelevant. The wolf at the centre was small, mild-looking, slight, his silver-shot black hair topping an aged face lined with humour and wisdom. He was walking with upright, gentle grace, aided negligibly by the small cane in his right hand, and his clothes were elegant, dark, and barely noticeable except for the sense of refinement which they shrouded over him. But the air echoed with his presence; it was almost like heat against the skin, a sense of pressure, coiled power concealed, beating suffocatingly through the air.

He didn't need an entourage.

The aged wolf halted on the edge of the windbreak, beside the tree which had been wounded by the silver bullet Gemma had fired, and leaned lightly on his cane, glancing casually around. The wolves surrounding the gap in the trees were all kneeling on their forelegs, noses bent to the earth, and Vanil and Silback were already curving back out of deep bows while Mac was struggling to force his legs to steady underneath him and lift him to his feet. The seemingly slight old man shook his head at her shivering wolf, waving a friendly hand, and mildly requested him to stay seated.

"Rather, I also will sit," he pronounced, a slightly French lilt to the words, and he did so, resting upright on a small triangular camp stool which one of his followers had swiftly unfolded.

He laid his cane lightly across both knees, and surveyed the three of them.

Gemma caught a glimmer of steel under the mild look in his eye, and awareness of the edge to the situation sank into her suddenly. Silback's accusations, in comparison, had just been posturing. This wolf held real power - and the ring of wolves surrounding them had held them for judgement. Was this an audience? Or a trial?

Vanil cleared his throat. "Fealden Wolflord," he began awkwardly, his voice slightly choked in awe, and was waved to silence. The Wolflord was looking at Mac, his eyes deep pools, silently assessing, sinking into her mate. Mac lifted his chin slightly, and settled himself, his gaze steady as he kept his eyes courteously on the lined face of the old wolf, waiting to hear what he would say, perfectly still.

"You frequently amaze me, Mackeld. How did you manage to break from the silver coma and tear the bullet out yourself?"

"My mate called me for help," Mac rumbled softly over the stir in the air while the surrounding wolves turned to look at him, eyes shining in disbelief.

The black eyes of the aged wolf facing them flickered, then mellowed, softening with a hint of sadness, and they dropped a heartbeat to rest on the marks on Gemma's neck, before they lifted to meet Mac's gaze again. Then he turned them to hold Gemma's.

Hold was the word. The black pools were so deep. Way, way too deep to read, and she had a sense that is she stared for too long she would fall, and keep on falling into the bottomless, endless, depths. She was falling - nothing to hold on to, no sense of place, time, self. Falling. Nothing. No weight. No world.

Dimly, she felt the shrug of skin against hers, the hint of bitter scent curling into her - familiar - Mac, the angry acridity in the heat of his musk burned in her nostrils and made her blink, breaking away, shivering her back slowly into a sense of herself.

Gemma dropped her head, closing her eyes, and pushed her face into her mate's neck, breathing in his protective anger, trying to escape the endless, calling depths of those old eyes.

"Sorry about that." Fealden's faintly French accent was refined. "I was curious, and hadn't realised how open you are, human."

A shock of disbelief and faint resentment reverberated around the waiting wolves in the clearing. The Wolflord was a legend among their own people. Over recent decades the ancient, revered hero had only ever been seen by the small pool of Alphas on the rare occasions when they were invited to his home. Now he was here, with them, among them once again. But - had the Wolflord travelled from his retirement fastness to speak to the human?

Fealden answered the tension in the crowd, calmly, "Peace, my wolves. This is a wolf friend." A frantic shock rocked through the clearing at that simple phrase, wolves scrambling to their feet in protest, snarls, whines erupting, echoing from all sides. Mac stiffened, his head shooting up in amazement, and Silback yowled a note of discordant dissent, but Fealden continued without pause, seemingly without noticing the reaction to his declaration, talking softly over the seething mass of wolves who settled uneasily back into silence. His eyes were fastened on the dark crown of Gemma's head, just visible above her mate's shoulder.

"She is a remarkable creature. Did you know that on the rut, on the run, she halted and centred herself enough to devise an antidote for the poison which is currently eating into the Mackeld? Maynard has had his people perfect it, and he successfully used it to treat Amy the night before last. She awoke yesterday afternoon, weak, but clear of all silver."

The dark gaze switched to Mac, and the Wolflord added dryly, "You will require longer treatment. You must find the time, somehow, despite the growing threat on your north west borders."

What? thought Gemma. Of course. She had forgotten Dr Maynard. And his likely interest in this, his internal knowledge which would allow him to decipher and use the formulae she'd posted on the faculty website. And he'd been successful!

A wash of relief swamped through her, a hard little knot of tension deep within her, that she hadn't even been aware of, relaxing. Mac would be alright. She snuggled against her wolf, hugging him in intense relief, tears starting in her eyes.

But Mac was not relaxing. The opposite. Gemma could sense the tension inside him growing, feel his tightening skin, radiating outwards, and she realised that Fealden was now on his feet, treading softly towards them. He stopped a foot away, and she could feel the shiver break through her wolf as he met that dark, powerful gaze again.

"Your naulu will not save her from the shiele in her system, Ulf Mackeld," the Wolflord stated quietly. "I would not see such a spirit go to waste." He sighed. "Yet, much longer, and she will not be redeemable."

"Moreover, these new bites I do not recognise, although yours were the first. A new Alpha I have not yet met? Who is he? Is she his or yours? Who will she look to once turned?"

A heavy shudder of revulsion shook through Mac, the reverberation echoing through Gemma, and she lifted her head painfully, abruptly, caught by the soft words of the aged wolf, staring back at him, loathing scorching her own skin at the realisation.

Belong to Nick? She would rather die.

She would die, first.

"You have not yet the strength to heal her, Mackeld," continued Fealden, "Not with the silver in your system, and these other wounds." He paused, an ugly sting to the brief silence, then continued, promising softly, "And I will not touch her with your naulu. But it is now urgent, with the fresh bites festering - will you accept my shiele, to do what must be done yourself, to try to save her? As close as she is, we haven't the time to soften it. Can you channel my essence for your human?"

Mac's breathing deepened in tension while he continued to hold the fathomless gaze of the upright old wolf, shivering under the power battering against him. But he nodded, and gently eased Gemma out from behind him, pulling her around in front and folding her in his arms, despite her protests at his own wounds.

"Let me," he breathed the plea, eyes burning into hers, and Gemma fell silent at the feeling in his glowing eyes. She nodded. He kissed her softly on the shoulder, away from Nick's bite, but his breath burned over the fire of the open sore. Then slowly the tremor in Mac grew, unbearably, shaking Gemma with the pain she could feel beating against his skin from the inside, pain which erupted into an uncontrollable shudder when Fealden leant over and gently placed a finger on her mate's temple.

A hiss of sympathy shimmered in the air. The watching wolves around the clearing gritted their teeth, and braced themselves to just watch in awe, to witness the Mackeld Alpha melting down under the force of shiele passed from the Wolflord.

Gemma was on fire, the stinging pain of previous healings a candle to the meltdown of this supernova inside her, agony screaming from her lips. She was aware of the power wracking her mate, shaking his body uncontrollably while his tongue moved gently over her wound. The full incinerating force was battering against her, barely held in check by Mac as he fought to throttle it back, feed her just enough, just the amount she could survive.

The fire of Nick's bites torched into an inferno of white-hot pain, lightening sheeting through her, spreading torture through the rest of her, eating into her skin, burning through her blood, her loins, her heart. Every pore was screaming, the agony unbearable, and she was evaporating, dissolving under the firestorm which burned into her, unable to escape. Dimly she was aware that she would never take a free breath again, never move, live, think without the pain that now burned into her. She was crumbling, disintegrating.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 08



Abruptly the deluge cut off, Mac slumping to unconsciousness beside her, and she collapsed panting hoarsely against him, the shuddering shocks of the pain in her muscles lessening, loosening, as she slowly became aware of the rawness of her throat where the screams had torn from her.

Breaths heaving, Gemma bent over her mate, worried, but his chest was rising and falling to slowly easing gasps while he sank farther, deeper into unconsciousness. Abruptly her head shot up - pain-free - and she blinked accusingly up at the silver-haired wolf standing over them. What had he done?

Fealden met her eyes briefly, the power pulsing between them, then he glanced down at Mac himself, gaze unreadable.

"A powerful wolf. Stubborn," he paused.

Yes, she knew that.

"There are not many, especially that injured, who could channel my shiele, hold it back, for that space of time." His eyes lifted back to Gemma's, appraising her. "It should be enough. It has halted the spread, and you will almost certainly have time to heal fully before your next blood heat."

The dark gaze was cold, boring into her, and with a shiver Gemma became suddenly, sharply aware that her protector, her mate, had pushed himself, injured, to his limits and was now deeply, exhaustedly unconscious. Unable to resurface. Unaware.

Unless someone threatened her, a little voice in her head whispered.

That didn't seem to be what the Wolflord intended.

"It was you I came to speak to, human," the smart little man addressed her calmly. She stared at him, warily. She'd thought so.

Of course Mac had done what was best for her, regardless to the consequences to himself. Tricked, trapped by his own care for his mate - his picchu. This wolf had known that her wolf would put her first. She glared into the black eyes, and saw a glimmer of amusement shimmer in the depths.

He said, "You may still be counted as human - though you have been teetering on the edge. Time should be enough to heal you. May I call you Gemma?" The polite question was incongruous, and she stared at him, eyes burning, before brusquely jerking her chin in acceptance. She didn't feel she had a lot of choice here.

"Well, Gemma, as I said, you currently have a reasonable chance of healing back to fully human." The lilting voice softened in sympathy as he continued, "But if you receive one more drop of shiele - one nip, one mating - maybe even one kiss, at any time, it will tip the balance."

She swallowed, feeling as though he had just punched her in the stomach, staring into the deep eyes of the silvery-haired wolf. Sorrowful memories echoed in the depths of the dark gaze.

"The wolves of this generation know too little of the change," the old wolf explained softly. "They forget - if they ever learned - that although the shiele of the bite is the most infectious, there is potent power in the seed also. You have slowly been turning all week, despite his holding back from the morde. Then, with that second wolf's bites, you were on the very edge."

He paused, and sighed. Then gently delivered the final blow.

"You know a wolf's life is forfeit, if he changes a human."

Minutes later, Gemma started out from the unnatural stillness brought on by Fealden's words, sensing the woman leaning over her, pushing a warm mug against her hands. Cold, cold - the chill was internal, spread with the unhappy sense of fatalism. She felt her warm rug dropped around her shoulders, and looked up slightly into the smooth, calm face of the tall, short-haired woman smiling gently down at her, then peered over the rim at her companion as she took a sip of the hot chocolate. The drink and the rug were comforting, giving her a pretence of internal warmth while the Wolflord softly explained further.

If Mac - or anyone - turned her into a werewolf, the whole stakes of this war would escalate. The worldwide taboo on changing humans since the second invasion was so strong that not even Tzo had broken it, despite the many underhanded and downright illegal tactics he was using to support his advance. If there was the slightest hint that even one werewolf had been created by the Aster allies, then the Chinese ex-warlord would indisputably use it as an excuse to follow suit, and enlarge his own already vast force with as many hapless humans as he could bite.

She had to stay human, or numerous members of her own race would be dragged involuntarily into a war they didn't even know existed. And die.

Throat dry, Gemma listened to the quiet distaste in the voice of the Wolflord. He succinctly, unnecessarily, described the decimation that would occur among any ex-humans who were brought into the war. Male werewolves were the wolf version of cannon fodder, most of them in past combats had never learned to use their new limbs, senses and strength fast enough to survive to the point where they went insane. He knew, he stated starkly, dark eyes fathomless. He had fought many.

She could not become were. The truth behind the human's werewolf legends had become buried in disbelief, cynicism, time. The truth was much worse. The end of the human bronze age, the time of the wolf fire wars, should, must remain dark, history, time long past.

Gemma's heart seemed to be shrinking inside her with every quiet word, a painful burn tightening, tightening in her chest while her skin grew colder. She had always known, suspected, that Mac, her glorious Mac, just wasn't, couldn't really be for her. Her hand drifted instinctively up to her throat, hovering gently over the tooth-marks patterned on her skin, eyes shadowed. Frozen in time, she tried to drive her mind into thought, to think beyond Mac. There was nothing. Nothing.

"He needs you human." The aged wolf was now sitting cross-legged with her in the moonlight, underneath the tree which sheltered the still, shadowy bulk of her unconscious mate. She realised that the fingertips of her other hand were gently sliding over the velvety skin of Mac's shoulder. Smooth, human skin - she missed his fur. But she loved the smooth contours of the toned muscles, clear to the eye, the touch.

She looked up into the deep, immeasurable depths of the quietened eyes of this powerful wolf, and felt her lip wobble involuntarily under the understanding in the dark pools. Gently she caught the skin under her teeth to hold it steady. Those quiet, sad eyes. She looked away sharply from the sympathy, unable to bear it. For some reason, the feeling in those eyes was ... true. Her companion was hurting.

The faint accent to Fealden's voice seemed slightly stronger as he continued his explanation. Dimly, beyond the pain spreading inside her, Gemma felt a light relief at finally knowing what was going on, hearing the long, detailed description. The Wolflord wasn't trying to exclude her, wasn't trying to keep her ignorant. He just wanted to keep her at a distance physically. From Mac. The cold inside was arctic, and she seemed to hear everything whispering beyond a thick shield of ice.

"Mackeld pack have been shoring up their defences under his brother Karl, preparing for this attack, but their worry is expanding daily with the increasingly violent skirmishes, especially in the absence of their Alpha. The scentless ambushes are too unpredictable, the sentinels are beginning to fear patrol. Mac has guided them so far by convey, but they need him there."

She understood that Mac was needed, desperately needed, by his own people, now that the war was reaching and intensifying on his borders. And she knew her mate. She loved him for his deep, unstated commitment to them. Her wolf would tear himself in two, trying to look after both his people and his mate, unable to keep a vulnerable human in his war-torn Range, unable to concentrate fully if she was in any danger. And she would be, possibly from both sides, the Wolflord explained.

Many wolves like the Silback Alpha deeply resented, even hated humans, blaming them for the increasing pollution of their Ranges and the steadily diminishing freedom to roam. The shrinking living space for wolves was one of the drivers in this war. Warlord Tzo had had to leave China when his ancestral Range was flooded, bisected by the construction of the Three Gorges reservoir by the humans. He had initially settled quietly on the small Range in the Northwest offered to him by his old allies, but the loss of space, status, and his home had rankled. He had been quietly amassing more and more of his people in the new territory offered to him, until his expansion had become inevitable.

The Aster could hold even against the superior force, if it weren't for the new weapons, explained the Wolflord. Argen rope was debilitating but not new, the Alphas knew how to guard against Argen ambushes, even though the tactic hadn't been seen in centuries.

But the silver-etched weaponry that made any infected wolf grow mysteriously sicker, the symptoms worsening with each cleansing - that had been deeply worrying, sending shock-waves throughout the defending wolf leaders and council. Only thirty or so wolves had been tainted so far, but a handful of them had died within a short period. Mac had been one of the first infected, and had by far the worst wound, but being the stubborn, proud, irrepressible damn creature that he was, he was somehow, god knew how, still on his feet, still functioning, seemingly indifferent to the poisonous abscess eating into his stomach. And since the Mackeld chief physician had passed on her warning against using the standard silver treatment last week, no more wolves had died.

"Thanks to you, they are no longer getting worse. He is no longer getting worse. Even Mac could not withstand more." The dark eyes brightened slightly, sinking into her, looking past the surface, assessing. "And thanks to you, it seems he will recover completely."

Gemma felt as though she was still sinking under that gaze, under his words. She knew, somewhere inside, that she should, did, feel a kernel of pride, happiness that she had helped to keep him alive, that she had devised the antidote that would cure him, cure all of them. She felt a deep curl of peace that Mac would survive - even if - without her. Her mind wisped along, wondering indifferently whether she would survive. Could she, survive this parting? Why?

She had not realised that her mate had bitten so deep into her heart.

Gemma had known the Wolflord's intent since he had first induced her mate to drive himself unconscious, while healing her. Yes, she had needed the Wolflord's shiele to heal, and would definitely not have survived a more concentrated form of it, but Fealden had also used the force of it to overcome her injured mate so that he could speak to her, Mac's human, alone, privately.

Mac would not leave her, not again, not now, not with that marking he had given her, the slight old wolf explained quietly. He would take her with him, to protect her, and so endanger both her, and his pack, in his endeavour to protect both.

She would have to leave him.

Gemma had always known that this harmony would end. But not now, not yet.

Not yet.

Not with her wolf unconscious, abandoning him.

He was going to war, a war she had no part in, she reminded herself.

But she couldn't leave him like this, to return to her empty, silly, superficial human life and pretend that it mattered. Pretend that he hadn't. Her heart was burning, inside her frozen chest.

She could barely hear the soft words through the ringing in her ears.

"Argen rope we know, and the new silver poison we can now defend against. But the scentless ambush - we rely far too heavily on our noses, especially in combat, and this weapon is one we, he cannot find an easy guard against, scent is too instinctive. Mac obtained a small amount of what we believe is the concoction used almost two weeks ago, but Maynard cannot get any handle on how it works, or even what it is made of, we know too little of silver. And we dare not ask the wider community, the knowledge would be lethal in the wrong hands."

Gemma was staring into the dark eyes, a faint glimmer of life lighting deep within her. Mac did need her. She could do this, at least, for him.

"I know - this is unfair. But could we ask for your expert help again, Dr. Gemma Smith?"

The next six weeks were unbearable. The hollow emptiness echoed inside her, a constant, gnawing ache. She couldn't bear to think about him. She couldn't not think about him. The only way she could function was by concentrating on her work, but there was no satisfaction there, she wasn't getting anywhere.

There were some little comforts. Just before she had been numbly drawn away from the clearing by the hulking escorts Fealden had assigned to her, her bodyguards, she had seen the wolf doctor William apply the first coating of her new silver-antidote to the raw, vile black oozing wound in Mac's stomach. She hadn't seen the injury since before she went to Marshmont, it had always been covered, but the ease with which he'd moved, jumped on her, laughed it off, she hadn't expected this - eugh. Ouch.

She should have known he was lying about being fine.

She had known.

Anger and fear shivering through her, she'd spoken quietly with William Bancroft, a lump in her throat, but Will had assured her that Mac would recover fully. The crooked little smile at the corner of the Mackeld doctor's mouth as he'd carefully smoothed the ointment onto the raw flesh had soothed her most. Will explained that the hideous colour was only where the old silver treatment he'd been using had leached into the flesh in Mac's stomach and reacted with it and the silver, discolouring it. He'd promised that although the stain was permanent it would be innocuous once the silver was removed by her new medicine.

He would get better.

And then, later, when her small procession had reached the road through the forest where the Wolflord's limousine was waiting, Jasmine had appeared. The lump in Gemma's throat had been too heavy to force words around, but they hadn't been needed. The wolf-girl had silently slipped a hand into Gemma's and slid into the back seat beside her friend. They didn't speak on the whole, long journey into the dawn, just keeping the contact of that warm handclasp. Gemma spent the hours in the car staring dry-eyed out of the window, her other hand clutched around the small phial of colourless liquid that the Wolflord had entrusted to her, mind circling endlessly over the last short weeks.

She glared at what remained of the colourless liquid now, brow furrowed. What the hell was it made of?

Concentrate.

She had learned, again, that fierce concentration was the only way to distract herself from the constant ache. A different ache, but worse, harder to deal with.

But oh, she was never free of the craving to see him again, touch him, surround her senses with his intoxicating scent. Even if they could never mate again, she was longing to just hear his voice. She loathed her bed, spending most of every night turning fruitlessly, restlessly, seeking. But he was at war. His pack was being driven increasingly away from their homes, at bay, fighting, dying, shored up by his presence, his skill. He couldn't keep dividing his attention, worrying about her, sprinting down to see her. She understood this.

Maybe understanding did make it easier. At least - it made it less raw.

But it hurt. So much. Bittersweet - he hadn't even tried to contact her, and she knew he shouldn't, but wished that he would.

She was the one who had left, she reminded herself.

She wished that she had at least been able to say goodbye. While he was conscious. Without an audience.

Although maybe that wouldn't have been a good way of staying human.

She wouldn't be able to kiss him even now.

Apparently, wolf shiele was a bit like some other human infections. Once the pathway had been burned, so to speak, any future contamination of the same would catch and spread like wildfire. As close as she had been to the edge, it would take only a token amount to turn her. Any wolf, of any rank, probably had enough shiele to overcome her human immune system now, now that it had become attuned to the contaminant.

To prevent anyone from turning her, and protect her as she worked, Gemma had returned to her human life with two wolf bodyguards - or three, if you counted Jasmine. Jeremy and Augustine Fealden were the Wolflord's grandsons. She quite liked the boys, distantly, although it was hard to feel anything deeply outside the numbness and fierce concentration covering the deep internal knots. She spent every possible waking minute fiercely concentrated in her lab. It was the only way she could function, could keep the longing at bay.

Concentrate, she ordered herself again, she only had another hour while the lab was free. But she might as well give up here, she thought to herself glumly. Back to the drawing board - pencil and paper, and looking for a new extraction process in the journals that might throw some light on this concoction. This method hadn't worked. If only she could get some clue as to how they made it.

The churning tension in her stomach was growing worse with the passing weeks. The struggle was growing more desperate - the ingredients to the solution which made wolves scentless were eluding all her efforts to isolate them, and without them she couldn't find a cure, something to counteract it. Couldn't help. Useless.

Concentrate.

Today, it was proving particularly hard to focus, the events of this morning kept replaying in her mind.

Every morning, two of the wolves escorted her across town on the bus, and then across the university campus to her lab in the soil science building. She knew that while she was inside one of them hung around in the trees outside the side door watching everyone who entered the building through either entrance. A constant guard. But she had always assumed that the third, absent wolf got a morning in bed.

Wrong.

They had been walking along the secluded footpath through the trees by the outer fence of the campus park, Jasmine and Gus bantering about his repeated attempts to flirt with the pretty redheaded girl who worked in the coffee shop by the library. Gemma had, as usual, been barely aware of their conversation, thinking through the avenues she would pursue today if the dilutions she had left to steep overnight didn't reveal anything upon analysis.

Abruptly, with no warning, both wolves had spun and leapt to the right, shimmering in midair to land as lycans upon the ambush of five large werewolves sprinting toward them. The aggressors had been bounding soundlessly, at breathtaking speed, down the slight hill from the dense woodland by the perimeter fence. And they had smelt rank to Gemma, like Nicolas Grey. Evidently they were Grey wolves, attempting a scentless ambush. But her guards were not relying on scent.

Behind the main group, Gemma's dazed eyes had noted a lycan with the features of Jeremy rolling upright off the corpse of a sixth attacker, lunging seamlessly into a blur springing upon another enemy from behind. Meanwhile, his hulking brother had ripped out the throat of one opponent with a clawed fist, while whirling in a roll under the stampede of vicious feet to leap and clamp his jaws around the throat of the largest member of the attacking force from beneath, dragging him down. Jasmine had spun so fast between the last two that before Gemma's shocked eyes had been able to turn in her direction, the attackers had dropped to the ground in a fountain of blood. It had all been over in seconds.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 08



Bloody hell.

Heart pounding, Gemma had stood frozen on the path, eyes wide. She hadn't had time to move. Her brain had only just been catching up -stunned by the speed of the ruthless bloodbath that had suddenly descended, and as suddenly lifted. Stunned by the recognition of how easily, silently and neatly, her gentle companions could kill. Without pausing for breath, Jeremy and Gus had grabbed three of the corpses each and started hauling them off the walkway up into the trees. Jeremy had been growling something about the insult of Grey sending only six, to which Gus had suggested that maybe they should write him a formal letter of complaint. While Gemma had still gaped, trembling faintly, she had felt Jasmine, returned to human and with no hint of blood on her jaws or skin, slip a hand into hers and give it a soft squeeze.

"Sorry," the wolf-girl had breathed softly while she tugged the human back around and got her moving on towards the soil science building, toward her lab, her haven. "We couldn't leave them time to convey a report. Have to keep you safe."

Safe.

Gemma's slightly dazed mind kept replaying the bloody images from this morning.

She realised that in all the weeks she had spent among them, the encounters she had seen, she had never before witnessed a wolf fight to kill. The attacks had all been careful. The formal challenges of the defasio were obviously constrained to drive one wolf to yield without permanent injury. The unknown Mackeld wolf who had challenged Nicolas Grey not far from this spot had only been intending to delay him, and had been more intent on staying alive than on trying to defeat the larger wolf. And that time she had seen Mac fighting Grey himself - with no Argen rope, and no silver bullet - her mate had been careful in his movements, using delicate control to recover the bottle of this little drug from Nick intact.

Why hadn't Mac just killed him then? Her ex-flatmate moved even faster than her guards, she remembered being unable to even focus on the blur of his movements at all. And she had seen him out-think, out-move the Vanil Alpha, that beautifully choreographed dance in the forest. Surely he could have ripped Nick's throat out in seconds, that time in her bedroom back at her parents', and recovered the phial easily from the corpse?

Why hadn't he?

Long, long ago now, back at the beginning of this, Mac had mentioned a hold that Nick held over him - the reason for his exile. What hold? She felt dazed, stupid to have never thought this through before. Mac had never said that the hold no longer existed, just - what had he said? That Nick had overstepped the mark, setting Mac up to bite her, or something like that. That the exile was over.

What hold?

Having learned so much from the Wolflord, it was easier to see the missing pieces. And without the burning ache of mating lust distracting her.

Her blood pulsed briefly, a curl of heat burning through her, reminding her. Rut-doft was not required, she was quite happy to pounce on Mac without it.

No. She reminded herself sternly, and felt the aching agony clenched like a fist around her heart. She couldn't believe that never again ... she wrenched her mind away, forcing it back to the current question, and scrunched up and flung away her latest working sheet in frustration. Someone had doodled the word Mac all over it.

That evening, when the four of them returned to her flat, there was a note from a local courier company telling Gemma that someone had tried to deliver a package for her while she was out. Bristling with suspicion, Jeremy shot off around to the courier company's office before it closed, while the rest of them cooked dinner.

Gemma ate a lot more meat at the moment than she usually would, with three wolf flatmates. Well, officially the boys lived across the corridor, having providentially acquired the suddenly vacant flat - wolves seemed to have their ways of pulling strings even in the human world, or at least, the Wolflord did. Somehow, within three days of her return, the Hart couple she had known for two years had left, and the boys had moved in. They still slept there, although it was growing quite apparent that Jeremy would prefer to sleep over here. In Jasmine's room. It was harder to tell what Jasmine thought of the idea, although the pair of them were often laughing together, and Gemma had established that outside the rut, wolves picked mates much in the same way humans did. Jeremy was delicious to look at, a tall, craggy wolf, active, intelligent, and as the Wolflord's grandson, assigned as one of her guards, he had to be pretty powerful as well.

Kate and Bethan couldn't believe that Mac been substituted by two new young men who were almost equally gorgeous. Gus was huge, a hulking, dark giant, very softly spoken and a little diffident, his massive figure making even Mac's tall, strong frame seem almost slender. His twin brother Jeremy had the same colouring but the opposite build; tall, lean, rope-like muscles moulded under the smooth skin. Her girlfriends had instigated quite a few discussions straight after her return, trying to judge who was the most attractive of the three male wolf flatmates, past or present. She had a feeling that Jasmine had shut her human friends up, although whatever she had said hadn't stopped them from coming around to flirt outrageously with the boys almost every evening. Hers had turned into a party flat.

And it had also had a complete change of décor, courtesy of the wolves, who spent hours redecorating the rooms energetically while Gemma worked or slept. They were relentless. She realised that they were trying to distract her, re-arranging furniture, knocking down part of the wall between the kitchen and living room to add a lot of brightness, slopping paint around.

Like she was going to forget him just because his old bedroom was now a dusky rose. Although the colour was a beautiful foil for Jasmine's strong colouring.

Jeremy was very unsettled on his return, carrying a bulging plastic-wrapped package the size of his torso. The other wolves' heads shot up when he walked down the corridor to the kitchen, and they met him in the doorway, eyebrows raised as they stared at the package.

"What is it?" asked Gemma.

Restless, prowling, hackles slightly raised, Jeremy paced back and forward in front of her, holding the bulky object delicately in front of him, uncertain. The way he held it, it didn't look as though it weighed much, although with the definition of muscles in his forearm, it was hard to tell, she doubted he'd have been bothered if it was a block of gold. All three wolves were staring at the parcel with furrowed brows, she could see their minds working furiously.

"I think we should get rid of it," Jeremy stated softly.

"What is it?" she repeated, a slight edge to her voice. It was her package.

"I don't think we have the right," countered Jasmine, and her eyes flickered across to Gemma's momentarily.

She got it, then.

"It's from Mac, isn't it?" Her skin was shimmering, and it was quite scary, the wave of feeling which swamped her just at the thought. "What is it?"

Gus wordlessly picked the package out his twin's hands and passed it to her, murmuring softly, "You tell us."

Her hands were trembling lightly as she cut open the plastic, and she felt her skin flush warm, then pale, then warm again as she recognised the pale golden fake fur of her rug. The rug that Mac had brought to her in the forest, where they had spent many long, blissful hours entwined together inside its silken folds. Shaking, she pulled it out and hugged it quickly up to her face, pressing it against her eyes, engulfed in the warm, clean scent of him, throat burning with held-back tears. She couldn't do this without him.

"There is a note with it," Jasmine said quietly. Gemma couldn't pull herself back out of the rug. Not yet. Not with the salt water leaking into the folds from her eyes.

"But - Fealden told him not to write, text, phone, no communication." That was Gus, sounding a little ruffled.

"It's to us," the wolf-girl responded.

There was a silence, and Gemma heard the boys cross the kitchen to join her flatmate. There was a short, pregnant pause. Then one of them snorted indignantly.

"What does it say?" she mumbled into her rug.

Jeremy snorted again, "It's nothing, just -."

But Gemma could hear the smile in Jasmine's voice as she cut across his dismissal, "Just says what Mac will do to us if we let anyone get that close to you again."

That brought her head up, heart clenching in renewed feeling as she met the dark eyes of the half-Indian wolf across the small space. The boys shuffled uncomfortably at the sight of her tearstained face, but her friend smiled crookedly and tilted the postcard in her hand so that Gemma could read the front. It was one of the stark, artistic cards, large white letters on a black backdrop, and simply said, 'Every war must end.'

She stared at it, heart hammering. He hadn't given up. But he couldn't - they couldn't, he couldn't change her. Not if it meant his death. She couldn't let him. But what else was there? How could they?

Drawing in a shuddering breath, seared by emotion, she turned and shuffled dazedly back to her bedroom to slump on the bed, wrapped in the soft folds. It felt comfortingly like being wrapped in Mac. Mac. Every war must end. Mac. Her mind drifted, wondering what he was doing. What he meant.

She was startled awake hours later by Jeremy knocking perfunctorily on her door, entering on the heels of his knock to sniff deeply at the air. While she blinked sleep out of her eyes and wondered whether to be affronted at his abrupt entry, he scowled worriedly around, then glanced at her rug-wrapped figure on the bed, muttering, "Sorry," and swung back out. Indignantly, she sat up, hearing him calling softly, "No, nothing in there either, nothing except that damn rug."

She could hear the other two wolves prowling around ill at ease, and glanced at the clock. Nearly three a.m. - what on earth had gotten into them?

Moments later, lying curled inside her warm, Mac-scented cocoon, wondering vaguely what had the wolves so unsettled, and if she could get back to sleep again in this comforting rug, Gemma's thoughts were interrupted by a gently tapping on the window. The sound was familiar, and she sat up abruptly, peering at the orange glow reflected up from street level below, where she hadn't drawn the curtains. A pale reflection gleamed briefly, and in seconds she had the window open and was unhooking the message from the karabiner on the end of an almost invisible fishing line.

Mackeld mail. Trembling lightly, she smiled to herself and unfolded the short, hastily-scrawled note.

"Picchu. Your guards will scent me if I come any closer, and I don't want anyone to know I'm here. My pack have enough to worry them without terror that their Alpha is about to run off with a human again.

If you trust it's me, tug on the line and I'll lower a harness for you.

DO NOT DARE TO CLIMB OUT WITHOUT A HARNESS, STUBBORN HUMAN.

As proof, something I would never tell anyone else about you:

Duck a l'orange. Me. From behind, pinned on all fours."

Gemma stared at the short note, blood pounding excitedly through her veins, heart shimmering. A little blush infused her cheeks at the last line, and she gritted her teeth at the tease. No communication for a month and a half, and now this?

Even if he wasn't allowed to bite her, maybe she could bite him?

She had known he'd liked her reply to his lazy roll of questions one morning at breakfast: what was her favourite food, favourite possession, and favourite place? But dammit, there was no need to reproduce it in writing. She'd been eating the duck and orange that he'd cooked for her at the time. And guess how she'd been nudged awake at the crack of dawn that very morning? By whom? Damn smug, horny wolf.

Actually, she didn't need any more evidence that it was him than the dictatorial shout about not climbing out without a harness. Who would be that rude and autocratic if they were just pretending to be her mate?

She smiled ruefully. The Wolflord had explained thoroughly, she knew why she shouldn't see Mac.

She tugged on the line.

A harness slithered almost soundlessly down the wall, and knocked gently at the window, another piece of paper clipped to it, fluttering the words "Bring the rug" in the light breeze. Gemma's heart jumped as she heard padding footsteps down the corridor stop again outside her bedroom door, and she hastily stomped across her room, pulling open the door to snap at the hovering wolf, "What has gotten into you lot tonight?"

Gus loomed in the stark light of the hallway. "I dunno," he murmured slightly irritably. "Something's up. Not a real threat but - something. We just can't quite pinpoint what."

Mac. These guys were good.

"Well, can't you prowl a bit more quietly?" grouched Gemma, "I thought you wolves were supposed to be stealthy?"

He crooked a little, sheepish grin, and replied, "Sorry - we won't keep you awake any longer, Gem."

"Thanks," Gemma responded with sarcastic sweetness, feeling slightly guilty at the subterfuge. "Night." She gently closed her door again. This time, despite listening intently through the panels, his footsteps were undetectable on the carpet of the hallway. But she did hear the faint creak of the kitchen door when it swung wider. She relaxed.

Mac.

A little smile curved her mouth as she turned back to the window.

Moments later, she was wrapped in Mac, in her rug, in his arms, curled up on the flat roof of the extension at the back of the corner shop five doors down. They hadn't said anything, after he had hauled her up the wall faster than she could have fallen back down. Mac had just wrapped her in his embrace and sprinted down across the roofs to this sheltered little bower he'd prepared between the chimney stack and the wall, dropping gently down to lie flat on his back, pull her into his arms and cradle her against him. Gemma rolled to bury her face in his shoulder and just held on loosely, breathing in his scent.

She could feel his heart beating under her head. She'd missed it. Sighed softly to herself, feeling the rise and fall of an echoing sigh leaving his chest.

They lay together, quietly, while the stars revolved overhead. Being here, she realised that she didn't have to say anything. Nor did he. She knew, he knew.

Just quiet. Peace.

It was almost an hour later when the echoing siren of an ambulance shrieking down the main road off to the left stirred Gemma, lifting her out of her drifting comfort. The sky to the east was slightly less dark, presaging the coming of the sun. She felt a shiver run through her. He would have to go.

Light, familiar fingers began to brush over the skin of her shoulder. The warmth tingled through her, a rush of heat simmering into life in every pore. Yet it was so much more powerful - he was so much more powerful. Living in the flat, he had always been banked down, laid back, off duty. Hiding. Afterwards, he had been drained by the wound in his stomach, the silver leaching his strength. Now - she could feel the burn of him across her skin ever where they were not touching, there was a sense of him in the air, beating against her.

Her Mac was well. He was exhilarating, radiating power.

Ow, did she want to jump his bones.

She heard him chuckle beneath her, and then sigh.

"We can't, picchu. But thanks for joining me out here. I had to check you were all right."

She rolled over, laid her fists on his chest and gently rested her chin on them, feeling him tuck the rug back around her. She gazed up at him, teasingly.

The warmth in those green, green eyes.

"We can't even kiss," he murmured, eyes holding hers.

"I can kiss you," she retorted. "Just not on the mouth."

A gleam shot into his eyes.

"Oh, I could kiss you, picchu, so long as I avoid moist tissue. I think Valerie got very suspicious when I grilled her about this."

Eyes twinkling back, she lifted her head and parted her hands, tilting her head to admire the hard muscle of his chest before she bent and softly kissed it. And again. Again. Mmm. Over here. Mmm. Again. Maybe here. She missed his fur under her fingers, but she loved the feel of his skin under her lips, the slight give to the surface, the hard-packed muscle underneath and the rising tremor in his body at the feel of her lips. The taste of him. She had missed this human skin during the mating. A blush fired her skin as she recalled that the only bit of hairless skin he had when he was lycan was his groin, but it had seemed to feel different to this under her lips.

Maybe she could persuade him to shift so she could test it.

Abruptly she was lifted and swung, and landed gently cradled against his shoulder, head to head. His lips were only inches away as he sighed deeply, and she leaned forward in urgent need to fasten hers to them. He twisted his head, and they weren't there, she was whimpering against his throat, bereft, sliding her tongue over the warm skin, tasting the light tang of salt lingering from his sprint down here.

"Gem. You mustn't - not even kiss my skin. You lose control too easily."

Angrily she nipped at the skin of his neck under her lips, and saw the amusement in his eyes as he effortlessly twisted out of the grip of her teeth, lifting her so he could look into hers.

"I could kiss you, picchu. I would love to. But I know you hate it when I touch you and you're not allowed to touch me."

She pulled back, sliding down to sit cross-legged on his stomach and glare back at him. "You think you can control yourself better than me?"

"I've had a lot more practice," he said diplomatically.

Who was this she was sitting on again? Mac being diplomatic? That was a real insult!

"I thought you said you lost control around me," she returned brusquely.

A shadow crossed his eyes, but Gemma wouldn't let him look away. His voice was softer when he replied, "I know when I'm getting near that level, Gem. I wouldn't be able to mate my delicious mate, now your scent is human, without the loup taking over, but I could stop myself at any point while kissing your delicious skin."

A gleam of hope shot across his face, the crinkles around his eyes tightening. "Are you going to let me?"

"If you let me kiss yours."

Another sigh. Exasperation, "No, Gemma. You haven't the control."

Hah! Well. Maybe. Her frown deepened.

"Alright." She breathed deeply, and again, before continuing, "If I were to admit the possibility that you just might - currently - maybe, have the slightest fraction of a teensy-weensy smidgeon more control than me. Perhaps. Then -."

His hand lifted, and Mac laid the back of it against her forehead, checking for a raging fever while his eyes laughed up at her. She batted it away. Well, she tried to. He obligingly removed his hand when hers bounced off it.

"Pay attention," she growled down at her wolf.

He pulled his face into a more sober expression, but didn't bother to smother the amusement shining in his eyes.

"I've never really tried to control myself around you, Mac," she stated, adding under her breath, "And I've never heard you complaining about it before."

A smug smile crooked his mouth while she continued, "So how do you know I couldn't? How do I know I couldn't? What makes you think I have less control than you?"

He stroked a gentle finger along her cheek. "I wasn't born this controlled, Gem. It takes a huge amount of training, discipline, and self-denial to attain this level."




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 08



Gemma frowned, "Jasmine said she wasn't Alfamme yet - surely that means she is learning control?"

There was a slight pause, and she continued wistfully, "I can learn control?"

"Not weres. And not in one night."

"I'm not a were. And we could make a start."

"It's hard work."

"So? How did you learn? How did you practise?"

Mac sighed, and pulled her back down, turning her to rest on her back on top of him, snuggling her into his arms, wrapping her back in the rug.

"Well sexually, it's usually by porn. As ruggare - young male wolves - we used to spend evenings elaborating more and more on dirty stories, tormenting each other, me and a group of others in training, friends. The first to lose control fell foul of a huge amount of teasing, and was obliged to undergo forfeits for a day and wait upon the others."

"Did you ever lose?"

He was silent beneath her.

She tilted her head back onto the crown so she could see his face, reaching a hand up to cup his slightly bristly jaw, scraping her fingernail lightly, affectionately over the rough stubble. She found it bizarre that his hair never grew any longer as a wolf, but he constantly needed to shave as a human.

She softened her voice, coaxingly, "Come on, you can admit it. It's only me."

His chest reverberated under her when he chuckled, admitting grudgingly, "We all lost, Gemma. Sometimes."

"We?"

"There were five of us at the Academy together who used to hang about in a group, train together, play together, tussle together, challenge each other. We were a lot of trouble."

His voice had sunk a little in a strange blend of joy and sadness. She decided not to pursue that one tonight.

"How did you play? How did you lose?" she was almost squirming in his lap, cheeks firing. What she wanted, longed for, before he left, was to start one little step down the road to proving her control to him. Prove to herself. Provide a little jot of hope.

She could hear the smile in his voice as he replied matter-of-factly, "First to rub himself against anything lost. Or come - that happened once or twice in the early days. By the end of our five years at the Academy we all knew each others' most heated sexual fantasies, and would vie with each other, interrupting each other as soon there was a pause in the narration, to describe in the most vivid detail scenarios which would cause our friends to fail, to lose control. But over that time we had each also become very practiced at controlling our desire."

Her cheeks were burning, but her mind was wondering also who the close-knit group of friends were, what had happened to them. And if this was standard teenage wolf behaviour. Somehow it didn't sound too different to teenage male human - it reminded her of some of the fragments of conversations she'd overheard around both her older and younger brothers and their friends in their teen years. The similarity comforted her, their races were not so different. Maybe she could also glean a bit more about wolf culture, and weres, while she was at it.

"Well, Mr. Wolf," she said, settling back against his warmth with a sigh. "I believe you promised me a story, once I was no longer on heat."

Heavy silence reverberated from the male beneath her.

"Please share one with me now. A classic tale with bit of history, a bit of culture. And a lot of sex." Her voice dropped as she blushed. It was so ridiculous blushing, considering the week they had spent together in the forest. But she couldn't help it, saying the words aloud. Her voice was slightly huskier as she continued, "Let me learn?" She was stroking along his jaw wistfully, and there eyes met, caught. Mingled warmth and sadness in both of them. Shared.

Mac exhaled a long breath, then lifted to shuffle under her, pulling himself crabwise back to sit leaning against the chimney, bringing her with him, snuggled against his chest. He settled her slight frame more comfortably against his bulk, tucked on his crossed legs, and relaxed back against the structure behind him, resting a warm hand gently on her belly. Gemma rested back against his strong frame, the tension in her stomach unfurling slowly.

She'd known he'd keep his word.

"Are you sitting comfortably?" Mac murmured. The tease. She nodded, snug inside her rug and his arms, peaceful eyes reflecting the few stars visible above the faint glow of the city. A slight purr of anticipation in her stomach.

"OK. There is a legendary tale from what the humans call the dark ages, when the wolf courts in Europe were at their height; glittering, powerful, and everywhere we ruled vast ranges between the human settlements. A legend of Prince Hal."

"Wasn't he some English king?" Gemma was confused. Had he been a wolf?

Mac sighed again. "Not that one. We have a more famous Prince Hal. And ours came first"

Gemma sighed softly. Of course. "Go on."

"Well, after his natal won the Alpha succession, Prince Hal began travelling through the courts of Europe..."

"Natal?" interrupted Gemma. He'd become pretty good at supplying translations during their week together, it was unusual that she had to ask.

"Litter-brother. Twin. Like Gus and Jeremy. And you can't have two Alphas in the same pack, Gem. If both are Alpha warriors then when the succession opens, they fight the defasio and the defeated brother will leave."

"So your brother Karl isn't an Alpha?"

"He is a very good warrior - and could become pack Alpha if the occasion demanded, and he put his mind to it. He covered for me during my exile. But he prefers electronics, and wants to develop his own security products, set up a company. That is how he prefers to channel his drive."

Weird. A wolf geek.

"My brother Will is an Alpha to match Rebecca, but they're both Physes," he added.

Fizzes?

"Physicians. Doctors," he answered without her asking. "So there is no conflict with the pack Alpha. In the old days, when there weren't so many alternative professions, and there was a lot more fighting between packs, more warriors were required," explained Mac. "Most Alphas then were warriors."

"Anyway, to get back to this story you demanded: Prince Hal was travelling through the courts of Europe with his friend Egbert -"

"Egbert?" Wolves shouldn't be called Egbert.

"Do you want to hear this?"

"OK, sorry, Hal and Egbert, go on."

"They travelled up to the frozen north, where the humans were scarce and a wolf could travel for many weeks without hearing the cut of an axe. The snow drove icicles into their fur, and their noses ached with the sting of the wind, but the caribou were rich and fierce, and the pair delighted in the thrill of the chase; the echoing, empty horizons." Mac's voice was growing softer, lyrical, and Gemma glanced up to see him watching pictures in the stars, eyes distant. Her heart softened, and she seemed to melt in a strange sadness. She could sense that Mac had been there - to the frozen North where the wolf still ran free. She could feel the pull of quiet longing in her mate. Longing for that freedom.

"One night, a mighty ice storm blew up. The fierce wind scoured away their snow den and forced the prince and his companion from shelter. The cold ate into their fur, into their bones, and they fought to run through the blinding snow to sustain the heat of life. For days the travellers battled through the whirling whiteness, circling, staggering, lost in the fury. Then, on the fourth day, Egbert stumbled and fell into a deep, dark crevasse."

Well, what do you expect with a name like Egbert? But the humph in Gemma's mind was faint, and she could feel herself melting into this story, melting into him, her blood singing softly, soothed by Mac's deep voice and the quiet peace of his calm strength cradled around her while she concentrated on the tale he was weaving.

"Prince Hal stood on the edge of the gaping, shadowy tear in the ice, howling for his friend while the snow beat against him, but he heard only a mocking chorus of voices snarling the Chituk in reply. White hot, he leapt into the hole to rescue his comrade, and bounded down from frozen ledge to frozen ledge, into the bowels of the ice. At the bottom lay Egbert, unconscious in a vast cave, the walls of which shimmered with a pale, green light. To one end of the cavern loomed a glittering, crystal gateway, guarded by a pack of warriors forty strong. They set upon Hal like a hurricane."

"Chituk?" murmured Gemma. She didn't want to interrupt the spell of his words, captivated by the rich mosaic of images that his soft voice evoked, the feel of age, of wolf legend and culture steeped through the ancient story he was unfolding for her.

"Territory challenge," Mac rumbled back, pressing a lingering, gentle kiss to her hair. She was so relaxed in his arms, so soft - she had never lain as peacefully as this during the heat, not awake. Well, that would change as the tale progressed. He smiled gently to himself. She'd asked.

"The strange pack was ferocious, their pelts the colour of ice, their eyes pale ice chips in the eerie light, and they tore into the prince in a storm of teeth and claws. But Hal ... Hal was a Poignor. Born to war, he had trained with the sjo-jān in the court of the Emperor, and had fought the fiercest of wolves in every land in Europe. The ice warriors battered against him as the waves tear at the cliffs, but he stood stalwart and defeated them, one by one."

Images danced in Gemma's mind, images of a wolf - Mac - whirling and leaping in a green cave deep in the glacier, meeting and matching the ferocious attacks of a furore of ice wolves, holding firm and strong: fastest, fiercest, unconquerable.

"When the last guard was stilled, the glittering gates swung open, and a warmth of soft light and welcoming music danced over the prince. A huge, grizzled, black-haired wolf, dressed in rich clothing of fabulous colours, stood in the gateway, laughter rocking his muscular frame. "A warrior indeed," the black wolf cried gladly, and the echo of his fria - his howl of welcome - shook the great ice cavern. Prince Hal stood amazed, struck with wonder, then bowed the full courtesy of guest to his host. The travellers had happened upon the hidden court of King Magnus Blodtand, and the prince had defeated the fabled warriors of glass.

"Tonight begins the celebration of Bock Hufvud," declared the king. "Never before have I permitted an outsider to attend our feast, but I would gladly welcome such a warrior as you, Hal Poignor." The Prince bowed again, deeply, the curve of gracious acceptance.

The weary travellers paced softly, awed, through the glittering, splendid halls. The rich scent that curled into their senses, tingling through their blood, smelt alien to their frost-burnt noses. Egbert laughed with delight in the light and warmth, and stepped forward eagerly as they were led to the pools to bathe, and then to the sumptuous guest chambers to bait lightly and sleep. In the evening when they were awoken, they found that soft, rich clothing had been provided. Wolf-cut clothing, and so courteously the pair shifted to wolf to dress.

But the Prince felt faintly uneasy as he eased a soft leather waist over his broad, furred shoulders. An unrecognised tension was building in his spine.

His alert eyes had noted the myriad of small bite marks, some fresh, in the wooden rung of one of the ladders at the poolside. Cubs did live here. But where were they? Why were there no fresh scents? Why could he not hear their high-pitched squeals of play, even as a whisper, echoing down the long stone hallways?

He teased out a small, scarlet thread of silk from where it was caught on the frame of the mirror in front of which he was dressing, and lifted it to his ice-burned nose to scent the faint milk-rich echo of the asage who had once worn it in her hair. Where had the suckling mother-wolf gone? She couldn't have left such a scent long ago. The melting fragrance of female wolves of all ages was steeped in the soft furnishings throughout the halls, mingled with the milky scent of cubs. A soft, homely purr of a scent, curling through these halls, diluting the harsher tang of males burning with rut lust. Where were they now?

And what was that other scent? The strange scent that teased his damaged nose and heightened the fire in his blood?

Fria-welcome and guest, Hal knew that they were under peace. But something was odd.

The great feasting hall was cavernous, the warmth, glittering lights and mouth-watering scents of rich meats swirling under the murmur of a hundred hoarse wolf voices, melding in a hum of palpable excitement. Egbert was quivering with anticipation and hunger beside his friend as the king called to them in welcome, and the beta lightly, eagerly followed a young sjeste who bowed him to a place at a table of warriors. Hal's sharpened gaze lingered on the vivid, enticingly curved silk-clad forms of the multitude of sjeste splashed among the duller colours of the wolf pelts seated around the room, even while he courteously answered his host's call to be seated in pride of guest place beside him at the central, raised table.

Crossing the packed room, Hal's blood leaped in his veins when the scents around him coalesced and his brain slammed to a halt in shattering, breathless realisation. Mating doft. The females were on the brink of their heat. All of them. His incredulous brain was fighting the knowledge his damaged nose was passing him, and the prince lifted semi-angry, questioning eyes to Blodtand even as his loins sprang to eager life and cock hardened at the luscious, taunting scent.

Impossible. Two sjeste on heat, if not kept apart, would fight more viciously than any wolf except a cub-mother, often to the death of one or both. Wolf evolution had somehow therefore ensured that rarely did the heats of even two sjeste living in proximity coincide. Yet here was a whole room, full, teeming with thickening female lust and the answering rut-tang of the quivering males. A bloodbath was brewing.

Moreover, they all smelt Alfamme. Impossible. There were not that many Alpha females on the planet. And they would not live together. Impossible.

Alfamme mating doft.

The prince quivered as he felt the blood pulse longingly in his veins. His erection tempered to full, straining readiness even as his hackles wrenched to full alert, and his mind swam as he forced down the searing, simple urge to seize the nearest female, fold her under him, mount and rut.

Hal was lifted from his seething preoccupation by the feel of a gentle hand sliding into his, and swayed under the opposing forces pulling at him. A beautiful little sjeste faced him, her hand in his, dark brown eyes melting under the fire of his gaze. Her long, dusky tresses danced like cool silk along her back."

The spellbinding voice deepened, becoming slightly more husky, and Gemma was distantly aware of Mac's fingers smoothing lightly through her hair as he continued to describe her.

"Her perfect, deliciously enticing curves were sheathed in a dark yellow silken sheath, and the rich, beautiful scent of her lust rose around him while she drew him gently toward his place to the left of the king. His blood leaped as he watched the taut, delicious mounds of her buttocks gliding in front of him, enhanced by the soft whisper of fabric. His mind was demanding that he remain in control. However, his body was refusing to listen to the order to re-locate his eyes, and he felt his own lust raging higher as her intoxicating scent thickened, melting into him. He could also see her light trembling, sense her blood reacting to the tang of his thickening rut doft.

Then as Hal slid into the chair beside Blodtand, obedient to the light pressure of the small hand pressing on his shoulder, male rut doft invaded his nose, and his eyes shot challengingly to the powerful figure of his host, his closest, most substantial rival for the mating right for the bewitching little sjeste.

Blodtand's fierce eyes met his, a glittering awareness and answering lust burning in the blue depths, but his only response to the challenge was a gleam of amusement.

"You are bound under guest-courtesy, Prince. I will have no fighting here," Magnus' deep voice was slightly hoarse with lust. "That is the first rule at Bock Hufvud. Otherwise, you are my guest here. Help yourself to whatever you wish."

The king then turned his attention back to the tall, blonde, royal-blue clad beauty sitting sideways on his thigh, legs dangling between his, and he leaned leisurely toward her to bite into the joint the sjeste was holding for him, delicately tearing off a small mouthful. The blonde girl's mating scent intensified, and Hal noticed with a rush of heat that the king's hands were both on her, one around her waist, steadying her on her perch on his leg, the other between her parted thighs, beneath the soft folds of blue silk, fingers stimulating her into full heat. The king turned his head and offered the morsel of meat between his lips to his chosen mate, smiling as she leaned forward and her teeth closed gently around the small portion.

"There are enough wereem to go around," he added softly as he lifted his head, while his mate abruptly swallowed the juicy mouthful and began to pant, arching back over his arm, her legs widening to the stimulation of his fingers."

Damn you, fumed Gemma inwardly, how dare you watch another woman, even in fantasy? However hot it is. Wereem sex slaves, huh? My turn.

Her voice was soft, breathing slightly too fast, but relatively calm, "The dark beauty, melting in lust, felt a shiver of sad disappointment when she failed to keep the attention of her chosen mate. She sighed softly as she leaned against his leg, rubbing her moist crotch lightly against his thigh to relieve some of the deep, aching burn while she lifted her eyes to scan the room for a more satisfying partner."

Mac dove back in, the millisecond after she paused for breath, a slight growl to his voice.

"Hal was jolted from his lustful witness of the king arousing his blonde wereem by the soft curves of the little dark beauty pouting jealously as she leaned against his leg. Heart pounding in anticipation, cock throbbing, he turned. The rich scent of salmon teased at his nose as she silently lifted the plate of fish to offer to him, but her trembling figure was more enticing. Her scent was ready, liquefying - no rut-run, no wrestling, just a melting, begging Alfamme-doft rising from every pore of her delectable, soft curves. His erection was fierce, beating demandingly against his belly as his eyes fastened on the swelling curve of her bounteous breasts. Licking his lips, he watched in rising excitement as her trembling grew while she carefully replaced the dish on the table behind her."

Mac had to pause for breath too. Gemma grabbed her opportunity, slightly breathless,

"His cock surged with powerful, incredulous excitement when the little wereem slowly traced her fingers back up her own curves, between her breasts, and gently parted the rich, soft silk over her chest, revealing the perfect, lush mounds to his fierce gaze. Her large, dusky nipples tightened under his fierce stare, begging for touch, and his breathing grew harsh as his eyes devoured them."

Damn. She'd had to swallow after the last sentence, and Mac slipped into the gap, continuing seamlessly.

""Touch them," the hoarse sound of his own voice was a twitching discord in the wolf's ears, but he soon forgot the interruption as the sjeste obeyed, swirling her fingers teasingly, enticingly, around the hard, puckered peaks while he watched, his breath growing more harsh as hers quickened. His own fingers soon joined hers, and in moments he was unaware of his surroundings, concentrated only on enriching the mouth-watering lust rising from the girl, the liquid welcome between her thighs. His calves were folded around the back of her bare legs, ankles hooked in from behind to hold hers apart. She was leaning back, legs parted, buttocks braced against the table, and the soft, beautiful creature was sighing repeatedly while he played with the deliciously curved mounds and pulled at the shivering, hard tips, her dress parted down to her waist."




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 08



"Do you want me to stop, Picchu?"

After a couple of silent, aching seconds, Gemma realised why he'd asked and yanked her hand back from where it was stroking down her body towards the junction of her thighs.

No, she bloody well did not, the words shrieked in her mind.

It had taken Gemma a few seconds to realise that Mac was speaking to her now, on a rooftop in the present, not as she'd been imagining herself to be, propped before him against a table in an ancient banqueting hall while he toyed with her breasts. She hadn't realised that simple words could be so damn powerful.

"No," she growled in desperation. This was how he dreamed of her. Oh god, no, she did not want him to stop. Her voice was breathless as she took the tale back off him.

"The girl moaned in rising lust, body beginning to shudder, and suddenly her half-shut eyes flew fully open, catching the lustful gaze of the wolf pleadingly, and she stilled, trembling hard, sliding her hands down to the hem of the silken dress. Her fingers curled into the fabric and she drew it softly up, begging eyes locked onto the his, melting in pleading lust. The wolf dropped his gaze as the fabric skimmed softly up above the junction of her thighs, and his lips parted to allow a heavy sigh of lust as he absorbed the sight and scent of the wet, wet curls glistening over the entrance to her pussy. His cock was unbearably taut, balls tightening to throb almost painfully, delighting in the welcoming sight."

Her throat was too dry. In the time it took her to moisten her lips and swallow again, her wolf had taken over. Thank god his voice was hoarse also, and she could feel his arousal pressed against her back. She couldn't stand this if it was all one sided. It was so hard not to reach down and stroke herself. Even harder not to beg him to do it for her.

"Gently, eyes delighting, cock hardening impossibly at the view, he lifted her and seated her fully on the table, watching the pink valley of her pussy open enticingly as she slowly leant back to lie on the sleek wooden surface, spreading her legs for him. Through the lust pounding in his blood, while he eased her back so that her buttocks were resting off the surface then rapidly unlaced his codpiece, Hal was faintly aware of the envious, aroused scents of the other sjeste who darted in to remove the dishes from the area surrounding his little dark beauty."

Gemma growled, unaware, her fingers digging into his thigh as she melted back against him. Mac smiled as he continued to breathe heated words into her hair, a little shaken by how much concentration it took not to rub his painfully erect cock against his mate's soft skin.

"He knew how delicious that tight little passage would feel about his straining cock, the soft wetness parting as he pushed into her, and he swallowed hard, a pulse of excitement shocking down his spine as he shuddered, eyes fixed on the entrance. While he watched, a rich bead of liquid swam down from her glistening pussy mouth and ran to tremble on the end of one of the curled hairs lining her cleft. He advanced a finger slowly and caught the gleaming droplet, scorching eyes lifting to hold hers while he slowly raised his finger, parted his lips, and touched the bead of her liquid on the tip of his tongue, tasting her hot, hot lust."

No, she couldn't manage words. All that escaped was a little breathless moan. Damn she wanted him. Please, Mac.

"His girl moaned wantonly as he gently licked her taste around his lips, savouring her, smiling at her, and her eyes fluttering closed. Her back rose into an arch, breasts and pussy lifting pleadingly, and she parted her legs a little further, moaning her want."

Dammit, he was describing her exactly. What she was dimly aware she was doing right now. Every begging, wanting movement. Damn damn damn. DAMN, she wanted him. No. Hold on. No. You can hold a bit longer.

"A delicious cloud of the scent of her deep desire closed around the wolf, and his lust surged in answer. His mind was clouding in intense anticipation of the feel of her, of the feel of plunging his rampant cock into the depths of her, sheathing himself within her again, again, and again. Feeling her soft, wet passage stretch around him, her lithe form arch under him in pleasure as he thrust into her. Trembling, he stepped one pace forward and slid his hands around her calves, pulling her legs further apart for his advance, and pressing her knees back to tighten the mouth of her pussy for his cock."

Gemma yowled protestingly as she felt her mate's grip close, gentle and implacable, about the hand that had sneaked between her thighs and was stroking through her wet folds.

"I believe that you just lost, Picchu."

She moaned again, and turned against him, biting hard into the skin of his upper arm to keep herself from screaming while he lifted her hand and began to suck on her wet fingers, murmuring something about to the victor belong the spoils. Damn her smug wolf. There was some very hard evidence that he wasn't so indifferent himself.

She rubbed her thigh against the jutting erection pressing against it, and was lifted, swung and cradled once again into his shoulder, out of reach of him cock except by extending her toes. If she really stretched them, they could reach. See? And it was remarkable how well she could control her bare toes. Like this. And this, And ... His arms cramped around her legs and he folded them up, tucking her in a ball against him, "No. I can't afford my control to slip any further." His voice was breathless.

Good.

Then his fingers slid down into the crease of her thighs, sliding into the wetness, tweaking her nub. "But you could let me -."

Abruptly, Gemma rolled over, clamping her thighs closed, excluding his touch. She could do this. Damn did she not want to. "No." She growled back, shuddering from the want, the desire coursing through her. "I can't afford it either." She could control this.

"Gem, there is no shame in letting your mate pleasure you. Giving me that pleasure."

"I am learning control," she growled, and he fell silent.

They lay together while she fought the raging arousal searing through her, panting lightly, feeling the whine inside herself. Why was she doing this again?

When she finally lifted her head out of the crook of his shoulder, Mac murmured gently, "Now do you see what I mean? You see how difficult it is?"

Gemma growled slightly, and stared back unflinchingly into those green eyes. "Just because it's difficult doesn't mean it's impossible. Or that I can't do it."

She would learn this.

Mac sighed

"Gem." Her mate paused, and sighed again.

"Gemma, before you get too hopeful, let me warn you that no wereem has ever managed to learn control." The pause after that statement echoed.

Ouch. Damn him for seeing through this. Cutting through this.

"And believe me, some have tried, with the very best of help."

Gemma swung to her feet to stare out across the rooftops, then turned wary, challenging eyes back to his, "How would you know?"

Mac was sitting up, cross-legged. The green gaze shone sadly, and for a third time he sighed, slowly, eyes reflecting the distant stars.

"I did not know, before. But Fealden conveyed, shared his private memories with me."

A pause. Mac continued softly.

"Long, long ago, he loved a human mate, Rosalie. She loved him too, delighted in him, both as human, and wereem. At first. But - he still burns under the hate that overcame her. Hatred for her mordeur, for the power he held over her, for her loss of control of herself, although he never once gave her an order. Despite the warnings in the legends, he tried everything in his power to teach her self-control, she was a strong woman, a strong werewolf, she was sure she could learn." He paused and then added softly, painfully.

"Wolves do not change. He still holds the love for his loving little human mate, and her loathing scorched him every second, every day before she died, insane. The memory still does. He did that to her."

The silence after his last sentence was shuddering with unspoken feeling.

No.

"I am not a wereem," Gemma murmured, stepping back in and tilting his head up so that she could stare challengingly into his eyes, frowning at him. "I am me. And I will not have my choices made by you. If I want to learn control, I will."

Mac shimmered with leashed power as he smoothly uncurled to his full height to tower above her, not moving his gaze from hers, eyes brightening, both sombre and fierce with black flecks rising in the green where he glared back at her. "No, you are not a wereem. And you never will be."

Before she could react, his breath purred over her skin and he had leaned in and swirled his tongue over the light marks of his naulu, tasting, savouring the scent on her neck. "My picchu," he growled possessively as he lifted his head back.

"What does it mean? That mark?" she grated up at him.

"A naulu is an ancient sign not used for centuries - wolf protection for a human. Essentially, it means that you are as one of my pack. That anyone who harms or seeks to harm you will answer to me, and that I will kill anyone who turns you," he replied.

Then he added pointedly, "Including me."

She stared at him. He stared back. Her voice was a little gritty as she responded, "Thanks for asking."

To her amazement, her wolf's eyes flickered in shame and he looked away.

"Oh, come off it, Mac, you think I really disapprove of you giving me added protection?" she said exasperatedly, feeling a little guilty. Although she was a bit angry about the 'kill anyone who turns you' bit.

"It sounds as though I wouldn't have survived the night you and Vanil were in a coma if it hadn't been for this. Some of the other wolves thought I'd shot you both, but didn't quite dare act on their belief because of the Alpha's protection mark on my neck, so waited for their own Alpha to come and pass judgement instead."

Mac snorted at the idea of Silback daring to challenge him. But then he sighed again, and his voice was soft, wary, "It's not that - it's -. I didn't give you a choice, before, when I conveyed to you before that. I commanded you."

Her mind flickered to the please which had burst from him to resound in her mind when she'd been arguing with him over digging the bullets out of Vanilchov.

(Digging out bullets. Eugh.)

The please had felt like just that - a plea. She was confused, frowning.

"That "please" - did I not act of my own free will, then? Are you saying it was just a sugar-coated order, so that I would obey without friction?"

His shook his head, still looking away, murmuring, "Not the please, no." Stunned, she stared at him as slowly, haltingly, his head turned back and ashamed, apologetic green eyes looked down into hers.

"I told you to hold still, earlier, when Nick was -," a flash of fury crossed his eyes and he clenched his teeth closed. For a fraction of a second, Gemma saw the searing rage swell, shivered lightly at the power of it, before it was clamped back down under his control. "Many werewolves - hell, many wolves do not sense an order of that strength, urgency, they just think that the compulsion comes from within."

His eyes closed, a wince appearing between them, "I'm sorry, Gemma, I had to, had to make you hold still so that he would withdraw his bite, I couldn't have attacked with you that vulnerable."

The soft words flowed on, but they echoed outside a ringing tide rising in her ears.

That had been Mac.

For six weeks now, she had flinched away from those memories - the fight, the near-rape. Not because of physical disgust, but mental. Disgust at herself, for submitting to Nick.s mental order to hold still.

It had been Mac. Her brain was lighting up, realisation shivering across her skin,

"The second order wasn't you, was it?" she breathed, delightedly, interrupting his continued explanation. Yes, she got it. He had had to get her to hold still so that he could yank Nick off her without tearing her neck open further. Fine. Thanks. No problem. Appreciation, in fact. But more importantly -.

"Was it?" she repeated insistently, turning her head back to look deep into the eyes of her wolf. Mac's eyes were slightly hooded, still holding back burning anger, and she could feel a faint tremor at the base of her spine in response to the looming threat, despite not being the culprit. Her wolf was furious, the incandescent rage at his memory of that sight of Nick poised over his mate was still scorching through his blood, enhanced now by additional anger at -.

"What second order?" he growled.

It hadn't been him!! And - she hadn't obeyed that one. Grinning uncontrollably, sighing with relief, Gemma collapsed back against the chimney stack behind her and catcalled delightedly to the stars, whooping, "I didn't obey that one!!"

"What second order?" her Alpha growled again, his raised hackles evident in his voice.

Gemma curling her legs up to spring into his arms, laughing delightedly in relief as he caught her and she hugged as much of him as she could as hard as she could while he swung her around with the momentum of her leap, a little smile crooking the corner of him mouth despite the anger in his eyes.

"It doesn't matter. I ignored it. I can control myself, Mac, it will just take more practice, and I bet in time I'll be ready to -."

"You will only become a wereem over my dead body," he interrupted her exuberance, voice clipped with tense, angry feeling. "I will not risk you."

She stopped her headlong plunge of relief, and leaned back in his arms, staring up into those steady, burning, implacable eyes. Deep, deep, and oh so unshakeable.

She knew that look all right. There wasn't any point in saying anything more. She knew when he wouldn't budge on something. Mr Stubborn.

"If that's so - what did you mean by the "Every war must end"?" she growled, a faint edge to the tone.

The green eyes blanked opaque, and he glanced away again, then abruptly she was stunned, crushed to him in a fierce, longing hug as he pressed his face into her neck and murmured roughly, "I love you."

While her mind reeled, melting under the brusque declaration, she was suddenly standing swaying alone on her feet, bewildered eyes clinging to the back of this fierce wolf who loved her where he stood on the brink of the roof and stared down into the city night. His fists were clenched at his sides. His voice was soft, clipped with enforced control.

"But I - the Mackeld, Mackeld Alpha is betrothed to a wolf. Vanilchov's sister. If I break the betrothal, if I even come near you now that you are no longer on heat and I have no acceptable reason to, well - after we were caught together at the university, and my actions at Himelsky, then everyone, not just the council circle, will begin to wonder where I am going with this. Will I break the betrothal? For a human?"

The large figure sighed, head dipping, fingers tapping on his thigh as he stared down bleakly into the night, "They are our allies, Gemma. My people are beleaguered. And desperate, and terrified that I am more attached to you than I should be to an old human friend." His shoulders hunched and he twitched on a shudder of feeling.

"Vanilchov - his fury at my apparent disloyalty has subsided, but he is related to half the Russian packs, who are currently lending a portion of their power to the Aster, shoring up our defences. It would be suicide for my people if I broke with her right now. And -." He swallowed a wretched sound, half a word that Gemma couldn't make out, but she knew, could see him hurting as he stood hunched in his little pool of isolation, fingers clenching and unclenching at his sides.

"Despite the attraction, I never intended to build this kind of relationship with you, but after my initial loss of control, it just kept escalating. I had to heal you, protect you, and then you came into heat and - you are my mate. But - I can't put you before the alliance, my people, the devastation that this war will bring. Not now. When I know, rationally, that you are in no danger, not with the twins guarding you. Please, please Picchu. Will you, can you just trust me, and wait? I know it sounds - cold - but there's nothing I can do. Even I can't be that much of a selfish bastard."

She didn't actually know anyone who was less of a selfish bastard. Gemma had slowly approached through the tumbling torrent of increasingly anguished words, and she laid a gentle hand between his shoulder blades, stroking down the shuddering tension. He stopped.

Her arms slipped around his waist from behind, and she hugged him as hard as she could, before softly kissing the centre of his back.

"Stop belittling the wolf I love," she said quietly into his skin, blushing, feeling a quiver run through him at her oblique declaration. "He'll sort this out when the war is over."

They stood quietly together for a long moment, Gemma with her head turned sideways against his back, dreamy eyes resting far away on the first gleams of the sun fighting to clear the clouds to the east.

"Thanks," he responded eventually, hoarsely, a faint tinge of amusement returning to his voice.

Damn stubborn, smug, stupid wolf.

He swooped around, lifting her away from the edge of the roof with a shudder of unease, and settled them both on their feet a safe distance away from the drop, lifting her rug to wrap it around her snugly.

"Although how?" she asked, looking up at him. "If I can't become were? How can we sort something out?"

His voice was matter-of-fact. "There are old, old legends of wolves who became so human, so humanized, that they couldn't shift any longer. Stuck. I don't know how, but I will try and find out."

Her heart shrank within her, and she broke into protest, "But you can't give up your people, your pack! Not - your wolf, yourself, Mac, I love you as you are."

His mouth quirked a little, although there was sadness in the corners of his eyes where they gleamed back down into herself. She felt a shimmer of deep feeling run through her at the warmth in those green depths. "You wouldn't love me if I was only human?"

Burning eyes. "Now you see why I won't turn you were, picchu?"

Softly, he echoed, "I love you as you are."

Damn damn damn copycat wolf. Why did he always repeat her words back at her to support his own arguments?

Then Mac turned his tawny head, glancing away across the slanting roofs, squinting into the gleam of sun peeking over the horizon, and added, "I don't know how we'll sort this, picchu. But we'll find a way. After." As she relaxed in to hug him again, she heard the rumble of the words he added under his breath, "At least I wouldn't go insane."

Gemma felt a little chill settling in her veins at the calmness of the last murmur. The stubborn wolf had thought this out, and she could sense a serious fight brewing over who got to change species here. He would give up his life, his culture, his pack, his Alphaship and move back into the bizarre, half-life role of a human. For her. He had decided, she could feel it in him, she knew him.

Definite, definite major fight brewing here. But not yet. Not now. Not when there was a much more widespread, vicious war going on, and he needed to concentrate on that. As did she.

She looked at the sun, sighed, and turned her glistening gaze up to her mate. "You'd better go." Her sadness was reflected in the green depths. He sighed.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 09



Gemma sank down onto one of the newly vacated battered leather sofas by the window of the upstairs coffee bar, listening to her mother on the phone. Her eyes drifted appreciatively over the green stretch of the campus playing fields, shimmering under the warm afternoon sun outside the huge panes of glass. 

Somehow the glossy, beautifully manicured grass just wasn't the same since she'd been rolled repeatedly in meadows of its coarse, wild relative. 

Wild was how she liked it. 

A little smile gleamed in her eyes as she lazed her head against the seat back and stretched her legs out under the short coffee table, straightening out the kinks of a tense post-lunch session working in the fume cabinet. Usually these prime seats were nearly impossible to get hold of, but never with her current escort. Jeremy and Gus had just sauntered over and loomed, chatting nonchalantly beside the group of laughing students clustered on the chairs, and for no apparent reason the five humans had each suddenly remembered something they were planning on doing elsewhere and quickly disappeared. 

Kate found it hilarious, as usual. "Muy machos," she murmured appreciatively, dropping her shoulder bag beside Gemma and disappearing off towards the bathroom.

Gemma sighed into the handset, "Yes, it's pretty frustrating." What an understatement. "I don't seem to be getting anywhere, but all I can do is keep trying."

Jasmine seated herself with effortless, unconscious elegance on the opposite sofa, and Gus shot off to join the queue of males waiting in turn to flirt with the pretty redhead working behind the counter. They called it ordering drinks.

"Why don't I get them today," his brother spun to call to his rapidly retreating back. Despite being a wolf, and therefore able to listen in to a conversation downstairs if he concentrated, Gus apparently didn't hear the generous offer, so Jeremy bounded off after him to insist on getting the afternoon coffee for once. Judging by the look of resigned amusement on Jasmine's face, the wolf girl could still hear the daily tease carrying on in the furtive scuffle that was now the end of the queue.

"Yeah, Mom, I'm pretty sure I'll be able to make it for Dad's birthday, especially if Jamie's driving down and Adam will be back from his hiking trip by then, I wouldn't miss -." Gemma broke off as her breath suddenly hitched, caught in her throat when her mind idly interpreted the title of the shiny new paperback lying facing her on the coffee table. She felt her skin flush scarlet, and her brain seethed.

Damn the wolf. Wasn't he supposed to be taking life seriously right now?

"-wouldn't miss it for the world," she choked the end of the sentence out of her suddenly tight throat.

Why did he always have to retaliate? Reciprocate. Whatever you call it when someone keeps giving you gifts in return for the ones that you send them. And they're so pig-headedly stubborn that they won't let you get away with the last one. In fact, he was now way, way over his quota. And he was rubbish at taking turns.

Moreover, some of his gifts were getting increasingly shameless.

A smile was pulling at the corners of her mouth. Maybe she shouldn't have arranged that delivery of duck a l'orange.

Gemma could feel her blood beginning to purr, and kept hauling her mind back, trying to point it toward indignation, when all it wanted was to dive into playback mode. Or into fast forward - to the next time he had her underneath him and was nibbling his way down -.

Delete. Delete.

 

Jasmine's gaze was piercingly steady, boring into her friend across the table, the elegantly peaked brows raised interrogatively. Gemma avoided the black eyes, glaring down at the book, struggling to hold her lips in a firm line of disapproval.

No, I don't mean disapproval that Mr Sex-on-Legs is so damn far away and busy. 

"Mac would be welcome too," her mother's voice sounded tentative in the long pause, and Gemma's lips twitched in a brief grimace while her skin flushed again at the connection her clever relative had obviously made. 

This wasn't the first time that Gemma had broken off mid sentence while chatting to her Mom on the phone, not after that week in the forest. Mac had appeared one morning with his BlackBerry, asking Gemma to call her Mom and reassure her that she was alright, explaining that Mrs. Smith had grown so frantic because her daughter was not answering calls that she'd rung him to ask whether he knew where his flatmate was. 

It had hardly been her fault that an officious Madam had taken her phone.

Despite Gemma's protestations that there would be no signal in the middle on nowhere, Mac had urged her to try and place a call, and then smugly pounced on his mate when the line had connected and her mother had picked up on the second ring. Gemma had had to struggle, largely ineffectually, to string together coherent sentences with her inordinately pleased with himself mate flattening her to the soft turf and whispering into her skin what he was going to demand as remuneration for the use of his phone as soon as she hung up.

The long, breathless, squirming conversation that had followed seemed to have etched little pleasure memories down her spine, and then that urgent, hard fuck as soon as she'd rung off - mmmm. Afterwards, while she'd been lying panting in a haze of boneless pleasure on her rug, Mac had sat up cross-legged beside her, his face concerned, and stroked a fingertip gently over her nose while he'd insisted virtuously that she use his phone all week to keep in touch with her Mom so that she wouldn't get worried. He'd appeared the next day with a solar charger. 

Concerned - yeah, right. Well, probably that too, but primarily her wolf had loved distracting her while she was trying to speak, especially with her mother. Not that she'd minded. Her breasts were aching hard now in memory - of the way he'd manoeuvred her "into a comfortable position" for the second call, and each subsequent one, after she'd admitted that she liked the torture. Dress pulled down to her waist she would lie on her back on her bower, his arms hugging the sides of her torso and hands cupping her shoulders as he'd rested braced on his elbows over her, hips tucked on the ground between her legs. Then he'd swirled the tip of his tongue gently around each nipple in turn, each time the dialling tone had sounded. Until she'd been silently begging her mother to pick up. Not Adam. Definitely not her Dad. Pick up soon. Well. No, not yet. Actually, not at all. Please be out. Please be out. Please - aw.

Mac had busied himself elsewhere and left her alone for the majority of each call after the first, but it had been easy to tell when her wolf thought she'd had long enough and it was time to play. Suddenly her voice would break off in a squeak as a wet tongue glided lightly up her inner thigh or delved into her ear, or simply a rock-hard erection had been pressed against her buttocks. She had been able to just feel the compelling need in him, urgency in the air, pulling at her, and had combusted every time, speechless. A bit like now.

Correct identification of the culprit, both past and present, well done Mom.

 

I wish he was present.

Jasmine was now eyeing the book speculatively. 'Firm and Flexible - Yoga for Beginners.' Not anything that should make a girl blush. Not unless she also had damn, hot, aching memories of her mate protesting innocently that he was only stretching her legs this wide to keep her supple and look after her joints. This wide, then a bit wider. Oh, the vulnerable, stretched, open, welcoming feeling - and the weight of him leaning his hips against hers, pressing down, nudging the tip of his straining cock against her oh-so-swollen labia as he laughingly explained that he was just helping her stretch. Oh. Mmmm. Nudging again, so that her tart response was swallowed on a groan. Damn, damn smug wolf.

Her eyes were shut, Gemma realised. She had to keep them shut to hide the X-rated images recorded during that long, heated, teasing, and definitely one-sided conversation - illustrated by practical demonstration - about the joys of the flexibility of the female form. Mac had even introduced "comfort breaks" into his yoga lecture, when he had fallen silent, apart from the harshness of his breath as he pounded into her. Deliciously. Hours and hours and hours of being thoroughly stretched open, kissed, nibbled, suckled, licked and fucked. Oh so thoroughly, deliciously fucked. She had, admittedly, begged for another yoga class later in the week.

And a third.

Delicious. Delicious. God, she missed him. Her frame was trembling lightly, longing aching through her blood, and she could feel the wetness between her legs.

But oh, was she going to make sure he paid for this too. Somehow. A half-indignant smile curled the corner of her mouth. Mac would be so excessively proud of himself if he knew that he had once again made her catch her breath when talking to her Mom. And that her mother had automatically assumed that he was to blame.

The back of her neck tingled, the small hairs lifting in realisation. She often received a phone call from her mother during the afternoon coffee break. And her wolf seemed to know a hell of a lot about her movements. Hence the book awaiting her innocently on their table. They always sat here, Gus saw to that. 

Damn him, damn him, damn smug wolf. He had known.

What kind of guards were these, not to be able to protect her from this kind of yoga harassment? She could feel her cheeks burning. Her skin was tingling, blood seething and pussy aching with emptiness as they ecstatically re-lived Mac vigorously demonstrating his approval of her dog-stretch pose - no, never mind, she dragged her thoughts away, feeling her frame trembling.

I said never mind.

Shut up. No, I don't remember. I don't.

Her Mom was still waiting, and Gemma could sense amusement down the line as Mrs Smith listened to her daughter's ragged breathing. Mom liked Mac.

"I doubt that he can make it." So what if her voice was breathless? "But I'll definitely let you know whether I can by next weekend." 

"OK, good. Bye then, honey, nice to talk to you."

"Bye Mom, thanks for calling."

A moment later, Gemma opened her slightly glazed eyes to see Jasmine putting the book back on the table, shrugging lightly. "I don't know how he does it, Gem. That book smells of nothing but human. And don't tell me it wasn't from Mac, you're not exactly adept at hiding your responses. What does the yoga signify?"

"Nothing," Gemma growled back swiftly, slamming down an anchor to stop herself from slithering back into memory heaven. Well, the word actually came out as more of a squeak, but it left her mind with 'to be growled' instructions.

The dusky-skinned wolf opposite rolled her eyes, a little smile playing around her mouth, and she lifted her head to admire Jeremy's smooth, swift pace back towards the pair of them.

"You're lucky I'm not an official bodyguard, the boys swore to the Wolflord that they would report any attempted contact."

Huh.

"So that Mac doesn't sully himself further with a human when he's betrothed to Vanilchov's sister?" Gemma growled for real this time. 

Jasmine raised an eyebrow, a bit surprised at how much her human friend knew. "The Koschuk got really restive over his interest in you, even though you were on heat, which made it acceptable," she responded mildly. "Fealden's trying to avoid an international incident and them withdrawing the Russian fighters while we're in the middle of a war. They've been getting more tense anyway as Tasha still hasn't reappeared from changpao."

"Changpao?" 

"Running loup. As well as living with humans for a while, many young adult wolves go off and spend a year or so learning their way among the packs. I think Tash went across the straits to Russia, then headed on toward Europe. Last postcard was from somewhere in the Urals, Vanil said."

Jasmine sighed, and changed tack, her eyes clear as they held Gemma's. "And a betrothal's a serious contract, Gem - the Mackeld pack is one of the top, and the Koschuk are very proud that their cousin is to ally into it, that's why there are so many of the K-warriors over supporting the Aster. He can't just walk out on it without causing a serious rift."

Especially to mate with a human or wereem.

Apparently no-one blamed him for fucking her while she'd been on heat - any wolf worth his salt would have done the same had he been able. But now.

"Well then, it's a good job we haven't had any contact, as you'd be honour bound to report it," sniped Gemma. 

The Marsh wolf snorted, her voice dropping. "Gemma, I'm here as your friend - I didn't swear anything. And I'm not an idiot. Two weeks ago, overnight, you switch from Little Miss Miserable to a mixture of mischief and nervous determination - and whatever the obtuse twins may believe, it wasn't because of any damn rug, or because you've miraculously gotten over him. And then you also started getting that naughty little look on your face about twice a day -."

Gemma's phone beeped with an incoming message where it lay on the coffee table, and "Bethan: Mission accomplished!" flashed up on the screen with a smiley. 

A naughty little look crossed Gemma's face.

Hah, Mr. Wolf. Enjoy your gift.

"Dammit!" growled Jasmine in frustration.

"What's up?" Jeremy pricked up his ears eagerly at the tension in the air, dropping down beside his preferred sjeste on the opposite sofa. Then he looked from Jasmine's expression to Gemma's, and scowled.

"That look again," he growled.

Just reassuring my mate that I'm in fine spirits, thought Gemma, gazing blandly back at the fuming wolves on the opposite sofa. They were dying to know what the humans were up to. Oh what a shiny halo I have.

Bethan was just finishing a week on tour upstate, and she and her troupe-mates had been delighted to dress up as workmen and divert on their drive back to deliver a large framed print to 'The Manor' up in McIntyre. 

This was actually one of her more innocent gifts. The view had been spectacular, and the print of the photo from his phone had come out amazingly well. Only Mac knew how affronted he'd been by her teasing that she preferred to look at the view than at him that evening. And how he'd retaliated. 

Mmmmmmm.

"Time to shop," growled Jasmine, frustrated that she still didn't know what brought that gleam to Gemma's eyes.

Gemma scowled at her. Some wolves just couldn't take a joke. When they weren't in on it. This shopping was going to be such a pointless waste of time.

"I should be trying to find a way to combat the Grey's scent-masking drug, not messing about," she growled, knowing the argument wouldn't work. She and Jasmine had had this out before. And before that. And again before that.

"I hardly think upholding my pack honour is messing about," retorted Jasmine. 

Gemma snorted angrily and turned her head to glower out of the window as Jeremy chuckled.

But a sharp intake of breath drew her attention back to the Marsh sjeste. There was very little outward sign of change in Jasmine, just the vivid sparkle in her eye, the suddenly ramrod-straight back, and the barely discernable quiver of her frame. But she was exuding excited tension.

Jeremy dropped his hand over her small, brown one and lifted it to place on his thigh, squeezing it reassuringly.

"What is it?" he murmured almost soundlessly.

Since Jasmine's natál had returned from India the week before last with a pack of their kin to join the war, they had had front-line news from the fighting, as she was linked with Karim even when he was in full battle focus. And despite the slightly worried disapproval of their male companions, Jasmine made no attempt to hide any news from her human flatmate.

"He's crashed him." Jasmine's breathless phrase was meaningless to Gemma, but the desperate, incredulous look in the wide black eyes, the way Jeremy suddenly went dangerously still and the hulking figure in the queue by the coffee counter lifted his head sharply and swung in their direction made fear roil suddenly in her stomach.

She bit her lip ferociously. She always got more information if she kept quiet.

"Who crashed?" Jeremy hissed urgently, "Crashed who?" 

Out of the corner of her eye, Gemma could see the huge, dark figure of his brother loping back toward them. Must be really important, a corner of her mind noted incongruously, Gus had had only one person ahead of him in the line.

"The Mackeld," Jasmine whispered the words, jerking Gemma's full attention back to her. Her voice was reverberating in quiet shock, "He's crashed Jian-Xi."

"He's insane," breathed Jeremy harshly, then stopped, his mouth open in shock as he just stared into the distance. Then he breathed in abruptly again ,as his brother dropped down into the armchair between Gemma and the tense pair of wolves on the opposite sofa.

"Jian-Xi Tzo?" Jeremy clarified softly, voice sharp with disbelief.

His brother whistled soundlessly in awe at Jasmine's distracted nod.

"And Mackeld? Insane?" Jeremy pressed.

"No, he's succeeded," murmured the girl beside him, her dazed eyes focussed far, far away. Both males drew in a sharp breath.

Gemma felt a sickening shock bound in an instant from her heart to her mouth and back to lodge heavily in her belly as she realised that Jeremy had meant really insane. As in, insane. Mac.

What the hell had he been up to? Her wolf? She felt nauseous with the sudden cramp in her stomach; violently, physically sick, but was pulled back by the black eyes which half re-focussed onto her, sinking into her skin.

Glowing, fierce black eyes, pride radiating from them. "They're routed," Jasmine whispered, a flush growing in her cheeks.

"How many?" asked Gus, but the sjeste shook her head in silent frustration at a question she had no way of knowing the answer to.

"Scattering, running, focusless. We're driving them back." The flush, the glow in her eyes were deepening, and the Marsh girl was quivering in her seat, her body straining to be up and fighting with the wolf in her mind.

"Regaining the first valley," she added, breathless. "They're still running, we're hounding, keeping them from turning, scattering them wider, back up, out, over Mount Cahanee. They're still lost."

"How many?" repeated Jeremy, his voice hoarse with awe. Jasmine shook her head again, impatiently, and her eyes suddenly snapped back into full focus at the scent of Kate approaching.

"Hundreds," she murmured the reply, turning her eyes toward the approaching human, unable to keep the beaming grin from her face.

Kate grinned back.

"He. Is. Insane," Jeremy breathed for a third time, but this time a quiet, resonant tribute, before he too turned and flashed a radiant smile at Gemma's friend. All three wolves were shuddering with the urge to bound victoriously around the room, to tussle, leap, howl their pride at the tops of their voices and bounce off the walls in glee.

Kate looked bemusedly around the three of them. "I know you said they loved shopping, Gem, but this is ridiculous."

Gemma smiled weakly. He is alright, she assured herself. He was alright. He had succeeded in whatever insane venture he had just attempted. Something that had the wolves around her shimmering in incredulous awe.

He was victorious. She shut her eyes and the smile softened. No surprise.

But she wished he wouldn't scare her half to death.

The cold, cold knowledge was a permanent ache in her stomach. 




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 09



He was at war.



Jasmine and Gus explained to her as they walked downtown together from the campus. Kate had had to reluctantly go back to work, Gemma had had to reluctantly go shopping, and Jeremy had disappeared off to scout for trouble on their route through the backstreets and along the riverbank to the centre.

Apparently, crashing was a very dangerous tactic, when an Alpha tried to break another's battle-focus. There was no point doing it to any but the senior wolf leading an attack, if you attacked one of the wolves in his aegis, the senior Alpha would just bring the entire meld in to support the one under attack, knocking the attacker unconscious. But attacking the lead Alpha was suicidal. The weight of the entire pack was behind him, their minds joined in the meld, whereas the attacking Alpha had to strike with such speed that he couldn't pull his own meld with him, he had to strike solo. And in order to stand any chance of succeeding, he also had to bend his entire mind on breaking into his opponent's focus, with no thought for his own defence. If the Alpha under attack held his focus together, then the attacker's mind was invariably splintered, torn apart by the myriad thoughts of the enemy meld. Wolf history was littered with Alphas who had gone insane when attempting to crash another. Moreover, crashing didn't destroy the Alpha attacked, just broke that one attack, splintering his forces with the painful backlash of the broken focus. It was only ever used where suicide was the only option. Which may have been why Mac had succeeded, no one would have expected a crash merely to regain three valleys.

But boy, had it boosted morale. The Aster were shimmering with delight, Jasmine kept humming along to the crooning song that was echoing among the far-away Aster wolves now working together to rebuild the outer defences, having regained three weeks' lost ground in one single, magnificent push. Tzo had been beaten off their lands.

"Well, not Tzo himself," Gus clarified. "His second son. And Jian-Xi Tzo is a solo, which would've made him easier to crash."

Jasmine snorted, "He's Tzo's best general, and his aegis melded hundreds. Besides, Mac's a solo now, too."

"A solo?" asked Gemma.

The wolves kept their voices low, to make sure that their audience was exclusive.

"Not part of a litter. Wolves are nearly all born in twos, Gem. Some triplets are born, which is counted as great good fortune, and some singles, who we try not to think too poorly of," explained Gus.

All born in twos. Solo now.

"So Mac had a natál?" she wondered aloud.

The wolves glanced at each other, and Gus responded reluctantly, "He had. Tor Mackeld - he was the elder, the Mackeld Alpha, until killed by Walter Grey in a death-duel about fifteen years ago now."

Gemma felt a shock run through her. Fifteen years ago? How old was Mac? He looked to be in his late twenties, making him four or five years older than her. But surely he couldn't be if his twin had died fifteen years ago, already pack Alpha?

"Actually," Gus continued, correcting himself. "The Mackeld won the mortefio, he killed the Grey, but the Grey had ripped Tor's jugular so badly that he bled to death in shiatz before anyone found them." 

"The Grey?" repeated Gemma, slyly. She had been told off often enough for referring to Nick as such. It was pleasing that wolves got it wrong too.

The large, hard-muscled wolf walking beside her raised a lazy eyebrow at Gemma, amusement gleaming at the challenge, "Walter Grey was an Alpha - so you should use "the" when referring to him."

Wolf pedant. Gemma stuck her tongue out at him and he grinned.

"So - twin Alphas, does that mean that Mac had to leave the Range when his natál became pack Alpha?" The exile sounded so heartless.

Jasmine sighed, "The reft only lasts five years, Gemma - not long to a wolf. Mac had a great time messing about in Europe, by all accounts.

"Until he was recalled early because he'd suddenly become the main contending Alpha for the succession," added Jeremy darkly.

"I thought Tor died because his mate had been killed? Dad said he just hadn't had the heart to heal?" Jasmine queried her wolf companion.

"Grace - yes, was she killed, or did she just die? It was the usual case of the Greys saying one thing, pack Mackeld another. Did she fall or was she pushed? The Mackeld must have believed that she'd been poisoned, however impossible it sounded - he issued the mortefio - death challenge," added Gus, glancing down at the frown of concentration on the face of the listening human. 

He continued, "And judging by what's happening now, I'd go with Tor's version. Maybe even Rufus Mackeld was right all those years back, and his Sofia didn't leave him voluntarily either."

Jasmine snorted, "You can't coerce an Alfamme. And Sofia had Sebastian's cubs - not exactly reluctant, I'd say, since it's easy enough to switch human if you don't want the litter."

"Sebastian?" asked Gemma, faint, but pursuing. 

"Sebastian Grey," explained Jasmine. "Nick's grandfa - no, great-grandfather. Sofia Mackeld was his mate, she left the Mackeld for him, but she'd already had a litter by the Mackeld, Eva and Marcos. Marcos was Tor and Ulf's grandfather."

Mac and Nicolas were cousins? Second, third - whatever.

Her head whirling in conjecture in the following silence, Gemma barely noticed as Jeremy rejoined the three of them now that they'd reached the densely crowded centre of town, appearing at Jasmine's elbow and sliding an arm around her shoulders as he slowed his steps to theirs.

"What're you lot conspiring about?" he whispered theatrically, eyes round. The older Fealden twin hated not knowing what was going on, and he must have been able to feel the atmosphere behind the silence when he joined them.

His twin grinned crookedly at him, "Tor and Ulf."

Jeremy pursed his lips in a whistle of awe and murmured softly, "The Macs. Their years at the Academy are still legendary. They're the ones who tunnelled the western passage out from level three, aren't they Jasmine? And kept it secret so that they could sneak off hunting on balial nights?"

Why did this not surprise her? thought Gemma.

"And everyone knows that they left Petch hanging by his ankle outside combat class for half an hour before the trainer below noticed his nose against the glass of the window," added his natál, grinning, enthused by the change of subject.

"Besides, Tor was the only wolf to ever beat Marsh in the defasio. In his final year. No-one else has done it, before or since, although some believe that Mac could," said Jeremy.

Jasmine snorted in loyal disbelief at such a ridiculous idea.

The lingerie department of the large department store where Gemma ended up reluctantly browsing with her persistent, bossy wolf friend was huge, clusters of frothy bits of lace, nylon and cotton vying for attention on racks stretching off into the distance. At least she and Jasmine had united in ordering the twins to wait outside, after the embarrassing scene at the last shop. 

Gemma scowled at the bright red wisp of lace that Jasmine was musing over. Her new flatmate was insisting on buying her underwear to replace those which had been ripped by the Marsh wolf Mike, claiming that her pack would be shamed if Gemma didn't accept them as apology. There was only so much needling that even Gemma could stand before it was just simpler to give in and go along with the very, very pig-headed half-Indian wolf.

A shiver of foreboding edged down Gemma's spine suddenly, and she lifted her head, stomach clenching in fear. What? Then she realised - the scent. Metallic, slightly rank, uncanny, and although it didn't unhinge her joints as Nick's did, she tilted her chin uneasily, unnerved by the similarity. Heart pounding, she glanced first at the unconcerned wolf-friend humming as she browsed through bras beside her, then across the racks of skimpy clothing, searching for the source of that smell - the strong, rank smell that the wolf beside her couldn't detect.

The girl standing on the raised area of floor two aisles across had a smooth, shoulder-length crop of dark-blonde hair, and the sharply-defined angles of her distressed, down-turned face reminded Gemma uneasily of the dead wolf-girl, Anne. Maybe it was just the expression in her eyes. 

This girl was dressed in a similar style to Anne also, with long boots and a smart jacket atop a short, flared blue skirt. Gemma could see a faint movement of the fabric as the much older man standing too close to the teenager squeezed her ass cheek under the rucked up clothing while he held a set of lacy underwear against her slight form. The man's cheeks were flushed lightly, eyelids drooping in pleasurable anticipation while he drawled something condescending over the bowed head, his hand sliding further under the young woman's skirt.

The waif hung her head further, cheeks flushed unhappily, and Gemma read the plaintive words, "Please, no," that formed on her small cheery-painted lips.." The well-dressed old male smiled with a cold look of pleasure in his predatory gaze, and he pinched one of her nipples delicately with his free hand as he murmured some reply. Then he turned her reluctantly obedient form towards the changing rooms.

Gemma felt the angry bile rising in her throat at the familiar hopeless look deepening in the girl's eyes while she walked slowly towards the fitting room entrance. The man was guiding her, hand on her arse, and his toy stumbled a little when, to a little flash of her white knickers, he slid his hand up and inside her panties from behind, forcing her legs to widen while his fingers slid between them under the loose skirt.

Gemma started after the pair angrily, then halted with a shock of realisation - this could easily be a trap. Damn it. She grabbed the nearest garment off the rail beside her and growled quickly at her bodyguard, "Come on, I want to try this on." 

The Marsh sjeste raised a sarcastic eyebrow, "A padded push-up bra in puke orange? You don't need additional cleavage, Gem, and I've seen you dry-retch over that colour. What makes you think that the Marsh will reimburse you with a tacky piece of junk you'll never wear? Are you trying to dishonour us?"

"All right," half snarled Gemma, hurriedly snagging the hanger back on the rack and snatching something in black. "I'll..."

She stopped, incredulous, when she saw the set her companion was holding out toward her. Purple and dark red, lacy, ridiculous - beautiful, delicate flowers all stitched together into a coy mass which would only just about hide what was underneath. There was even a suspender belt with the bra and knickers - Jasmine had to be kidding, no way would she ever wear that.

Except maybe for Mac, the thought whispered, flaring heat across her mind. In a log cabin in the woods, lit by a glowing fire. She'd be lying on a white sheepskin rug with no ...

Gemma's stomach lurched in guilt, and she glanced back, stricken, towards where the poor young wolf-girl had already disappeared inside the fitting room entrance with her male escort while Gemma was distracted. 

"Whatever", she sighed, grabbing the idiotic offerings, and strode quickly down the aisle towards the shop assistant waiting to check customers in and out of the line of cubicles. "C'mon."

The attendant was looking a little flushed, the corner of the bank note bribe that she had hastily stuffed inside her bra just visible at the edge of her too-tight blouse. Stupid cow. Although to be fair, she would have no idea that the Grey wolf girl had no say in this, didn't want her male escort to be permitted into the female side with her.

Who cared about being fair? Gemma burned to snap the woman's nose off, but she didn't want to alert the couple who had just been admitted. The pair had already disappeared behind one of the curtains.

Gemma caught an intent, suspicious look from her wolf friend as Jasmine caught up with her. The wolf's eyes narrowed speculatively at the shop assistant her human friend was glaring at. "What are you up to, manu?" she murmured under her breath.

Don't tell her.

The inner warning was stark in Gemma's head, and she felt a second, different lurch in her stomach. She may be leading Jasmine unawares into a trap, now, but she couldn't just leave the wolf victim to her fate and unconcernedly go on looking at underwear. Or just leave. But neither could she tell her bodyguard what she suspected. 

Following the confrontation in the forest, the Grey pack had broken from the Aster alliance and were now openly at war with their former allies, joining with Tzo. Her Marsh flatmate, and two Fealden bodyguards, were all Aster. And she had seen, graphically, how swiftly they disposed of enemies. More than once, now, as there had been two more unsuccessful attacks since the first. Both ambushes by Grey wolves.

How would Jasmine react if she recognised a Grey here? How would she deal with the enemy wolf-girl being prostituted out somewhere in this line of cubicles? 

How the hell are you planning on dealing with it yourself, idiot?

Memories seared white-hot through Gemma, memories of the campus security guard forcing his cock into Anne while she pleaded for mercy, bent under her pack-leader's order to submit to the human. A flash of revulsion at what was probably being forced on this other Grey girl behind one of these curtains scorched so fiercely through Gemma that she had one of those surges of longing to actually be a wolf, able to tear into the old lecher who had paid for the use of the poor young wolf waif. 

More, much more, she wanted to tear into Nicolas Grey, the non-Alpha pimp who somehow enforced this type of prostitution, because it was - what had he said? - oh yeah, "a most lucrative way of serving one's pack." Damn him. Mac had shown her what an Alpha was - how damn protective - over-protective - they were of their pack, their people. Mac, Vanil, Marsh, all of them. Nick was a grotesque parody, a mockery, a vile, twisted mummery of a fake Alpha, using his power to abuse for his own gain. God, she wanted to tear his head off. This girl couldn't even be twenty yet, like Anne. Who Nick had had killed rather than allow to leave his sick prostitution.

Calm down and think, she ordered herself, biting on her lip as she smelt a faint hint of the metallic, meaty scent that was undetectable to wolf noses while she passed one of the colourful curtains on her way down the aisle. The only sound from behind it was - eugh - heavy male breathing. 

Angrily she swept into the next cubicle down, the blood drumming in her ears while she tried to force her rage to cool and allow her to think. She barely heard Jasmine murmur, "Call me when you're ready to show me," while she yanked the curtain closed behind her.

Yeah, like that was going to happen.

Jasmine would have scented any other wolves by now, if there were any, she reassured herself. Then the remembrance landed cold on Gemma's skin. No. Jasmine couldn't scent the Greys. Fear shivered anew through her, fear of what she may have landed her friend in, unawares, and then lifted suddenly, burned away by fury at a faint whimper from the next-door cubicle, a very faint squelch, and a male undertone of, "Hush. Try to relax."

Gemma's mind cleared suddenly with the bitter edge to her thoughts. I - humans - can scent the tainted Greys. And there aren't any others here. There was only the one Grey, next door, forced by her pack leader to submit to being the sex toy of a debauched older human. A sick human who enjoyed knowing that his prey had no say, and no pleasure, in what he was doing to her. Gemma could see the red mist floating in front of her eyes.

Biting her lip, she pulled her curtain back open again, and caught the slightly disgusted look on Jasmine's face where the wolf girl was looking at the fabric shielding the neighbouring cubicle. Evidently, from the slight wrinkling of her friend's nose, there were more scents than just that of undetectable-to-wolf Grey wolf rankness emanating from the small space now. Her flatmate turned her black eyes to Gemma's and pulled a disgusted face, indicating the closed drape of heavy cloth. Gemma nodded sharply, wrinkling her own nose in distaste, and jerked a thumb silently up the aisle back toward the exit. She had decided what to do. She was human. She would deal with this as a human. But she had to get Jasmine out of here in case her Marsh companion recognised the Grey wolf girl if they came face to face.

She didn't want another dead waif on her conscience.

When they left the shop two minutes later, Gemma felt a little sorry for the manageress. She had vented her anger on the older woman for allowing couples to play together in the changing rooms. But the smooth, "Nothing like that could possibly happen here," denials had infuriated her. Gemma had at least had the satisfaction of seeing the woman's face blench at the sight which had confronted them when she'd abruptly left off arguing and simply stalked back down the aisle to yank open the curtain, despite the woman's squawks of protest.

Mind you, Gemma had had the hardest time not giving way to the rage that had consumed her when she'd seen the slender, naked globes of the behind of the young girl bent over the man's knees. The wispy lace thong of the sheer knickers, the Grey sjeste's only covering, had been held aside with one crooked finger so that the man had a clear view in the many mirrors of the large, glistening glass dildo with which he was preparing her tiny, puckered asshole. No wonder the old lecher had had to stuff the matching bra into the girl's mouth to muffle her as he forced the object inside her, the pain in the tear-marked face had been clearly etched in the mirror when her blank, blue eyes had met Gemma's.

But then a hint of panic had flickered across the strained face as the girl scented Jasmine approaching again down the aisle. The sight of the Grey waif's fear had jolted Gemma back under control, and she had just had to sweep back around and leave it to the dumbfounded manageress, grabbing her wolf friend and dragging her away with a disgusted, "Let's get out of here."

However, the knowledge of what she'd seen was pounding, grinding incessantly in her head as she stalked away. Twice now. Anne. And that girl. How many were there? How often did Nick make them do it? How the hell could she just let it carry on?

She had to isolate the ingredients in the fucking scent-masking drug that Mac had captured off the Grey, or they'd never find the Grey's hideout, never put a stop to this.

Since declaring war openly, the Grey tribe had disappeared from their traditional Range Hall, apparently. The Mackeld had not been surprised, Gus had reported. Mac had been telling the council for years that the Grey had a second lair hidden somewhere for his additional activities. It had been Mac's repeated, illegal, and increasingly vicious trespass-raids on the Grey's lands to find the mythical hidden lair which had gotten him exiled in the first place. The council had paid scant attention to his raging accusations, their best seekers unable to find a hidden lair, and suspecting that the allegation was largely due to the long-standing inter-pack feud. Moreover, the Aster alliance had begun teetering due to the in-fighting between the two packs, just when the Tzo had been beginning to test his boundaries, just when unity had been needed. So the council had banished Mac to cool down, and banned the two packs from further fighting. 

And now no-one had any idea where the Greys were based.

Still seething internally, Gemma stared out of the bus window as they neared the turn-off into her suburb. Idly, her eyes lighted on the smiling flower emblem adorning the front of a bus heading the other way. 'HydroPow!' the logo beamed. 




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 09



That was why there were so many wolves in this town, Jasmine had once explained. The university sponsored a hydrogen-powered fleet of buses for the local routes, meaning that the wolves could use public transport and blend in more easily with their human counterparts while they furthered their education - both academic knowledge, and the practical understanding of humans which was a necessity for all higher-ranking wolves. 

Gemma's eyes softened, a little happy, a little sad, as the beaming daisy whooshed past in the opposite direction. She owed the little flower a lot. Mac would never have moved here, moved in with her, become part of her life, if it weren't for these buses. 

What a romantic matchmaker - a bus.

But she flinched away from focussing further on Mac. Since his all-too brief visit, the reports from the Mackeld Range had grown rapidly worse, his defences and counterattacks increasingly dangerous. His close-knit, dwindling force was ferociously fighting their beleaguered corner against the tidal wave of invaders, but until this afternoon, they had been slowly losing their lands, their homes and their hunting grounds. Yes, the Mackelds, the Aster, had regained what they had lost in one magnificent, reckless defiance, but the Tzo still outnumbered them two to one. And the Chinese wolves were now openly using the scent-masking drug. Mac, the Aster couldn't hold much longer, not without a way to counteract the stealth attacks.

And she hadn't found one. She was failing him.

It was then that her burning eyes noticed the new "Mac loves Gemma" scrawled in shaky letters and enclosed in a wonky love heart among the graffiti on the plastic-covered backing of the seat in front of her. She closed her suddenly damp eyes as a lump formed in her throat, heart surging in longing. Was she really such a creature of habit that he knew where she'd sit?

Wolf vandal.

Her lip wobbled. Dammit, it so wasn't his turn.

And dammit, she loved him too. She missed him.



The four of them were in the mall again at lunch time two days later, riding the escalator down to the lower floor, when she spotted the wolf waif for the second time.

The slender girl was seated, uncannily motionless, on one of the benches beside the fountain in the foyer. Her long, jean-clad legs were folded in front of her, heels tucked up on the seat, touching her buttocks, and her arms, lost in a loose, over-large orange jumper, were wrapped around her knees in a defensive pose. Her head rested on her kneecaps, tilted slightly to one side in weariness.

The young face was blank, eyes seeming slightly unfocussed, disengaged, as they drifted over the throng of laughing, passing faces.

Then blue, blue eyes met Gemma's where she stood in her own bubble of self-absorbed isolation, packed in the mass of stationary shoppers on the moving staircase. A spark of incredulous life shot into the lifeless blue, and the girl tilted her head to vertical, chin resting on her knees as her wondering eyes drank in Gemma's features. Those eyes - so like Anne's. The colour, the shape, but mostly the underlying drained, slightly dead look.

Abruptly, the now intent gaze moved on and flickered into panic when it lighted on the three wolves horsing around juggling purchases just in front of Gemma. In seconds, the waif was on her feet and had disappeared into the teeming crowd.

Gemma hesitated, then deliberately steered her friends past the bench where the girl had been sitting moments earlier, but the waif had vanished. And her wolf companions didn't so much as twitch. Definitely scent-masked.

Gemma's eyes lifted, pulled by that feeling of being watched, and she absorbed the intent, hungry look in the young face staring down at her as the Grey wolf girl rode the glass elevator up at the far side of the foyer.

"What're you gawping at?" joked Jeremy, turning to see, "Is he that handsome?"

Gemma's skin prickled in warning, and she turned away with a forced laugh, drawling sarcastically, "Right. Makes Mac look like a wet weekend."

The boys howled with laughter, but Jasmine looked at her friend intently, suspicion sparking in the black eyes.

On the following Monday, on campus, Gemma's eyes were drawn by the glimpse of an orange jumper slipping cautiously into a seat on the back row of the vast theatre where she gave her twice weekly undergrad lectures. Her breath caught slightly. Yes, her full-time wolf guard for today, Jeremy, was way down at the front, carefully stringing together one of those lethal-looking noose-net traps that they kept sending up to the Range, and patently not listening to a word of the lecture, but the waif was too close to him to be safe. Gemma had witnessed often enough by now just how alert her guards were.

But the Grey wolf just hunched low in her seat and kept her glowing eyes fixed wonderingly on Gemma throughout the fifty minutes, never even seeming to blink. It was unnerving.

Over the course of the next two days, it slowly dawned on Gemma that despite the three deadly wolf guards surrounding her, she was being cautiously stalked.

Worshipfully.

By Wednesday lunchtime the prickling in her spine and the taut feeling on her skin were constant. The tension had slowly built from the myriad of sightings of that orange flash of colour, appearing and disappearing in the periphery of her vision as she moved through her life. The wistful longing in the deep blue eyes. Aching with tension and brain fully alert, Gemma cautiously exited the side door of the staff refectory bathroom, leaned back against the brick wall beside the door with her arms folded, and stared across at the nearest clump of trees twenty yards away. 

She needed to know what this was about. 

Sure enough, a hint of an orange elbow was just visible behind one of the white trunks. Gemma settled carefully back against the warm brick, staring, staring a silent challenge at the stalker hidden not very well among the stand of young silver birches. She had weighed the risk. Gus was waiting outside the bathroom door, and would no doubt hear if she yowled, easily. Her heart was beating fast, but her mind was cool, decided.

Among other things, she had decided not to mention this to Mr Overprotective.

Gemma straightened to stand upright, warily, as an orange and blue blur streaked towards her and then abruptly halted five feet away. The waif hovered from one foot to another, hands clamped around her upper arms, hugging her thin form while her eyes again drank in Gemma's face. Damn hero worship. The tinge of shame in the blue eyes was more understandable, and Gemma felt the familiar light hint of anger begin to tighten in her belly.

"What do you want?" she asked the girl softly.

The big, blue eyes continued to stare at her, awestruck, and then the question registered and a flush spread across the pale skin. The stick-thin wolf girl nervously ducked her head, pulling at her blond hair, her eyes embarrassed as she looked away.

"I -," she whispered.

There was a choked pause, and the slight figure started shivering uncontrollably. Gemma simply waited. Close up, the girl looked unhealthily, dangerously thin and pale, with large, dark hollows around her eyes, every delicate bone on the little gamine face showing starkly under the pasty skin.

"I -," the waif choked again.

As Gemma waited, she slowly absorbed the general air of neglect, of a beaten-down, broken fellow being, and the anger began heighten, boiling through her blood.

The pale lips were moving but the wolf seemed unable to force words out. Then her gaze lifted and she flinched away from the cool sympathy in Gemma's eyes. Something strong, furious, pained, shot across the youngster's face, and the girl burst out, low, "Well, primarily to thank you for Anne, for breaking her bond, getting her free. I could have torn us out too then, followed my natalí, if he hadn't had her killed. But now I -. I wish -"

The waif gulped, and choked into silence again, a spasm crossing the finely-etched features, silent pain drawing tight the pale skin. Her eyes glowed eerily as she stared at Gemma.

But the opening seemed to help, and the Grey wolf soon started whispering again, eyes clear, pained, pleading as she pulled an iPhone from her pocket. "I couldn't hurt you, not after what you did for us, but he has ordered me."

Another pause.

"I am to get a photograph of your naulu, that is why he sent me this time. He thought because of what you did in the shop, and did for Anne, you might let me get close enough, talk."

The wolf-girl shivered and she glanced at the open window beside them, whisper dropping, "Not that he cares if they do spot me." The young face stilled, eyes growing more dull, defeated, "I'm not sure I care either. I'm scared, but at least it would be over - and over quickly, from the sound of it." Her face spasmed again, "But I can't, I can't leave -"

A gulped sob, and there was another long pause. Gemma's mind echoed with emptiness, wondering frantically what to say to a suicidal young wolf. This Grey girl must be about nineteen. Nineteen. How long had she been a victim?

"I would care," was all that came to Gemma's lips, her anger fired by the waste, the hopelessness apparent in the young face. Not a sentiment of any use, but the dull blue eyes lifted swiftly back to hers, a faint hint of the eerie worship lighting the lifeless depths.

"And I'm sorry about Anne," added Gemma gruffly.

A spark of the fire and the pain burned across the pale face again, awakening the wolf waif, and the blue eyes fastened eagerly on the human's face. Pleading, tortured eyes, burning with a spark belief, passion, longing. A spark of hope.

Gemma unwrapped her light jacket, and eased her blouse down over her left shoulder, after uneasily checking around. Just her luck one of her students would saunter into the middle of this. "Take your photo. What does Grey want it for?" 

Relief, hope, passionate thankfulness, and adoration flitted across the little, gaunt face and the waif's voice was distracted, surprised that the human had to ask, while she lifted the phone in her shaking hand and pressed the screen to wake it up, not even looking at Gemma while she replied, "To torment Natasha Vanilchov. That her mate has claimed a human."

What? Abruptly, Gemma shrugged her blouse back up, shivering, indignant. Natasha Vanilchov - Vanil's sister, to whom Mac was promised. This Grey didn't have to lie. "They are only betrothed," she corrected her flatly.

What did Nick have to do with Vanil's sister? And Gemma had thought that her name was Natalie, not Natasha? Was Nick planning on posting anonymous photos to her? 

She snorted in disgust. It was about the smelly wolf's level.

The blue eyes of the wolf waif lifted back to hers, surprised. "Officially, yes, but that's only because she hadn't been on heat. She reeked of the Mackeld when first she was brought in, mating scent and seed. I was often assigned to groom her in the beginning, and she used to howl his name under torture too, calling to him for help."

Her eyes dropped back to the phone as light flashed onto the screen, and the Grey wolf muttered distractedly, "Now I only do clean-up occasionally, since she was moved, and I'm taken there under total sense deprivation." 

The waif shuddered at the memory of that helplessness, sidetracked. "No-one but he knows where she is, he has her incarcerated somewhere no-one will find her, the Mackeld got too close. It's his usual cunning - if he dies now, then she will also starve to death before anyone finds her. So the Mackeld can't kill him."

The words shocked a chill through Gemma. But the shockwave soon met and was smothered under a steady warm glow of anger inside her chest, and the main thought firing through her mind was a sarcastic, Nice try, Nick. Did the Grey leader really think that she was that dim? And insecure? That she knew her own mate so little? 

About the last thing in the world Mac would ever do was abandon someone he knew - never mind cared about - in Nick tender care while he accepted exile and sauntered around lazily pulling pints and taking photos, filling in time until he could return to his pack. Yeah, right. 

But. This teenager seemed to believe it. Either that, or she was a damn good actress, better even than Bethan. Gemma decided to play along and see if she could learn anything useful.

Mac had been exiled because of his raids onto Grey lands, looking for a hidden lair, the thought peeked into her mind. She swatted it for disloyalty. So Nick had built his lie around some truths. The best liars did.

"Torture?" Gemma asked quietly, wondering why the Grey - oops, why Grey was doing this.

The waif was still pressing the screen of her phone, and answered matter-of-factly, absently, as she turned the camera on. Watching closely, Gemma thought she was a little too careless in her delivery. No-one could be that casual, inured to torture. The images painted by the fresh words the Grey wolf girl was murmuring were causing bile to rise in Gemma's throat, even though she knew it was all made up.

"He uses some conditioning and concoction to try to force her into rut, then to accept his seed so that he can get an Alpha litter on her, and his cubs can inherit. He has succeeded in drugging and paining her into false rut several times but she is unbelievable, still manages to shift human so his seed doesn't impregnate her. Despite all that he does to try to stop her, she still seems to be holding, after all these years. I don't know where she gets the strength, the tchi."

Years of torture. This was unbelievable. 

"And Nick thinks that this photo might break her." Gemma's lips were cold as she whispered the cold statement.

Unbelievable.

"Well, by all accounts Tasha doesn't believe what he tells her about the Mackeld having claimed you. She just laughs at him, especially now, since the Mackeld caught him and wounded him so badly that he's been unable to mate for months. His penis will regenerate eventually, but she laughs." The girl shivered, an echo of awe shining in her eyes as she shook her head, thinking of the Vanilchov sjeste.

Nick's cock? When? When had Mac torn him there? In the forest? She didn't think Grey had been seen since.

It's a lie, thicko, remember?

Gemma's stomach was churning - she had nearly been raped by Nick herself, and she couldn't help thinking, what if Mac hadn't been there to stop him? For years? Under torture, pain, and drugs as Grey repeatedly forced himself on her, trying to impregnate her with his seed? This story was making her feel sick. Then a small quirk lifted the corner of her mouth. Well - she loved the idea of Mac ripping Nick's cock off, but sadly she had to throw that idea out with the rest. 

Besides, her wolf would've ensured that she was told. What better way to cheer his mate up?

Gemma pulled her jacket together carefully, her hand lifting to her throat to close tightly about the fabric, hiding every hint of the skin of her neck. The blue eyes of the waif lifted to hers, puzzled, "I didn't take one yet." 

Gemma's brown eyes were fierce, scorching as they met the blue. "Tell Nicolas Grey I'm not that much of an idiot - he'll have to send a better lie than this." The waif's face fell, shock and panic washing across the pale skin, and she choked as Gemma turned and slipped back into the bathroom.

Her burning eyes lighted on the narrow red porcelain vase which had appeared on the shelf between the mirrors and the basins while she was outside. A delicate, elegant piece of pottery holding a single red-and-yellow tulip. Her favourite flower, as her wolf knew.

Tears flooded her eyes this time.

So un-Mac, that lie.

Gemma lifted her new gift down and kissed and kissed the petals, hearing Gus's gruff voice calling, "Have you drowned in there?" through the door as the soft fragrance of the flower curled around her.



That evening, Gus had just opened the street door to their block of flats when both wolves with her stiffened. Jeremy dropped his backpack and flashed away in a streak upstairs just as a muffled, anguished howl sounded at the top. Gus yanked the keys back out of the lock, scooped Gemma and the bag up, and jumped inside, kicking the door shut behind them while he raced after his twin with the small human tucked on one arm. 

Wailing wolf shrieks were now emanating full-volume from the top landing, and as they rounded the bend below the last run of steps Gus dropped Gemma onto her arse on the carpet and leaped into the air, just managing to grab the slender foot of the black-haired lycan who was leaping over their heads, using the stair windowsill as a foothold to propel herself around the corner above them and make her escape.

Gus and his handful landed back together almost on top of Gemma, and Jeremy sprang back down from the top landing, also grabbing at the fighting, yowling lycan. Jasmine. It sounded as though she was in horrible pain. Gus backed off with a sharp grunt as her razor teeth tore his hand from her toes, and a second later Jeremy thudded back against the wall of the stairwell when those powerful hind legs surged against him, claws shredding his coat.

The twins spun to leap back onto the fighting sjeste, but they couldn't hold her, she threw them off repeatedly, and gained more ground down the stairs, despite their best efforts and repeated pleas for her to calm down, control herself. Gemma got a light scratch from one claw when she tried laying a hand on one furred shoulder herself to calm her friend, and realised that as far as she could tell Jasmine was in control. Or Gemma would have had her human hand torn open like Gus's healing wolf one. 

What was this? Something was so wrong, achingly, howlingly wrong. So wrong that Jasmine didn't care if she ran through the streets as a werewolf. Gemma blenched. She could see why the twins' were trying to stop her.

But the boys were losing, surprisingly. Jasmine was so small and slender beside their hulking forms, even as a werewolf. But the two of them couldn't subdue the slender girl - possibly because they were trying not to hurt her, only to stop her. However, Jasmine was also damn good at this, she never let them pin her to anything, never let them get a firm hold on her twisting form. A small smile of pride in her friend lit Gemma's eyes.

She missed the sound of the bottom door reopening, the first inkling she had of the new arrival was when Jasmine's head shot up. The sjeste yowled even more fiercely in sudden protest and spun to leap back up the stairs to the flat. 

But the fleeing black lycan was pounced on on the top landing by a large, tawny Alpha. Gemma gaped, frozen in disbelief. All she had caught was a blur of white fur turning gold-and-brown as he dove past them on the stairs. Mac.

Dammit, she knew why he was flattening the wolf girl under him, but the rational knowledge didn't stop the rage of jealousy which washed through her as she watched. Stupid, stupid, stupid emotion. 

Stupid wolf.

Her mate swiftly and expertly subdued the struggles of the slight, lithe sjeste fighting no-holds-barred under him. His chest was heaving with the burning breaths of an all-out sprint, and he looked slightly wilder, more gaunt, raw, and bitter-edged than when she had last seen him only two weeks ago. However, his careful immobilisation of the young wolf girl was gentle. And effortless. After only moments, while the twins scrambled back to their feet and Gus disappeared downstairs to reassure a worried Mrs. Barraclough on the ground floor, Jasmine stopped fighting and just lay under Mac, sobbing silently into the rough stair carpet.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 09



How had he got here? Where from? So fast, so opportunely?

He kissed the top of the small lycan's black furry head and hugged the small, shuddering form to himself, swinging her up in his arms as he rose to his feet. Then Gemma's mate followed Jeremy through the open door of his old home with his burden, without even glancing her way.

It hurt.

What was going on? What was he doing here?

Dazedly, she followed.

Mac, human, was on the living room couch, where she'd seen him hundreds of times before, cradling the small half-Indian girl to his chest, rocking her soothingly, all his attention fixed on her. Jasmine was also back in human form, crying silently, breathlessly, occasional wracks of agony contorting her limbs while she writhed, crying out in pain. 

Gemma was guiltily ashamed of the anger that washed through her again as she watched Mac holding Jasmine, and clenched a furious hold upon her emotions, yanking them back into line. Whatever this was, it wasn't a sensual embrace; more one of solace - was she really such an insecure little wimp that she begrudged her wolf friend some comfort, when it was obviously, desperately needed?

The bitter tableau went on for eons: Jasmine thrashing, arching in agony, choking on anguish, and Mac echoing the pain on his own face, his strong hands gentle, soothing as he wiped away the ceaseless tracks of salt streaming down the brown cheeks.

Then abruptly, the slight figure of the sjeste relaxed. The silence echoed with chill, a chill spreading from the motionless, slight figure lying across Mac's knees on the sofa. Then Jasmine heaved a deep breath, choked, and began to sob in earnest; heart-wrenching, broken gulps of despair, of loss, as she turned her face to press it into Mac's shoulder. 

Gemma stood with the twins in the doorway, feeling like an intruder. Whatever this was, it was beyond her knowledge, her experience, her ability to help. 

But not beyond Mac.

She could see the pain twisting his face as he soothed his hands gently over Jasmine's scalp, stroking, just sharing simple touch. The sobs were wracking the girl, shaking her frame, although the full contortions of deep physical agony had stopped. Jasmine jammed her face harder into Mac's shoulder, trying to blot out the world.

It was like being at the funeral of someone who had died suddenly, shockingly, Gemma realised, chilled; watching the immediate family trying to deal with the shock of the loss, when you were just a nodding acquaintance, someone who had barely known the deceased.

"How can you bear it?" Jasmine's voice was shrill, cracked with pain as she wailed into Mac's shirt.

He laid his hand on her shoulder, and the answering pain in his voice was echoing with steady, deep, controlled, unbearable feeling, "You have to. For him. If you break, so will he."

The Alpha repeated, firmly, implacably, "You have to."

Gemma heard a little intake of breath, and realised it was hers. They were not talking about someone who had died. What? Who? 

Someone alive. 

She felt a stirring in the air behind her and Gus and Jeremy quickly dragged her out of the way when the Marsh Alpha stalked into the living room, face etched with pain, chest heaving for air, and dropped onto the sofa beside Mac to drag his daughter into his own arms for a fierce, convulsive hug.

"We were following the vehicle, but he's out of my range. Out of even yours now, I guess. I'm so sorry, elske, I had no warning." The words tumbled from his mouth as he murmured into her sleek black hair, cheek resting sideways on her head, hands soothing over her. "They used a silver bullet, and he was beyond my con - when he fell, Tapio believed that he was dead. But they deployed enough troops to force a way through and grab him. Tapio realised then, contacted me, and we pursued, but couldn't catch them before they reached the vehicle. They dug the bullet out once they had him secured, broke him out of it, and now -." The Aster warlord stopped, pain and rage tightening his throat, while Jasmine yowled despairingly again, tightening her slim arms around her father's neck. 

Her voice was high, desperate as she finished his sentence. 

"Now they've got him. He was in a human vehicle. With humans. Smelly. Sick. Blindfolded. Chained. And they were painting him with something that burned into his skin. Then cutting and peeling back his pelt, and applying it underneath. They were laughing. Felt sick. Weak. Gasoline. Burning, sickening, scorching pain."

This was about Jasmine's natál, Gemma realised dazedly. Her twin Karim, the litter-brother, whom Gemma had never met.

"Elske, elske," Marsh tried to cut in, to stop the torrent, but Jasmine's anguished words continued.

"It burned so badly - and they enjoyed it, were laughing, telling him to wait and see what they had back at the den. That's when I lost him." Jasmine choked off again, gasping while she pressed herself back into her father's arms. They tightened fiercely around her. 

Mac laid a hand on the Jasmine's shoulder again in sympathy, but this time she shrugged it off, furious, and turned snarling on the tawny Alpha.

"You wouldn't let me go help. I could have tailed them. Found him."

"Elske," Marsh barked the word warningly. "From what Mac has been telling us, Nick wants Alfamme sjeste most of all. There would have been a trap. This whole setup probably is a trap, using Karim as bait to capture his natalí. Grey would have been delighted had you pursued him."

From what Mac tells us, Nick wants Alfamme sjeste most of all. Gemma felt the bile and horror rising in her throat. Natasha Vanilchov? Was it true? No.

"They wouldn't have caught me," the half-Indian girl retorted stubbornly, fiercely. "I'm the best at evasion. And I could have found the Grey lair." 

"No, you couldn't," Mac replied tersely. "Believe me, I've tried every feasible way to find that damn lair, with my best damn trackers."

Maybe it was true, reeled Gemma faintly. Maybe he had been hunting the damn lair to find his betrothed. True?

Maybe. But Mac loved her. She knew this.

However, he hadn't so much as glanced at her now. 'His people had enough to worry them without fear that their Alpha was about to run off with a human again'. She felt the sadness rising through her. His people were losing, she reminded herself; their friends, their homes, family. He was right to protect his pack. He himself must be losing wolves he loved daily. It would be torture to him, watching his people fighting, losing, dying around him, unable to stop it. Unable to protect them. He had lost almost a quarter of his pack in two months, most of them in the last three weeks as the attacks had intensified. The pain must be stupendous, unimaginable to her. He couldn't add to their worry.

She felt her heart melting in aching sadness. She was just wrong for him.

And on top of trying not to worry his pack, if the Russian wolves suspected him of being attached to someone other than Natasha Vanilchov, they might withdraw their troops, leaving the Aster in general, and Mackelds in particular, in a worse mess than they were in already.

Sadness. steeping through her. He looked so tired, drained, despite the flecks of fire in his eyes as he argued. Red-rimmed eyes; the shimmer of power was still radiating from him, but it was banked, as was that of Marsh. The Alpha's were having to conserve their energy.

In contrast to the strain of Mac's life, Gemma slightly guiltily considered her own. She was in a safe little suburb in her cozy flat with a good job, beloved family, and her biggest worry was that her boyfriend, lover - love, hadn't acknowledged her when he had sprinted over this evening to sort out one mess in this huge big mess.

Actually, she thought her biggest worry was that his betrothed really was being tortured by Nicolas Grey. Mac must know this, if it were true. The bile roiled in her stomach.

There had to be some reason for all this, some explanation. Her Mac would not leave his betrothed in Nick's clutches, indifferent. He couldn't. So if he really believed that Natsha Vanilchov was held by Nicolas he would have been fighting to free her all these years, not calmly accepting exile. It didn't make sense.

Trying to argue herself into reason didn't counteract the sadness. In fact, it grew worse. Gemma was willing him to simply glance at her, her skin keening for one look. One little look wouldn't hurt the alliance. She needed something, a little warmth, while this doubt reverberated through her. She felt guilty for doubting him. Fear for the trouble she caused him. And angry that he wouldn't look at her, when clearly something major was going on which he hadn't told her about. Natasha?

But - Vanil believed that his natalí was on walkabout, runaround - whatever it was called. Jasmine had said that he'd got a postcard.

Natál. Natalí. She should have got it earlier. A natál was a litter-brother, a natalí a litter-sister. Gus and Jeremy. Jasmine and Karim, and Vanil and Natasha. Were they all as close as the twins? Evidently Jasmine and Karim were so connected through the shared bond that they could convey over long distances. 

But Mac - hadn't he implied that he could also convey with someone held, tortured by Nicolas Grey? Someone who would break in captivity, if he didn't stand firm. Another bond? A strong bond?

If you break, so will he.

Or she.

No, she thought sadly. He had just been telling Jasmine to stand firm. She thought.

He loved his picchu. He had had no reason to say so, unless it was true. It was true. She knew it, in her bones. But what was this?

Look at me, Mac.

Nothing. No sign. He was too intent on fiercely arguing Jasmine out of hunting for the Grey lair. 

"Jasmine," growled her father, warning in his tone. "Listen to Mac. He knows."

He knows.

Abruptly, Mac surged to his feet, face creased in pain, and said brusquely, "I have to get back."

The older Alpha nodded to him, formally, the deep, intent gaze of the Aster Warlord catching and holding Mac's, sharing something. The Mackeld's eyes flickered. After an infinitesimal pause, he nodded back in acknowledgement, and turned to stride impatiently to the door. The twins moved back hastily, but Gemma ignored their hands plucking at her elbows, standing unmoving in the doorway and staring stubbornly, questioningly up at her mate as he paced across the room.

Mac halted, and looked down at her, his eyes softening, but distant. Distracting, pained thoughts were shading the back of the green depths.

"Gemma. You are well?"

Am I well? Am I well? Dumbfounded, she glared up at him. What am I, a distant acquaintance you have to be polite to at chance meetings?

The bitterness of his impassive front welled up inside her and she bit tersely, "Is Natasha?" For a split second saw a pulse of raw, bitter agony rasp across his face, followed by a flash of rage, before it blanked and he was gone, the air of his passing brushing his absence against her tingling skin. She drew in a sharp breath, as though someone had stabbed her in the back, and felt herself steadied with Gus's gentle hand at her elbow.

It felt like she'd stabbed herself, seeing that pain, hurting her wolf that badly. And - he had just gone. Left. 

You deserved it.

What was going on?

Gemma shook free of Gus and turned and stumbled dazedly off down the corridor to the kitchen, pushing the kettle under the tap under autopilot. The tears were frozen in her eyes with shock, and anger. But part of the anger was the flicker of memory of the huddled heap of misery of Jasmine across her father's knees. Yes, she needed to talk to Mac. But not now. There are other important things in life.

Do something. Jasmine would need a cup of tea. Comfort. Indian tea. Inadequate. Inadequate. Useless.

No. She couldn't clear the questions from her mind.

What was wrong? It was so unlike him. But if his betrothed really was being tortured regularly by Nick - and Mac knew this, but could do nothing about it, couldn't find her, couldn't kill Grey without killing Natasha also - she couldn't imagine a worse torture for her wolf. 

But if so, why the hell wasn't he still hunting for her? Why hadn't he been hunting her all these years?

No wonder he had been struggling to steer clear of his picchu, despite the attraction. Gemma was suddenly bitterly angry with herself - look at the mess she'd dragged him into with that one damn kiss. Fiercely, she hoped that Natasha Vanilchov didn't know about her, didn't believe a word of the rumours of Mac being too attached to a human. She shivered at the idea of being in the power of the vile, sadistic predatory Grey. Natasha needed all the help she could get.

If it were true. She still couldn't quite believe it.

But.

Mac had looked - haunted, drained, a tortured shadow of his usual buoyant self. And then that look when she'd asked him about Tasha. Raw pain. And the shadow of quiet, constant suffering.

Mac hid within himself a deeply etched copy of the numb, pained look which was draining Jasmine's animation, where she lay limply on the sofa. The sadness that Gemma had always known was within Mac. 

The Marsh sjeste had just experienced her twin brother being tortured.

Gemma shivered, shame dragging her out of her self-absorbed thoughts, and forced her mind back into focus, replacing the kettle on its stand and turning it on.

Marsh had to leave shortly after she returned to the living room with the steaming mugs, head shooting up as he heard a call, teeth baring in a snarl. Jasmine had caught the conveyance also, a spark hit her dulled eyes, and she rolled to her feet to allow her father to his, spinning to face him.

"I will come with you," she announced fiercely.

"You will not," returned the Marsh Alpha clearly. "You will stay here and continue to guard the Fealden Wolf-friend as she works to aid us."

Fierce black eyes glittered into power-flecked brown. Father and daughter faced each other in silence, a feeling of silent clashing growing in the air, shimmering in the room, seeming to heat the air. The smouldering increased until Gemma thought that the carpet would scorch alight in the heat roaring off the pair, then Jasmine abruptly shuddered and dropped her gaze, glaring at her feet, and nodded her head, bitterness in her face.

Her father tilted her defiant chin up with a finger, and his tone was gentle as he looked into her clouded black eyes, "There will be Greys enough to kill before this is over, elske."

Jasmine eyed him silently, bitterly for a moment, her own eyes bleak but calm, then her expression softened on a thought and she stepped in to reach up to pull down that proud head and kiss him gently on the cheek. "May your hunt be successful, Ap," she murmured as she stepped back, speaking silently to him as she looked straight up into those powerful, shimmering brown eyes.

Marsh cupped his daughter's head and drew her forward to kiss her forehead in reply, responding softly with a gruff, "May your home be at peace," before he disappeared soundlessly through the open doorway on a brush of air.

Gemma choked down the lump in her throat, a pang shooting through her as she recognised the feelings, the knowledge which had forced the Marsh sjeste to set aside her bitterness. What if even Mac didn't survive the next battle? What if that accusatory phrase turned out to be the last thing she ever had a chance to say to him? 

Her stomach churned with the sick knots tightening, tightening. 

As soon as Marsh left, the fire in Jasmine dissolved and she slumped back onto the sofa, staring bleakly at the wall, knocking her untouched tea into the carpet with unwonted clumsiness. As Gus galloped off to get a cloth and Jeremy began to pace angrily, Gemma stood frozen in the centre of the room, the bitter frustration welling. She couldn't do anything. Couldn't help. She sank down beside her friend, slipping a hand into the cold one curled lifeless on Jasmine's knee. What could she do? She had tried everything. 



Gemma was in a bleak mood the next day, her thoughts still seething helplessly, uselessly, after a night of no sleep. Anger, sadness, pain, confusion, worry.

None of them had gotten any sleep. But she had hatched a plan. Even if she doubted that it would meet with Mac's approval. So? She wasn't planning on seeking it.

It wasn't as though he told her everything either.

And she was sick of being a useless pawn in this.

One of the litanies that her Marsh friend had used while giving Gemma her brief, long-ago crash course in how to avoid lustful males on the rut had been that wolves tracked by scent, sound and sight. But principally by scent. Jasmine, the Mackelds, none of the Aster could track the Grey wolves because their enemies could scent the trackers long before they were close enough to be identified by sight, and disappear.

But humans could smell the Grey wolves. Humans were not a threat for a wolf to hide from. Gemma could find a Grey.

It took hours to bully Jasmine into agreeing to try, but after repeated, exasperated promises not to do anything rash, or without a guard, the Marsh had eventually agreed a Gemma-safe plan so that her human friend could try to identify a Grey wolf for her to sight-track. 

The girls had suddenly become interested in keeping fit - Gemma growled at the boys' amusement and hissed at them that she was dragging Jasmine out for a run to keep her from constantly brooding, which sobered them rapidly. It was a slightly slanted version of the truth.

She could do with a little respite from brooding herself.

That lunchtime, Gemma and Jasmine circled on a slow, thorough lope around the campus, and came across a total of three different hiding places from which the rank scent emanated; each, unsettlingly, a vantage point overlooking her soil science building. The first two spots emptied rapidly at the approaching scent of Gemma's companion, but the third was too far upwind to scent them.

After pausing at a safe distance to make a phone call behind the concealing trunk of a nearby tree, Gemma and Jasmine returned the way they had come. But as they disappeared back towards the centre of the campus, Kate and Bethan sauntered over from the opposite direction with their friend Emma, to settle down and study and picnic in the shade of the tree for the afternoon. 

Gemma had felt a tinge of unease that her human girlfriends were now involved in this, but after Gemma had requested a sleepover that night and explained that Jasmine needed to stalk an elusive stalker who they suspected of hanging around the campus, her human friends had indignantly insisted on doing more, and keeping their eye on him for the afternoon once Gemma and Jasmine had sussed out his hiding place. They'd be safe as a threesome. 

Jasmine assured her that they would be safe as humans, in public - only an insane, suicidal wolf would incite the wrath of the global senshal by attacking three humans, in plain view of hundreds of other sunbathing students, in broad daylight.

Gus and Jeremy accepted the absence of Jasmine for the return journey to Gemma's flat that evening, with the plausible explanation that Kate and Bethan had dragged the sjeste off shopping in an attempt to cheer her up, and that all three girls were going to go straight back Kate and Bethan's flat to start up the party, and meet Gemma there later that evening. They were having a girls-only pampering night to solace Jasmine. The twins even reluctantly agreed to leave Gemma in the Marsh sjeste's sole care for the night, although from the stubborn looks on their faces, they'd be standing guard outside Kate and Bethan's flat anyway.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 09



So Jasmine would have to be extra cautious when she returned from her hunt.

Gemma had to smother the urge to giggle when the boys, having escorted her around to Kate and Bethan's, didn't realise that the 'Jasmine' they were just able to glimpse having her nails painted by Bethan in the living room was actually Emma in one of Bethan's wigs. Kate was impatiently shooing the twins back out with a coy "We'll be happy to give you two massages another day." Jasmine had assured Gemma that so long as the person who answered the door's nails had just been painted, the boys wouldn't be able to scent anything else, and it looked like she'd been right.

It had worked. Shockingly, bizarrely, the whole plan had so far gone without a hitch. 

So with any luck, that Grey wolf had had a chocolate-and-honey coloured shadow tailing him when he had finally abandoned his post that evening.

With any luck, Jasmine would be able to follow him back to the Grey lair. 



Gemma turned over in her sleep, snuggling face-down on the sofa bed in Kate and Bethan's living room. 

Uh? Dimly, she became aware that her cheek was squashed against something smooth that shouldn't be in her bed. Slowly her mind started to surface. Then it sighed contentedly and started to fade again, not really bothered. Too comfortable, warm, cocooned.

It wasn't a threat, there wouldn't be a threat, not with this scent snuggled around her, the muscular arms cuddling her close against the warm chest, the long powerful legs twined around hers.

Mmmmm. A dream? She had plenty of dreams of Mac. Although usually his erection was slightly more eager than - oop, there it went.

She smiled into the cover, and felt her cheek wrinkle against the smooth, yielding, faintly hollow-feeling surface under it. What on earth?

Questions dragging her more fully out of sleep, Gemma felt the amused, mock-indignant rumble growl through the warm chest against her back and tickle in her ear at the same time as she realised that the thing her face was plastered against was a thin cardboard box.

"Filling a hole?" Mac kept his voice low, the tone ironic.

Her stomach jumped. He was here.

"What bona fide catering company would really trade under the name 'Filling a Hole'?!?" he queried sarcastically.

Gemma couldn't help it. Despite the anger, worry, upset and thousand questions shrieking into her mind, she swiftly turned her face to press it into her mate's bicep and smother her giggles.

He'd liked the wrapping then. She and Kate had spent a lot of thought and effort designing this box for the Duck a l'Orange delivery. It was nice to know that it hadn't been wasted.

He hugged her to him, his chest also reverberating. "You are atrocious, my little mate." Then she felt him fall still, and his voice changed. 

"So, Picchu." There was anger in the velvet voice. "What the hell are you doing here, with no guards?"

He was angry with her?

Gemma sat up with a jerk, heart bounding painfully in her chest, and a rage took her, much stronger than the one she could hear as she glared back down at the wolf lying in her bed.

"I think you owe me a few more explanations that I owe you," she bit out.

He rolled her over rapidly, pinning her spread-eagled underneath him. She ignored the wanton writhing in her stomach and stared angrily back up into those black-flecked green eyes, barely visible in the dark room, but the warmth in the depths of them cut through the anger and she could feel the longing on her skin, in her heart. He was here.

Then suddenly he simply bent and nudged her head sideways with his, and despite her indignant squirming began to lightly smother kiss after kiss after kiss along the join of her neck, the line of her collarbone, the round of her shoulder.

Indignant. Indignant. Come on, remember, indignant.

"I owe you," he murmured between kisses. "Let's see. Duck a l'orange." 

She continued to struggle against the confining arms. Struggling was making the heavy, throbbing bulge pressed against her thigh grow longer, harder.

Harder to ignore.

 

Down, girl.

No, keep squirming. But not like that, like this, see?

I said DOWN.

"Mac! Get off."

He ignored the breathless squeak of protest, rumbling through the tick-list of her gifts for him, "Big White in my old pirate eye-patch. That atrocious poem. The picture."

God, even as furious with him as she was now, it was nearly impossible to hold onto it as he kissed his way up her neck to under her ear. She was now trying to stop herself from squirming up against his hard, aroused form. Control. Control. That little brush of her hips didn't count as a squirm. Or that one. Not really.

Cross, here, her mind cut in. Really fuming. Need answers. Remember?

"Fake plane tickets to Paris."

He breathed the last heavily into her ear, and swirled his tongue inside, so that a shiver unhinge her spine and she melted underneath him.

Oh what the hell. Seize the moment. You can talk later.

Her mate sank down, so he was lying fully, heavily on top of her, that delicious, impatient bulge throbbing against the crease of one hip, and he held her head still with his hands cupped behind her ears, staring deeply down into her eyes, his nose millimetres from hers.

"And an apology."

Her heart was hammering so hard in her chest as she stared into those deep, deep, oh-so-warm green eyes. Sad, happy. Loving.

Her face puckered. 

"You looked so sad, hurt," she wailed. And was instantly annoyed with herself - she couldn't believe she'd said that. He'd been the one who walked out on her, after practically ignoring her, for crying out loud.

Mac's voice was very carefully level, low. "Picchu, do you expect me to be happy about what is happening to Natasha?"

"Your betrothed," she snarled quietly, jealous rage flaring unstoppably through her. "Why the hell didn't you mention that she was being held, tortured by Nicolas Grey? Slipped your mind?"

A spasm of searing pain flashed across Mac's features, and then black obliterated the green warmth in his eyes as they lit instantly into fury stronger than her own; she could see the enraged wolf glaring out through the eerie back-light. 

"You think I didn't remember? You think I ever forgot?" The rage was towering through him, fuelled by intense, deep-seated anguish and fury at her unjust accusation. The words were slightly distorted, and Mac forced his lengthening jaw back to human shape while he hissed down at her, "I was officially exiled by the council for unlawful raids into Grey territory."

A tortured breath rasped in. A second, as he struggled with his control, while Gemma stared quietly into the pain-fired fury in his glowing wolf eyes.

"But I accepted the damn exile because Grey promised me, and demonstrated, that the torture he inflicted on Tasha would increase twenty-fold if I remained within my pack, within raiding distance of his Range. It was the best we could do for her. We couldn't find her."

Gemma's heart burned, relief and anguish ripping through her. He did care. Thank god. She knew - he cared about his people. 

But - no, oh no - he did care. About Tasha.

Then she was lying alone on the bed as tears trickled out of the corners of her eyes. Her heart was burning in anger and distress.

She'd hurt him. Again. Really, really hurt. 

Sitting back up, she called urgently, softly, "Mac."

The shadow at the window rumbled back over his shoulder, "I'm not going anywhere, Gemma. I just - do you really think I could just forget what he's doing to her?" There was deep pain in the soft whisper.

Ouch. But her sore heart eased slightly. What seemed to hurt him most was her lack of trust in him.

"No," she murmured simply. "I never did. I'm sorry, Mac, I - have been - confused, and angry, hurt that you first ignored me then just walked out on me on Wednesday, so I - hit out at you."

She sighed, softly voice hitching on the held-back tears, "About the thing I'm most certain of is that you would never just leave her, anyone in that mess, not care."

There was a long pause, a sigh, and she could see the green eyes glowing steadily when he turned. 

"What you should be most certain of, Gemma, is that I am your mate. Yours."

He twitched abruptly, shaking something out of his head, and strode back toward her, his voice deepening, settling, "I hate all this - I know you were hurt by my apparent indifference on Wednesday, I'm sorry Gemma, that's why I came down tonight - yesterday we were attacked again, I couldn't."

"And I hate the subterfuge, not being able to spend time with you, touch you, guard you myself - although I love your gifts. Becoming a lone wolf is growing daily more attractive."

He sank down tentatively on the sofabed beside her feet, and Gemma rolled over and pulled herself to sit upright facing him, not quite touching as they stared into each other's eyes.

"How do you know Grey has her? Vanil believes she's in Europe or something," said Gemma.

There was something deep in the warm green eyes, a sad little shadow. "Gemma, I've known Vanil and Tasha since they were little cubs, they fostered at McIntyre when their parents were killed, and they're the same age as Karl and Rebecca. They're like extra little siblings. I - Vanil was over in Russia when Tasha was taken, and she called to me for help."

"Besides, you're promised to her." Would she stop harping on about that? He couldn't help it.

Mac sighed slowly, and lifted her chin with a gentle finger. "Gemma, she is betrothed to the Mackeld Alpha. That is all the Koschuk, or the Vanilchov care about, the rank, not the person. I care about you."

His eyes lightened in a slight smile, "Will you take a chance on becoming the lifemate of an unemployed, homeless drifter once I abdicate after the war? I promise I'll find some way to provide for us anyway." 

This again. Gemma felt her heart easing at his teasing attitude, the light-hearted words covering the aches as he struggled to find a way to close the distance between them, close over the hurts. Abruptly, the pain in her melted. She loved this wolf. He was a stubborn, proud, incorrigibly over-confident, over-protective idiot, and one thing she could bet on was that this would not be the last argument they ever had. So he had been wrong to walk out on her the day before yesterday. But he'd come a long way, at a very difficult time, to apologise in person.

"That's a bit of an archaic attitude. We could live off my income," she replied.

A faint hint of a growl. "No we couldn't. What kind of a man do you take me for?"

No surprise there. There was now a smile in her voice, "You're not a man."

She could hear that he was smiling back, "Even once I become a man, I'll still be a back-woodsy, stronger than a hurricane, harder than the mountains,..."

"And more modest," she interjected swiftly, earning a grin.

"...don't-mess-with-me kind of guy. Don't expect me to start eating tofu and hanging out in spas with you discussing the latest hair styles."

Gemma smothered a laugh at the mental image. "Awww - as a special treat for my birthday next year, can I at least plait your gorgeous hair into lots of little braids and tie them off with cool, coloured ribbons? It would look spectacular."

"No."

"Please?"

"Not a chance."

"I'd be the only one who saw it."

"This message was deleted for being too idiotic to be allowed."

She hunched over to him and slid her bottom into his lap, feeling the warm, muscular arms close about her. Home.

This was the Mac she had lived with for six months, fallen in love with.

"Go on then," she titled her head back to beam up at him expectantly, a gleam in her eyes.

Mac looked relieved, puzzled, and a little wary. He knew that look. 

"Go on, what?"

"You said you'd come here to apologise. I've seen how wolves apologise. Go on."

The spark that flashed into his eyes was incredulous, and then amused, and then – steely. They stared at each other, the challenge growing, both of their lips twitching.

"Or don't you mean it?" she taunted challengingly.

He glared back.

"You know I mean it, picchu. You're a human, so I apologised to you in the human fashion, with heartfelt words. I am sorry, I don't want you hurt, I just want you - safe."

His angry gaze glared suddenly around the room. "So where the hell is Jasmine?"

Quick, distract him.

"So do I get to punish you now so that you can learn from your mistake?"

He gave her a look.

Gemma straightened up on his crossed legs, her chest heaving, and pouted up at him naughtily. She saw him swallow, feeling his semi-erect cock twitch into life underneath her buttocks as he wrenched his eyes back up from her jutting breasts, whereupon they got stuck on the glistening curve of her protruding bottom lip. Her blood bubbled frothily in response - such a simple thing, to cause his eyes to glaze like that.

Her wolf was hers.

"I think as a penance, to teach you, you'll have to ignore me again, but under duress - lie down flat on the bed and completely ignore whatever I do to you."

That did it. His cock was now practically lifting her off his lap, it was so hard. Mac groaned.

"Picchu, we can't."

And his voice was hoarse. Wow, was she smug.

"I'll avoid moist tissue, don't worry." She blinked up at him innocently, the challenge in her gaze full of deep amusement. "If I lose control you have permission to stop me. But I won't."

He swallowed again, raggedly, his chest rising and falling on quickening breaths, his eyes sinking into hers, then he wrenched his gaze away. She could feel his heart hammering inside his chest as she leaned back against him, enjoying the shudder of his skin against hers. For some reason, despite the fire in her blood and the moist ache between her thighs, her mind seemed clear. 

"How do you know Tasha is still alive?" The words spilled from her mouth. This was why. Beneath the heat, her brain was still quietly reasoning.

Mac's heart jolted, then slowed, along with his breaths, and she could feel her wolf pondering his answer.

"Gem, do you know what makes a wolf an Alpha? Or Alfamme?"

Hmmm. Where was he going with this? 

"Control?" she hazarded softly.

"If that were all, then Nick would be a full Alpha, he certainly is strong-minded enough, and I've seen him crash and swamp unmeshed betas even through very sturdy shields."

At the reminder, Gemma's heart lurched in worry, and clenched in anger. This wolf had crashed a whole army of the Tzo earlier this week, in what her wolf guards described as in insanely glorious, reckless defiance. 

"Mac, did you have to try to kill yourself by crashing Tzo's son?" the rushed rebuke was a little high-pitched and whiney, because her throat had tightened again at the fear. She heard the answer inside her own heart. Yes, did have to. And he would keep doing things like that. He was an Alpha.

She began to get an inkling of where he was going with this train of thought.

Her mate nuzzled the side of her neck softly, his tongue soothing lightly over her skin in wordless apology for scaring her. Her heart melted again, and she sank back against him, curling to press her cheek against his chest as he hugged her closer. She knew that that was all the apology she would get, all she could expect. He was an Alpha at war.

He did what must be done for his pack, regardless of the consequences.

"It was worth it. I also read Jian-Xi's knowledge of his father's battle plans, when I crashed him. He could not hide them."

Ah.

"What makes an Alpha an Alpha - the closest English word is care. My care for my wolves, their trust in that care, which allows them to melt into my Aegis, form a battle meld, and a myriad of other things. Nick rules by fear, which is not nearly as effective, but he has the scent-drug, which evens things out somewhat. If it were only the Greys, we could defeat them because of their lack of cohesiveness, but Tzo - Tzo is a true Alpha. However ruthless, his ultimate goal is for the good of his pack."

"You protect your wolves, whatever," said Gemma softly.

"Yes," agreed Mac.

"So you can't risk passing potentially dangerous information to a human," reasoned Gemma quietly. "If you can break into and read Jian-Xi's mind, then a human's must be easy to crash." 

She finished his explanation for him.

Her mate drew a long breath, "Gemma, human is good. No-one can read humans. If you would promise me, truly, that you have no intention whatsoever of trying to turn into a were..."

Her heart bumped against her ribs. Damn. He knew her too well. And she knew he'd felt that tell-tale thump.

".. and you'd allow the Fealdens to take you back and guard you in Fort Amicable, in complete safety, for the rest of this war..."

Stifling. Useless.

".. so that there was no chance whatsoever of you becoming a vulnerable wereem, with a mind open to any reasonably strong wolf..."

HAH.

" .. then I will tell you. Will you promise me?"

They sat curled together in silence, stubbornness reverberating in the air. Gemma knew that her answer was no. And she could understand how telling her how he knew Natasha was alive, in Nick's clutches, might endanger the Vanilchov sjeste, when Gemma herself was this vulnerable to being turned. But her heart was burning with the question. Why did Mac know about Tasha but not Vanil, the girl's natál?

The silence stretched for so long that eventually Mac sighed under her in resigned acceptance. He wanted her packed away completely for safety.

Alright, let him keep his secrets, she told herself grumpily. There were some things she wasn't planning on telling him, either.

"Where is Jasmine?" Mac asked, for a third time.

Her heart lurched again, skin turning clammy. Had he read her mind? 

She knew that Mac, or Fealden himself, would whisk her away if they knew what she and Jasmine had been up to today. Such a little, little risk, and so worth it. Like his stupid crashing. But he was Mr Over-protective, and seemed to think of her as a fluffy toothless bunny-rabbit among the pack of wolves. Had he read her mind? 

No, he'd just said it himself, no-one could read humans.

"Looking for Karim," Gemma growled the half-truth. Then, "I think if you're not going to tell me anything, you'd better stop asking questions yourself, and just lie back and shut up and take your punishment," she added, slightly bitterly.

At her renewed challenge, this time it was Mac's heart which lurched wildly, then it began to beat very fast, and she could feel the blood in his veins accelerating, heat shimmering off his skin as the hard cock beneath her reared suddenly back to full attention.

There was a short silence as he tasted the faint hostility in the air, evaluating her feelings.

"Very well."

His quiet agreement shocked her into stillness on his lap. The epitome of stubbornness was backing down? A warmth in her chest. Her wolf did love her.

But he wasn't letting her have her own way entirely.

"But, I was also wounded. I am - unguarded to you, picchu. My emotions. You said that you were sorry for doubting me," he responded, voice low, "So to atone for that hurt, after you have corrected my neglectful behaviour, I think that you will have to lie quietly in my arms for the rest of the night, until your guardienne reappears, and accept my caresses also, whilst I prove to you that I love you."

Oh wow.

Gemma melted against her wolf as Mac sank back onto the bed.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 10



Long hours later, Gemma sat on her own half way up the curving hillock dotted with trees in the centre of the park. She was watching the many battle-weary but contented adult wolves weaving a little painfully back and forth around the pond at the foot. The adults were gently circling among the crowd of uneasy, half-awake cubs, stepping carefully over the sleeping ones, nuzzling some. Each adult left the pond-side with a pair of youngsters frisking, sleepily complaining, or trotting silently, wearily at their tail. The four-legged forms of adults and cubs blended smokily with the darkness and the light mist floating under the dim light of the stars. A distant streetlight at the entrance to the park reminded Gemma that they were in the centre of the city, but her nose assured her that there were no humans close enough to witness this strange assembly.

The news filtered into her mind, she could catch stray thoughts flying between the wolves below like echoes of shouts, keeping her ears twitching. The thoughts were overlaid with layer upon layer of emotion, and the light breeze also carried their scents to her, laden with half-understood meaning.

There was a thickness of seething anger because neither the Marsh nor the Mackeld had gotten close enough to stop Grey getting away, and Nicolas had ripped Johnson badly when the aging Alpha had attempted to hold him. Sadness at the three cubs lost, but pride that the others were now free. Deep revulsion and guilt at the horrors perpetrated on the wolves freed from the deepest rooms, the torture chambers and the whoring dungeons. The chained inmates had stunk of blood and pain and human seed, or had had that disquieting lack of scent and hard-chilled flesh which indicated the presence of silver.

Karim Marsh - the wolves who had found him were nauseous. He had been steam-hammered onto a bed of silver spikes by an industrial carpet press, Grey testing his latest implement of torture just before he fled, to avenge himself on the Marsh. Karim was still clinging to life, and his physician was fighting to remove enough of the shards that he could heal, without bleeding to death, while his father was straining to feed him enough shiele to keep his heart pumping and halt the bleeding. But his natalí still had not recovered consciousness, a bad sign.

It was unbelievable that one wolf do such things to another.

Why had they not listened to the Mackeld?

Deepest was the hollow disquiet in those who had seen the chemical factories underneath the vast complex, and the live experimentees. Revolted incredulity was raging, seething through them. How could a wolf do that to his own pack? But the shudder of repugnance and nausea was tempered by a steely resolve: they had stopped it. It would stop, never be allowed further. Grey would no longer be abusing his drug-and-blood fettered wolves, or manufacturing his potions and poisons; they had captured the formulae, too. They would destroy them. And destroy him, as soon as they found his final bolthole, and -.

Natasha Vanilchov.

The Aster wolves winced away from remembering the raw, grief-stricken, explosion of guilty rage when the Vanilchov Alpha had found out the truth about his natalí. She was not here, she was hidden elsewhere, not one of the Grey wolves knew where. It had taken the Marsh, the Mackeld, the Silback and the wounded Johnson to restrain the powerful wolf, and shock at the sight of their Alpha losing control like that was still shivering across the skin of his pack.

A shudder of sad guilt traced across Gemma's skin. Nick had escaped; she so hoped that the Vanilchov sjeste wouldn't pay for the events of tonight. The toppling of Nicolas Grey's powerbase, which she and Jasmine had precipitated.

She remained sitting on her haunches, ears alert, and tail tucked around her, slightly wary of the powerful, graceful creatures as she watched them pass back and forth at the base of the hill. She felt as though she didn't really belong, like a stranger amongst a party of close friends, unsure of her welcome. Out of place. But neither did she want to leave; contrarily she felt connected, safe, a bond with these creatures.

Plus she didn't have any clothes.

When she had first arrived in the park she had shifted into a wolf - a loup - instinctively, without conscious thought, in order to reassure and nuzzle the melee of tired, excited, scared four-legged cubs trembling around her under the low bushes by the pond. She had realised as soon as she did so that all the cubs had instinctively shifted for warmth, their thick wolf pelts easily keeping out the slightly damp night.

In her furry, four-legged form, she had had no clothing. She now remembered standing on ripped denim after she'd shifted involuntarily, when that first tiny cub had whined plaintively, shivering against her. And ducking swiftly out of her loose, in-the-way jacket and T. Her underwear had also been annoyingly constrictive, and she'd soon ripped it off with her teeth. The cubs had helped.

Later, she had noticed many scraps of denim and soft cotton being used in tug-o-war by various of her charges, but had been too frazzled and freaked out at having to suddenly babysit hundreds of wolf cubs to really register what they were playing with.

Doh.

She'd also been worried. What would she do if some enemy found them? She couldn't fight a wolf as a human. And she couldn't seem to walk more than a wobble as a wolf, sorry loup. She had to learn.

The cubs had found it hilarious, watching her efforts to walk, and then, as she grew slightly less incompetent on her four tangling feet, to run. The majority of them had thought that it was a fantastic game, and had joined in cheekily copying her, running circles around her, or playing dare by trying to dash across in front of her embarrassingly inept lope without tripping her, or being licked in the face by her long wet tongue. The ones she managed to catch had squealed disgustedly at the wet slurp she had dealt out.

Annoying. She had seen Marsh shift wolf with his clothing disappearing with him, and he had originally shifted to human from wolf, sorry, loup, with his clothing appearing on him. Later she had seen Mac do it too, and Jasmine.

But right now, it looked like she was stuck in four-legged form, or stark naked in a park in the middle of Medway.

Bother.

So Gemma sat on the grassy hillside as a wolf, watching the wolves below trotting backwards and forwards among the sleepy cubs, hoping that Mac or Jasmine or even Marsh would appear.

Someone she would feel slightly less of an idiot asking.

The huge, frosty-coloured male was standing at the foot of her hill in the centre of the remaining cubs. He was obviously directing matters; the others adults approached and received a look, or a twitch of the ears, before weaving among the young pups and sniffing noses, nuzzling ears.

A few of the tired, torn and bloodstained adults curved immediately, without instruction, towards one specific pair of youngsters and had to hush echoing yips of joy as their offspring pounced on them in delight, or whiny complaints when they nudged tired children awake and into motion. Gemma felt her ears curving back in a smile as she watched a nearby set of four or five-year-olds tumbling ecstatically over and around their parent, trying to obey his gruff coughs for silence as they bounced up to nip under his jaw, quivering with joy when he nuzzled them affectionately and licked their small ears.

She also thought she had caught a glimpse of Ada, limping three-legged out of the darkness at the far side of the dwindling circle of cubs, but the mother wolf had disappeared again even as Gemma had risen to her feet to see better. Two exhausted little cubs had wobbled at her heels, and the mother wolf had been too intent on nuzzling them along and licking them over to look around. Besides, Gemma had never seen Ada as a wolf. But for some reason she was sure it had been her.

When the last pair of cubs had been settled with an adult and stumbled off into the darkness, the tall, frosty-coloured leader turned and looked at the lone female sitting on the hillside, the slight, rising breeze ruffling his fur towards her. His ears tilted towards her in query.

What did he want?

A number of other adults were appearing out of the darkness, hunting around in the bushes, settling wearily into places not taken by the families for what remained of the night. Others congregated by the edge of the pond and took long drinks before beginning to clean their fur and teeth, licking gently over closing wounds.

The frosty wolf ducked his head and began to advance gently towards Gemma, body swaying slightly in welcome, head tilted to one side. Gemma relaxed a little at the smile in his eyes as he approached, and she stood up, dropping her own head slightly, curving her back and shoulders into a wary arch as she looked up at him. He seemed friendly.

He slowed his trot a few paces away, halted, and then carefully reached his nose forwards. Gemma found herself responding automatically, extending her own nose and sniffing the warm, male scent of his breath against her nostrils. The hair on her back began to sink slightly at the lack of threat in his musk, and then a different ripple flowed along her skin as he circled carefully around toward her hindquarters, nose leading.

Eeeek. She knew that dogs sniffed each others' privates, but - oh no. She had the feeling that this was going to be way too intrusive. But would it be rude to back off? There were now another ten or twenty adult wolves down by the pond, relaxing together, some looking on as the big one approached her hindquarters. But his musk was getting stronger, more pungent, making her skin shudder sharply with the knowledge that this powerful wolf had spent half the night fighting, his blood was still coursing richly in his veins, and the warrior was now hoping for some recreation.

His rising musk told her that he liked her scent.

As he approached her wary, quivering form from behind, a wash of lust crashed over Gemma, clouding her mind into a fog of heated images of being mounted, mated, pinned under the heavy weight of the wolf and rutted hard. Her legs trembled and head sank. The searing remembrance of the heavy weight of her mate atop her melted through her limbs, immobilising her with longing, mind lost in memories of the sensation of being ridden by the wolf, feeling him lunging powerfully within her.

Out of the corner of her eyes she barely registered the big frosty wolf being catapulted in a tumble back past her, down toward the water. The warning snarl echoing in the air sounded muffled in her ringing ears as the heavy, graceful white figure of the new arrival halted his charge a few paces past Gemma. His scent was drowning her in shuddering, trembling lust, the rich, deep, haunting, pulling musk liquefying her body. The quivering in her limbs and begging whine in her head deepened when Mac dismissed the other, head-bowing wolf from his mind and swung around to face Gemma, his scent breaking over her anew. She reeled under the cresting, melting sensation.

Here he was.

The fire was already raging through her blood, a conflagration of lust, of begging, of deep, painful need igniting in every pore as his fiery doft melted through her. Mac radiated power and prowess, fierce tumults and victory - hunger - and Gemma's head dipped further under the weight of her answering lust. She was swaying, swallowing each fresh wave which crashed over her, swamping her body. Every hair trembled delicately to alert, aroused. Moisture oozed, rich and ready through her core.

She knew his scent, felt it burning through every pore of her. Yet even on the rut she had never known it to be this compelling, this intoxicating. Smooth, rich, overwhelming. Male. She could feel the lingering adrenaline burning through him, the rush of life, battle, every nerve and muscle humming at full, peak power. Triumphant male. Alpha.

Lustful Alpha.

Gemma was almost sinking to the ground under the tremble caused by his presence, the sense of him. The awareness of his burning, urgent desire was paralysing her, her skin tightening painfully in answering, begging want, head down, waiting, writhing inwardly while he softly prowled closer, circling her nearer, and nearer still. He scented her fur, and looked over her proudly where she stood, head down and trembling, awaiting him. His mate.

Feather-light, almost undetectable, his fur brushed against her shoulder, shuddering across her senses. His tall, powerful frame dwarfed her quivering form, and the awareness of him standing beside her, looking down at her trembling figure, teased unbearable urgency across her pelt in tightening, deepening lust, burned into her senses. Her enticing, pungent moisture flowed more swiftly, coating her in her own need. She couldn't lift her head. She was in meltdown, powerless, waiting in breathless, glowing lust. It was all she could do to hold her limbs steady enough to remain on her feet.

But she knew that that was how he would prefer to mount her.

Soon. Please, oh god, please, Mac, soon.

The sound of his soft, deep breathing, growing deeper, knotted the unbearable heat in her belly, knowledge of his lust shuddering across her skin. Please, Mac. She was sinking under the exquisite, excruciating need. His hardening desire poured down over her, increasing the flow of tight, wet want melting through her passage, trickling down from her entrance. She could feel her tail lifting in silent appeal as he bent his head to snuffle delicately at her neck.

The lust in his fiery musk intensified when he pushed his nose deeper into her fur and sharply inhaled the scent of her. Mac began to stroke his nose lovingly through her ruff, sliding his neck against hers, twining his nose down to nuzzle against her cheek . Then he was prowling around to her rear, gliding his body along her flank, marking his mate with his musk. He could feel her tremble increasing to a boneless, endless shudder, feel his aching cock tighten unbearably to the feel of her body against his, her scent melting into his nose. His little mate.

He circled back to her head and gently licked her nose, looking down at her bent head, waiting for those soft brown eyes to melt up into his. Yes. Like that. The burning, pleading look in her eyes tightened his skin unbearably, making his cock throb painfully, and he leaned lightly against her quivering frame as he prowled back along her other flank, slowly, maintaining the contact, and then abruptly pushed his nose under her raised tail into her wet scent, breathing in, savouring the hot musk of her shuddering, melting readiness.

He began to lap gently, delicately, nudging her softly with his shoulder to keep her upright when her hind legs almost buckled under the sensation. His mind began to cloud over at the delicious savour of her, the ferocious urgency cresting in him as he tasted her want.

Gemma was shuddering, swaying on her feet, mind flitting through clouds of lust as his tongue flickered, light and skilled and oh so tantalising, delicious, unbearable, over her engorged, needful pussy lips. But her lust was also cooling under the tingle of alarm shimmering in her head, and her mind was resurfacing, unsettled. She was seething with lust, but - she had seen his eyes. The sadness in their depths. Deep, deep sadness, beneath the hot, burning lust. His breath was rippling against her wet pussy, tongue teasing, probing, scorching desire through her, but she was haunted by that sadness. Mac was sad that she was a wolf. Wereem.

An effortless leap, and suddenly he was over her, on her, his open jaws sliding over her bent neck from above to hold her steady while she almost sank under the weight of the huge paws that landed briefly on her shoulders before sliding down in front of her own forelegs. His thick cock was pulsing hard, deliciously against her wet slit, and her mind sank momentarily back out of focus, swamped under the tide of begging lust.

But she could scent it in his musk, too. The knowledge tightened on her skin. He was sad that she was a werewolf. That she was going to go insane. He was going to fuck, claim his little picchu as a wolf sadly.

Like hell he was.

An electric impulse shocked through Gemma at the realisation, and without thought she jerked her head and shoulders backwards, sideways, twisting free of his open jaws with her body bent almost double, and sprinted out from under him, snorting hard.

She bounded unsteadily up the hillside above him a little way, then spun on wobbly legs to face her startled, puzzled mate. At his concerned expression, she dropped her forearms to the ground, pressed her head down onto her paws, and peered naughtily back at him with her back legs straight, bottom shimmying in little circles high in the air and her tail arched so that her rich doft melted into the night.

Come and get it.

A gasp of disbelief, shock had sounded through the crowd when they'd seen the female break clear of the Mackeld just as he had been about to mount her. Now she heard a few low snickers of laughter as they took in her playful attitude. But teasing an Alpha?

Shit, the crowd. How could she have forgotten that they had an audience? A burn of embarrassment curled over Gemma's skin even under the fur, and she shot Mac a look. It was his fault that she had been so distracted.

He didn't seem to care a jot. Her mate was more intent on pacing slowly towards her.

Oh-oh. She knew that gleam in his eye.

Good. Not being so gloomy now, are you Mr Wolf?

Suddenly he pounced towards her impossibly quickly, and her heart pulsed hard in excitement while she dove ineptly off to the left, down the hill.

No chance. He was upon her before she got one pace, a paw ahead of her stopping her forward momentum while he carefully sank his weight over her, pushing her gently into the grass and rubbing his groin in teasing little circles against her buttocks, mimicking her taunting movement of only moments ago, his erect, throbbing cock nudging against the wet, overflowing entrance to her pussy.

Oh.

My.

She melted under him, feeling her passage clenching around emptiness, and then suddenly he was upright, off her, weight gone, scent gone.

Bereft, she whined, twisting to her feet, and was just turning her nose toward him questioningly when she felt a large paw pat her buttocks, A little encouraging pat to get her moving.

Eyes incredulous, then slowly beginning to gleam with fire, she stared into his. Read the playful gleam over the lust, the clear message, "You wanted to play." He was quivering lightly, waiting for her to move. Daring her.

Alright then.

She feinted to the left, and dove right this time, but didn't get two paces before he rolled her in a tumble, ending up in the same position as before although slightly more flattened to the ground, with her body begging in melting, desperate lust as he gently teased his erect cock along the length of her wet slit. Oh please.

Dammit. Hadn't Jasmine warned her about challenging an Alpha?

Then his weight was removed, and she sighed, and just lay with her head in the grass, pondering. She knew she couldn't outrun him, not as wobbly on these new legs as she was. And she was not streaking human through the park, however dark it was. But if she could sidle to the bushes or the pond, maybe she could play a few tricks.

Another pat on her bottom. She would really have to talk to him about doing that in public. Although - absently, she noted that the other wolves had all dispersed. There wasn't a single one in sight. Thankfully.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 10



Mmm. Relaxing slightly, Gemma rose to her feet and turned carefully to face her wolf, then began to back off, slowly, feeling her way down the hill towards the water, eyes holding his. The laughter in his gaze was smug, he was sure that he could catch her, whatever she tried. And he was daring her to try. Mac paced after her slowly.

Her wolf?

Abruptly, incendiary rage ignited through her at the dim, unformed question of Natasha Vanilchov in her mind, and she suddenly pounced at him, raking an enraged fistful of razor sharp claws at his shoulder as the pins and needles washed through her.

Before they could connect, before she could even blink, she was on her back in the grass, pinned firmly under him, and the stern order, Human or loup within sight of humans or human habitation, was burning through her mind, burning her back to her vulnerable, naked human self.

The rage was still seething through her, though, and she was unaware of her state of undress or the cold grass against her back while she howled, bucking under his now human weight, and hissed, "Going to add me to your wereem harem until you rescue your beloved betrothed?"

A second later, bereft of breath by the creasing pain which had rebounded instantly from her mate at the accusation, Gemma swallowed, and shivered, motionless in the chilly air, feeling the cold leaching into her while Mac stalked off, trembling, toward the trees.

No. No. No. What the fuck had gotten into her? She knew he didn't want this betrothal.

"I'm sorry," she croaked after him from her prone position, tears lodged in her throat. Where had that vitriol come from?

Mac returned moments later, his eyes calm, sad, with a long, black woollen coat, and he lifted her to her feet, silently wrapping it around her as she stood motionless in shock. Then his hands clamped onto her shoulders and his eyes burned challengingly down into her tear-filled ones.

"Who changed you?" The desire to kill was blazing in the depths of his eyes.

Was that all he cared about? "I don't know," she glowered back, sulkily. "Lots of the kids scratched me, and one adult clawed -." She stopped. Mac was shaking his head. "Clawing would not infect you," he replied. "It would have to be a bite, didn't you feel it?"

With all that was going on, and among the hundreds of scratches?

"No," she bit out, She was getting angry at this questioning, when her insides were squirming at his musk, igniting with the desire for him to fuck her. Now. Hard.

His voice was deepening on an exasperated growl as he replied, "Well, why the hell not? What were you doing that you didn't notice some bloody wolf biting you? What the hell do you think that you're doing here anyway?"

Her eyes gleamed fire back at him, "Rescuing cubs."

The green eyes lit with black, and a pulse of something in his scent suddenly made Gemma instinctively shrink inside her skin. Not from fear: from shame. But she was not ashamed of this, her thoughts protested angrily. Holding his eyes, she roughly, briefly related what she and Jasmine had been doing for the past five days, leading up to meeting Ada, and the events at the cub ward.

Silence echoed between them once she had finished. His eyes were shadowed in the eerie shimmering back-light, hiding the rage she could feel trembling through him.

Then the corner of his mouth crooked slightly, and he sighed.

"I knew you were up to something," he said, lifting her in his arms and carrying her across to a park bench facing the pond. Gently, impersonally, he removed the coat, and began to run his hands over her, peering closely at her skin in the clouded light of the stars, and the faint city glare. Gemma quivered, frozen in lust while he checked her over. He murmured absently, "You know, there are very few wolves who would hold my gaze when I'm that angry."

His fingertips were gentle, questing, and hesitated over several sites on her body: back, legs, buttocks, and shoulders. "It means that you feel no remorse for your idiocies, however angry they make me. And I can see why. And -," his voice was smiling, "- you are not afraid of me, or going to accept any rebuke because of this. You did what you thought was right, in defiance of both the Wolflord and myself."

"I don't believe either of you have the right to dictate to me," returned Gemma, low. Her skin was burning in the wake of his touch.

Mac sighed again, and settled the coat back around her, agreeing, "We didn't then, no." He lifted her and turned to sit down with her in his lap, hugging her to him as he leaned back on the wooden bench.

"Five," he breathed the word quietly.

What?

"You carry no less than five fresh bite-marks. Healed, of course, now that you are a were. But - my only guess is that the younger cubs were using any purchase they could, to climb."

Five?

"So which turned me?" she asked.

"I haven't a clue."

He paused, and murmured quietly.

"However furious I am that you have endangered my mate, I - thank-you, Picchu. Tonight, we have broken Grey's power: his prostitution empire, his drug manufacture and experimentation. Tonight, we finally have testimony that Tasha was here -" Gemma felt a thrill of ire tingle through her as her mate said the name, and she clamped down on it. She wasn't going on about that any more. Tasha was his foster sister, that was all. "- even if Grey managed to break free of Johnson. Up until now, everyone - including Vanil, has thought she was just on changpao, too far out of range for convey."

Everyone but Mac, an insidious little voice whispered inside Gemma's head. Mac had known better than Vanilchov, which meant that he had a tighter bond with her than her natál, even. Close, very close.

Gemma felt blood in her mouth. Mac sat unmoving but snorted, a little sadly, and she backed off abruptly, horror-stricken at the deep tear in the flesh of his shoulder, the tangy taste of his blood on her tongue. Tears flowed from her eyes as a sob escaped into the night.

She did that.

"Gemma, you're a new wereem," Mac sighed, caressing a hand down her cheek. "Your reactions and control over your emotions are like those of a small infant. You're aroused, so you lift tail. You're angry, so you bite me. You wound your mate, and suddenly you are crying."

I can control myself, thought Gemma faintly, desperately, watching the tear knit under her horror-stricken gaze. The trouble was, she had a sinking, slightly panicked feeling in her stomach. She didn't think she could, really. She kept doing things almost before she thought about them. Reaction before thought. Without thought.

Mac's hand soothed over her hair and down her cheek, and he tilted her sad face up to his, asking softly as the deep, warm feeling in his green eyes melted into her, "But - why did you break away from the mating, picchu? Not from lack of desire, I could scent you melting under me." The semi-hard cock under her buttocks twitched, and lengthened.

Gemma sank against his chest, resting her head tiredly in the hollow of his shoulder cuddling into his warmth. What if she couldn't control this? What if she did go insane?

"Picchu?"

The love in his voice. OK, Tasha may be his betrothed. He had a bond with her. But she, Gemma, was his mate. He loved her.

"You were - sad. That I am a wereem. I didn't want you to mate me in sadness."

There was a little pause, and Gemma felt herself sinking into despondent uncertainty. Maybe he was right to be sad? Maybe this jumble of thoughts and fierce emotions in her brain was the clearest she ever would be in future.

In which case, maybe she had better just use this time of relative sense as best she could before she lost herself to rage? Accept what joy she could in the short time available?

Outside the dull echo of gloom in her head, Mac's voice had a tinge of eagerness, "That shows signs of control. Deeply, deeply sunk in wanton lust, just hours after being turned, yet you surfaced. You had refocused before, on the rut, but I thought it may have been because you were still human."

There was hope in his voice.

"And just now - you were defying me with clear reasoning," he added.

Gemma snuggled in closer to him, nuzzling his bristly jaw, nibbling kisses along the strong line of his chin. Her blood began to throb in her veins.

She wasn't really listening. Her mind seemed to have landed on - what the hell.

He was at war, fighting ferociously, risking death daily to protect his pack.

She was a wereem, doomed to go insane as she slowly lost control of herself.

So just kiss him while the kissing's good. Enjoy him. Take whatever he can give and give back as much as you can. He loved her. She loved him. So who cared about the future? Life was too short.

Right now, she just wanted him to roll her over again and mount her. Was dying for him to fuck her. Hard. It had been over two months.

The throb in her veins had turned into a heated simmer, and she could smell her own arousal roaring back into life as she pressed back against his now rock hard erection, squirming her buttocks against it, while her fingers shakily explored his biceps. What that heavy girth would feel like sheathed inside her - mmmm. The slick lubrication pulsed through her aching passage, and a little whimper escaped into the air.

"Picchu," he murmured warningly as she reached up to bite gently on his jawline, and slid a hand down behind her own back to close around that huge, throbbing staff.

"Please, Mac," she whispered in reply, squeezing his weight gently in her hand, "Please may I please you, please? To please me?"

Her body was quivering in eagerness, her lust beginning to coat her thighs.

He chuckled, and replied obliquely, "Well, you are a wereem now, so allegedly no threat. And you're mine. Whatever they say."

Gemma's brain was just beginning to sort through his words when his lips found hers and he surged to his feet holding her, kissing her hard. Her brain short-circuited, excitement roaring through her veins.

She shivered in the cool night air as her coat was parted, then fire scorched her as she felt his lips begin to travel down her torso. He moved, and her buttocks were pressing down on the back of the wooden bench through the woollen coat skirts. She was bent backwards over his arm, and his lips were fastened fiercely around one nipple, suckling hard. She arched on a cry, fire roaring through her, the coat falling fully open.

Then a vague wisp of embarrassed thought surfaced - she was naked, human, in the middle of the city. There were tower blocks overlooking the park. Cheeks hot, she reached for the concentration to change to wolf. Loup.

No. The thought was halted abruptly as her mate's heated words burned in her head. I want you like this. Please.

Her brain stuttered at the image of her bent backwards underneath him, naked, delicious and wet and wanton, the image searing from his simmering mind into hers. She moaned, then sank back into lust as she arched into his pulling mouth, the fierce, hard suckling engulfing half of her breast. The nipple of the first breast puckered, cold and tingling with fire in the light breeze while her mate turned to try to swallow the other, the taut, clamping suction over the plump mound almost painful. Writhing under his lips, she bucked as he grazed little nips of his teeth along her soft flesh, her stomach, her thighs. Gemma was lost in want, uttering helpless little cries, lust oozing from her pussy.

Through the cloud of raging desire she dimly became aware that the softness of the coat was now pressed only against her buttocks. He had folded it into a wad, draped as padding over the carved wooden back of the park bench. Her naked butt cheeks were resting against the soft wool, barely feeling the hard back of the bench through it. A steely arm was clamped around her buttocks to steady her while his other palm on her stomach gently bent her backward, lifting the junction of her thighs higher towards him while he swirled his tongue inside her belly button, breathing harshly as he tried to restrain his own urgent lust.

Gemma moaned as her feet left the ground and she tilted backwards on just her buttocks, held securely by her mate. As her long hair dropped to rest on the seat, she reached over her head to grasp the front slats of the bench for support. Her legs widened automatically, presenting herself to him, while his warm hands slid to cradle her thighs, and eased them further apart, to a width of his liking.

Please Mac, Please Mac, Please Mac.

He settled his warm palms around her buttocks, breathing hard, and knelt between her thighs, nudging the slick, swollen entrance with his wet tongue, swirling the stiffened length deep while his mate moaned and arched pleadingly to the exquisite feeling, her legs kicking in the air. Mac groaned in answer, tasting the wereem juices of his mate for the first time, the lust kicking him in the stomach, his balls tightening urgently. His tongue delved back in and he began to eat her, the taste of her calling him, roaring through him, wave upon wave upon crashing wave. His cock was being tempered to unbearable, straining steel in the fierce fire fuelled by her washing juices, her little cries echoing to the stars as he slurped his tongue into her again and again. The bursts of fresh taste coating his tongue were calling him, and he buried his head between her thighs, trying to get deeper, swirling harder, calling more and more of her lust into his mouth.

Abruptly Mac surged to his feet and steadying her with one hand, grasped the root of his rock-hard cock with the other. Then he stilled, shuddering, straining under the sway of unbearable, opposing forces. A small half-whined snarl escaped as he gasped for breath. Mac began to rub his straining member around and around in her abundant juices, nudging against the drowning entrance to her pussy, painting her cleft with the intoxicating liquid while he licked the lingering taste from his tongue, savouring his mate, struggling for control.

Do you want this, picchu?

Did he really have to ask???

He was sliding the throbbing head of his urgent cock over the hard little bundle of nerves aching at the top of her cleft, and she cried aloud at the sensation, bucking on a lurch of pleasure, trying to press herself closer. Shades of their games in the forest. But now, with her awareness of his thoughts, Gemma read that he did have to ask. He was an Alpha. Almost any female wolf would lift tail to him, melting automatically, at the faintest hint of his arousal. But any female life-mated to another would never be able to bring herself to plead aloud, however much her body was drowning in want.

Not a problem, here.

"Please, Mac," she panted, widening her legs to him, feeling herself melting at the knowledge that he had to check, even with her, his own mate.

With a delighted sigh, Mac grasped her firmly, impatiently, and carefully positioned the moist head of his aching cock at the wet entrance to her pussy. He loved the sight of her, bent naked over the bench under him, the mouth-watering arch of her breasts poking up toward the stars. Between her wide-splayed legs, the dark head of his member was probing her slick entrance. Her soft skin was bathed in the faint orange city glow, light gleaming on the abundant sheen coating on her thighs, her belly, his shaft. He licked his lips, savouring this little moment of slow pleasure. He knew he was going to lose himself pretty soon, as soon as he mounted her. Soon. Very soon. Very, very explosively. Mac gripped her hips firmly and felt his breath growing heavier, deeper in excitement while he watched and felt the head of his rigid cock slowly, steadily probing the entrance to her exquisitely tight, wet passage. Her long moan was quiet music to his ears. He shifted his grip, and felt the intense, overwhelming rise of roaring lust begin to engulf his senses while he steadily, exquisitely, forced her pussy mouth to yield to the invasion of his girth. A spasm shuddered through her passage, clamping him to a halt, and Mac bent to kiss his mate's tight-puckered nipples.

"You OK?" he growled, hoarsely.

"More," was all she could manage, gasping out the plea.

Mac chuckled under his breath, rubbed a teasing thumb-pad over her jutting clitoris and watched in pleasure as her heaving body bucked her further onto his cock. The unbearably tight sheath of her around his aching erection was plucking at the edges of his control, and he could feel himself quivering in excitement while he greedily sucked her taste from his thumb. The longer he could hold on...

"More," his mate whined, again, legs parting further. The slight shift of her weight pulled her passage slightly along his cock, and Mac growled. His eyes half-closed, drinking in the sight of her impaled on him, the root of his cock and balls all that was visible now, coated in the wetness between her splayed legs. He could feel the impatience growing in his blood, stiffening his limbs, demanding. He had missed her. He wanted to hear the hoarse pants as he pounded into her, to feel and scent her body arching under his in pleasure. His spine tingled on a rush of lust, and he slowly withdrew until only the tip of his cock was buried. Wanting it all.

"Picchu?."

Her eyes opened on that glazed look which he loved, and she moaned at the sight of him looming over her, poised.

The eyes rolled back in her head and she screamed in pleasure, legs swaying in the air as he thrust violently between them. A whimpered groan followed.

Mac growled at the delicious feeling, pulled out, and thrust in again, faster. Wonderful. Again. More. Faster. Harder. His eyes were glowing eerily at the exquisite pleasure of mating. His mate. His. In and out, quickening the tempo. His lust was raging higher at the unbelievable, delectable tightness of her silken, wet passage. Her luscious scent.

Gemma's back curved into a painful arch, hands clamping to the slats as she cried aloud. So deep, so deep. Oh. She was so - open, lost to the pounding force between her thighs, balanced only on her buttocks, connected only to Mac. His driving cock was rocking her backside against the bench with each breath-taking slam into her. His hands were biting into her thighs, holding her in place for each hard rut. She was melting in the knowledge, the scent of her mate's rising pleasure in taking his pleasure, pleasuring her. The hard shaft of him surging through her passage was deliciously, relentlessly driving her higher, wilder.

"Mac," she cried, and the pace quickened, the bench rocking on the ground as he pounded ruthlessly into her, causing her breasts to bounce hard to the rhythm. Unbelievably, exquisitely deep, forceful, unstoppable, unbearable. Higher. Higher. Harder.

Gemma could feel the crest rushing toward her and screamed out in shock at the abrupt, white flash of ecstasy that smashed through her. She convulsed hard under him, her legs straightening, cramping in the air, body rigid with the force crashing through her, but her mate only growled in satisfaction and surged more forcefully through her tightening passage, savouring the scent of her come, the shudder of her limbs, and the taut squeeze of her slick walls around his hard, demanding cock.

Pulling her legs wider he began to thrust with full force, the bench scraping across the ground when he heaved her back to meet each hard rut. Mac was dimly aware that there would be bruises on her thighs, but she was wereem now, she would heal in minutes. And judging by the mewling gasps of his name escaping her each time he slammed into her, she liked it like this. Oh boy, so did he. Faster. Harder. The possessive growl was rising in his throat.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 10



His mate came for a second time, the erratic, violent spasming of her pussy around his cock making his eyes glaze over and his rhythm falter, before he splintered into frantic, furious thrusts, forcing himself as deeply inside her as he could while the prickles of pleasure down his spine spiked higher, wilder. She moaned, arching, her passage clamping again, massaging along his tingling member, forcing him even higher, faster, deeper. Further in. Further. More -- oh. Mac's eyes blacked out as the unbearable explosion of pleasure suddenly stopped his heart, his surging seed shooting deep into his mate, twisting his spine in ecstasy. Then he was panting hoarsely, forced to shattered stillness, grinding his still pumping cock within her belly as he shuddered in deep, deep, sensual delight. His heart was hammering painfully while slowly the spurts slowly subsided.

After a long, still pause, Mac sighed gently and half-opened his eyes to admire the soft, full curves of his little mate bent backwards under him. Her breath was still rapid, the rise and fall sending ripples of light over the sweat coating her soft belly, and playing across the dusky valley between her rounded breasts. He bent and gently kissed over her pulse, his mark, smiling against her flushed skin.

His mate.

After a night of solid, delicious exercise, the pull of her muscles under her skin as she gently ran felt good, easing the deep ache left from them clamping in pleasure over and over again. Despite the lack of sleep, Gemma was feeling more alert than she had ever been in her life, delighted with the whole world. The sun was warm, the breeze gentle, and her new wolf senses were entwining her in the joy of the life bustling around her.

She was richly aware of the powdery feel of the bare earth under her paws as she gently ran along the tilled furrow at the field edge. Her nose was twitching to the wind in her face, enjoying the scents of warm, rich soil, dusty straw and grain. The faint, sour scent of the green fronds of weeds growing along the edge blended with an enticing variety of meaty smells: stale, fresh, tangy, musty, and hearty. A woven tracing of the small and larger creatures who had passed either long ago, or scurried swiftly away at their approach. The scents were fascinating.

Best of all was the deep, sensual tang to the musk of her mate, loping gently beside her.

She had thought he'd had to restrain himself to a mere three fucks a day when she had still been human. Wow. Wowwee. Oh oh oh oh. Yes. She had been oh so right.

Next time I come into rut - mmm. If this is what he's like when I'm not on heat...

A tingle of guilt shivered up her spine. Gemma could feel the urgency Mac was suppressing as he loped easily through the stubble field. So she speeded up. Instantly, one of her front paws tangled in one of her back ones, and she stumbled, toppling to her knees and tumbling in an ungainly roll onto her flank in the moist earth furrow to the left of the harvested grain field.

For the hundredth time.

Coughing the dusty earth out of her nose and mouth, Gemma snarled in anger at her own ineptness, and grumbled internally as she lay in a grumpy hump, considering moving again.

She hated being a wolf.

Mac nudged her urgently, sighing, and she snapped at him. His nose moved out of her reach effortlessly, the tawny lycan shimmering into the place of the large white wolf.

"Get up. Come on," he barked brusquely, a large hand clamping into the loose skin at the scruff of her neck to haul her to her feet. He wasn't being much of the lover this morning. His body was quivering with the urgent stream of messages in his head, his eyes slightly unfocussed. Mackeld Range was under attack. Grey had alerted the Tzo Alpha about the scanty number of Aster fighters remaining at the Range, and the Chinese warlord had pressed his advantage, attacking at dawn while the majority of the Aster were down in Medway. The skeleton group of defenders were struggling desperately to hold on until reinforcements could arrive.

"You go," panted Gemma. "I'm only holding you up. I'll go home. I'll be fine."

In seconds, the powerful white wolf was towering over her, and she felt the weight of a searing order pounding in her head.

Get on my back.

Gemma found that she'd turned human and crept astride the shoulders of the crouching wolf even while she searched for the pithy argument reverberating somewhere deep inside her skull. She was sure it did, somewhere.

Her fingers barely had time to twine into the rich fur before the ground dropped away beneath her stomach, and she flattened herself instinctively to his back to keep out of the wind.

Naked woman spotted riding white wolf in Bromwich County. She could just see the headline now. She wished they'd had time to find her some clothes, at least. That coat had been a little mangled by morning. Shredded. And sticky.

The prickling of gathering heat between her thighs pulled her thoughts away from the memories of the past night. To the very, very tangible here-and-now.

This was similar to being back on the monster bike.

Except that this engine, between her legs now, was oh so much more exciting. Much much much much more. Tasty, delicious, mouth-watering. Nose-watering. Cunt-watering.

Would you stop distracting me? The exasperated, amused rebuke shot across her mind, and Gemma tried to rein back her rising lust. But he'd been feeding it sweet treats all night. It was feeling hyperactive.

Between her thighs, she could feel the constant, streamlined extension and pulling of his powerful hips, the effortless, edible expenditure of energy causing his spine to rise and fall in a rhythmic ripple against her pussy. His fur was brushing rhythmically against her skin and aching nipples, teasing them erect, burning, so that they were straining towards him. The delicate, gentle skimming of his fur against the soft skin of her inner thighs with each bound was making her bite her lip against the moan of pleasure.

Oh god he was powerful, it was so evident as she clung to him up here. Bewitching. The muscles under his skin circling in their ceaseless, smooth, effortless rhythm. Her stomach was tightening in burning, rising want.

Your thickening scent is driving me crazy. Mac's conveyed words were smouldering against a backdrop of frustration and lust.

Well hurry up and let me get off. I can't help it that you're so damn arousing.

Wow. The acceleration he put on blurred the edges of her vision, the wind pulling a stream of tears from her half-shut eyes. And the speed with which the ground was passing, inches below her bare toes, pulled her mind away from lust. She wound nervous fingers more securely into his fur and tucked her feet higher up on his flanks to safety, trying to clutch the long hair with her toes.

Abruptly, they curved around a small bank, weaving at whiplash speed through a thick stand of trees, and Gemma barely had time to register the two skinny adolescent wolf guards stepping back out of the way as Mac sprinted past them. They shot on a rising curve through the open gates of a large, fenced grass compound, sheltered within the trees and hidden to the West by a long hill. To their left, a cramped jostle of small, light aircraft looked as though they had been pushed untidily and swiftly to one side of a shorn stretch of smooth turf. The only other indication that this was an airstrip was an orange blob - she thought it was a windsock - blowing gently in the breeze from a tall pole at the far end of the break in the trees. The wide swathe of beaten, short grass stretched far into the distance to the orange speck, so that Gemma had to crinkle her eyes to see, but she barely had time to register the splash of colour before the loud buzzing of a light aircraft overtook them, the tiny vehicle accelerating away toward the orange dot.

Mac put on an impossible burst of yet more speed, flattening into a full, belly-to-the-ground sprint after it. Gemma's heart leapt into her mouth when she noticed the open door in the side of the aircraft, and recognised their bullet-like trajectory towards it.

"Mac!" her squeak was muffled by the wind. She could feel her mate concentrating on pouring every ounce of effort, every last atom of concentration into smoothly, steadily notching up the speed, judging the pace, while they slowly overhauled the accelerating plane, nearing the gaping doorway.

She could see those huge black tyres spinning in front of Mac's nose, the whirring blur of the deadly engine blades just above her head coming closer, closer. Gemma shut her eyes and buried her face in Mac's fur. There was a powerful heave under her when he leapt, and for a moment she was squashed under his heavy bulk while they tumbled across the floor of the rear of the plane, amid the multitude of wolf-scented human legs which leapt easily over them.

Despite the fact that she hadn't been the one sprinting, Gemma lay poleaxed on the floor, heart stuttering, blood pounding in her veins. Mac, on the other hand, rolled instantly to his feet as a human (clothed - huh! - but barefoot), while one of the other wolves sardined into the back of the plane slammed and locked the door in a practiced manner. Mac clapped a pleased hand onto the shoulder of the tall, lean man sitting in the pilot seat wearing a headset, who was easing back on the controls to lift them off the ground.

The pilot grinned, and one of the wolves standing behind him silently handed Mac a bright, long blue-and-green swirl of cloth.

Incongruously, all of the burly human-form wolves standing sandwiched, holding straps in the back of the small aircraft were barefoot, wearing loose shirts or t-shirts and baggy, soft trousers. Each was also wearing a huge pair of heavyweight ear defenders.

Gemma winced as the rising scream of the engines began to drill into her head.

Mac bent and lifted his shivering, naked mate to her feet, pulling a cotton-weave dress over her head. The cloth his packmate had handed him.

Gemma eyes were still wide in shock, heart pounding, but she managed to curve the corners of her mouth up at him when her head emerged from the neckline, and the soft fabric dropped to just above her knees. She threaded her arms into the holes - there was something about the comfort of being clothed. And of her mate thinking to tell someone to bring a dress for her, among all else that was demanding his attention. He grinned and bent to press a hard kiss to her lips, before lifting her, turning and slipping between the pack of his wolves into the co-pilot seat. He settled her on his lap, then pulled a blessed headset over her painfully pounding ears, followed by a second set for himself.

Four days later, Gemma was standing at one side of a dappled forest glade in the Mackeld range, gazing along the path of the stream through the trees. She was shrugging and twisting her shoulders and right hand, trying to ease some of the tension out of the aching muscles. That was the way towards the fighting. Toward Mac. Behind her, across the wide clearing, was the large Aster hospital tent, the food gazebo, and dozens of convalescing wolf warriors sitting or lying on the soft grass in wolf, human or lycan forms, recovering from surgery or antidotes.

Gemma shuddered. They set her teeth on edge.

Probably because they made it so evident that she set their teeth on edge.

Rebecca and Will were the only ones who seemed truly relaxed around her.

Mac had disappeared as soon as they'd landed at the Manor. The plane wheels had barely touched the ground at the foot of the hill below the complex of buildings, before he and his warriors had been sprinting loup-form off into the trees toward the fighting, the order for her to go with Chris echoing in her head. Her anger at his abrupt dismissal had been wild, but he'd already been focused elsewhere, not listening.

And then a sarcastic voice at her elbow had drawled, "Poor ickle were-i-poohs. Did the nasty wolf put the battle ahead of kissing you bye-byes?"

No, "Hello, my name is Chris" from the caustic old warrior who was guarding the airstrip.

He had provoked her on purpose, she'd realised after her eyes and brain swam back into focus from the black fog of rage, and she'd found her lycan-self immobilised, her face buried against the turf underneath the inflexible hold of the humming old warrior.

"I always believe that actions speak louder than words," Chris had said, getting off her. "Now you know you can't land a scratch on me, so stop pouting and get moving, little were. The A wants me to deliver you to the physes, and I have to get back here ASAP to keep directing the pilots, with the whole of Aster flying back as quick as they left yesterday."

The way he'd spoken, it was like she weighted up the chances of success before attacking. Gemma had felt her lips twitch. Didn't know diddly squat about werewolves, did he?

But she'd loped easily enough after him into the trees. There was something about his abrasive, stinging scent that was reassuring. There was no lust in it.

Unlike most of the other males, however hard they tried to smother it.

They'd halted abruptly at the edge of the hospital clearing, transfixed by the sight of a medium-height sjeste, in human form, carefully kneeling on the massive form of a softly yowling male lycan, trying to hold him down as she reached into her kit bag. The female wolf had impatiently brushed blood-coated hair out of her tired eyes with a blood-coated hand. The male had had deep, embedded wooden spears broken off in his flesh, shards poking out where blood had sealed around them and the flesh was healing. The female had barely introduced herself as Mac's sister Rebecca before Gemma had found herself sitting on the male's legs, picking splintered pieces of a tree branch out of them while the physician had injected something into his stomach, and begun to cut and yank shards out of his flesh.

That had been the beginning of the race, with just the two of them against the tide of wounded. All of the other medics had been over at the front, and Rebecca had only arrived back at the hospital with her wounded packmate seconds before Chris and Gemma.

The pair of them had had to work at an astonishing pace. More wounded had staggered in or been carried into the clearing minute by minute. Gemma had barely been aware of the constant sound of planes landing and taking off in the distance, or of the stream of wolves sprinting deeper into the forest past them from the airstrip, while she'd worked frantically to try to clean each wounded new arrival before he or she healed over.

She had been aware when Will retreated from the fighting to join them, because of the sense of calm he had brought with him. She'd realised then that Rebecca had the same projection of - ease, friendliness, care, but with the pair of them together it more than doubled, soothing more than the physical hurts of the injured wolves scattered around the clearing. They were a team, this pair, you could sense the deep, easy, wordless bond between them.

For nearly all waking hours since, she had been picking shrapnel out of wounds. And she zonked out, exhausted from the constant tension, as soon as she had stuffed herself with food and crawled onto to her small pallet at one side of the newly erected hospital shelter. Thank god some of the food was cooked. She needed the strength. The work was relentless.

But sometimes, sometimes, there was a brief respite, such as now.

Gemma flexed her aching fingers, sensing one of the males she'd tended approaching behind her as she stared down the stream toward where she knew the fighting was. Mac. The constant blood, constant wounded were unnerving her, worrying her. She knew her mate was the best, but couldn't entirely block out the what-ifs which sneaked into her head.

Whenever he could, Mac checked in on her, during a pause in the offensives. She might have been worried by his brusqueness then too, had she not been simultaneously aware of the mesh of other minds constantly reporting in from all directions to her wolf while he focused his main attention to her. Indistinct thoughts echoed from his head, wolves constantly calling for aid, clutching in agony or grief, requesting guidance, or just reporting in or out. It was as though he was a switchboard operator at the centre of an incredibly busy airport, mind awash with messages from all sides. And he didn't just have to pass them on; he had to deal with each of them himself. She didn't know how he could bear it, how he was able to even string a sentence together for her amidst the tumult.

And now he had to make time to deal with her too, reassure her.

Damn.

Damn damn damn.

She was so useless to him.

"Just a distraction," she sighed.

I'll say, murmured an unknown male voice in her head, and suddenly she was swamped in his lust. Male rut doft: powerful, eager, demanding, pulling at her, pulling her tired mind adrift, sinking her in a whirl of heat.

An image of herself seen from behind burned into her brain; herself crouched in her four-legged form, head bent submissively, backside to him. She trembled as she fell to all fours, mind battering, missing something, lost in the lust of the heated images pouring over her. She felt the tingling burn of herself shifting.

Gemma whined uneasily as a second image scorched through her, of her tail lifting to the eager male behind her, unveiling her wet passage.

A second, heated order pounded into her skull, this time words, lift your tail. She could feel him quivering eagerly behind her, snorting in great breaths of her doft.

No no no. She didn't want.

Lift your tail.

The words rolled echoing around her skull, obliterating all else except the urge to obey. As her tail lifted and she felt the heavy paws of the wolf land on her shoulders, the wordless plea burned in anguish out from her heart. Mac.

Gemma felt her astonished, enraged mate come alert suddenly in her head, felt the supernova blast of furious conveyance roaring past her, the yelp of the wolf tumbling off her back lost under the echo of the fury beating through her head.

Her heart jolted at his anger. Mac. Apoplectic. And awash with power.

The male behind her was writhing on the ground in agony, his scent sour with urine, anguish and terror, while Gemma shuddered at the touch of the battle focus centred in Mac's mind. It was as though his pack was clutching him in panic, trying to pull him apart, thoughts and emotions yanking at him from all directions, unbearable, painful, tearing at the mind - eugh. Her mate was firmly holding the power together, focussing that colossal force of anger for an instant on the writhing wolf, fury drilling into him.

She couldn't bear this.

Stay close to Will or Rebecca.

Then she was cut loose again, but with a gentle brush of reassurance and love over her thoughts as he retreated, a small bubble of private communication. She was a wereem. She couldn't say no. But she had called to him for help, and he damn well could. Mac was proud of her.

Chill, cold knowledge began to shiver through her as soon as he'd departed.

She wasn't exactly proud of herself. It was true. She really couldn't say no.

Eugh.

Wretchedly, Gemma began to slink on her four unsteady feet towards the large marquee which held the physicians and their charges. Two angry, half-healed wolves stalked past her and yanked her would-be lover to his feet, growling impatiently as he cried out his pain from the backlash of Mac's fury cramping his limbs, muscles spasming in agony.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 10



"Did you not recognise that claim?" one of them snapped. "It may be faint, but - sheesh."

The words echoed distantly outside the despair in her head. She couldn't even walk properly like this. Disgust at herself began to leach into her, sinking her further into gloom.

She hated being a wereem.

Rebecca appeared in the tent doorway, her eyes deep, unfathomable, and quietly asked Gemma to come and hold a gash closed for stitching.

Two nights later, Gemma was awoken by the heavy, inanimate bulk of her exhausted wolf rolling and wrapping himself around her on her small pallet in the hospital tent. She was dimly aware of the slightly sour scent of shock in the air, the doubtful whispers among the night staff and few wakeful patients, but it was smothered under the joy of seeing and scenting her wolf, feeling his warm, tawny fur brushing against her, burning to the tingle of excited, hopeful anticipation awakening in her blood at his delicious musk...

No chance.

Mac was comatose as soon as his head hit her pillow - or more probably before, considering the ungainly way he had landed. But her heart was singing at the sight of him, the feel of his soft fur brushing against her skin, his lycan bulk wrapped around her.

To know that this was where he wanted to be.

She lay back and began to gently groom out the tangles in his fur, unravelling small twigs and burrs, thorny bits of bramble, brushing out dust, and running her fingers against glazed patches of dried blood. It never appeared to be his. She found that her lycan claws were excellent for teasing or cutting out the hardened blood, and was pleased that she had finally mastered how to change just one hand.

Will and Rebecca had been patiently teaching her how to control her transformation, guiding her inside her head to shift just one limb whenever she needed a claw for her work for them. Cutting open a cold, shiny patch of skin stretched over a buried shard of silver was much easier if you could just transform one claw, but Gemma's limbs in general followed her mind's instructions much better if she stayed human, so she preferred a partial transformation.

Mac's sister had been impressed with the steadiness of Gemma's hand with a pair of tweezers - not surprising, after years in a lab - and had set her to the difficult task of teasing every last sliver of silver out of the wounded, shivering wolves who were brought in. It was tense, meticulous work. Every fragment had to be picked out, or the wound would begin to fester, stretch cold, and the wolf would slowly weaken to the pernicious poison. Most wolves were too nervous of silver to keep the steady hand required, but Gemma had been working with the metal for many years, and had yet to learn to fear its touch now that she was a werewolf, having so far avoided brushing against it.

The main tension came from her patients, and it wasn't all due to the silver. She could feel them growing tense as she approached, scent their wariness on the air, see them watching her out of the corners of their eyes. Although after the initial suspicion, some of the larger males instead began to puff out their chests, their musk thickening, tingling inside her nostrils. Upon which Will or Rebecca would glance up, across the crowded hospital tent, and Gemma would catch the stinging thought, Going to challenge the Mackeld for her? whispering past, causing the eager male to abruptly wilt.

Eventually finished with grooming as much of her mate as she could reach, Gemma sank contentedly back half-beside, half-under him, and closed her eyes, relaxing into his warmth.

Ten minutes later she was jerked awake again by an abrupt twinge which shook the heavy frame lying against her. It was shortly followed by a second, violent jerk of his muscles. She lay there, buzzing with tiredness and frustration, counting in her head, waiting half-asleep for the next time Mac's taut muscles would abruptly seize, cramp and relax. There would be a brief, irregular pause, and then another spasm would rock him.

Will appeared with a jar of pungent-smelling cream, explaining to her on a hushed whisper that Mac's muscles were overtired from him holding focus for too long, and they would wake him up if he couldn't relax. The physician laid his palm on Mac's forehead, looking down at his brother with gentle pride; Gemma felt a distant echo of a murmur at the edge of her own mind, and suddenly the limbs slung across her were covered in smooth, human skin rather than that beautiful pelt. They pulled off the loose clothing, and Will showed her how to massage, almost pummel the ointment into the rock hard muscles beneath. She enjoyed a peaceful, happy hour smoothing it into her mate's skin, stroking it over the clean lines, the beautiful ridges of muscle, continuing long after he had relaxed fully into a limp, boneless, deep-breathing slumber.

He was gone before she woke.

Twenty or so silver-convalescing Aster wolves were gathered, watching her with extra hostile suspicion the next morning as she made her way across the glade to the food tent. One huge, hulking brown-and-white male stepped into her path. Gemma felt wary anger rising as she searched the serious, greying features of the wolf blocking her way, looking for a hint of his intentions. Then he had suddenly grinned, and handed her the mug of coffee in his hand.

"The A looked a lot better this morning," said the old wolf. He answered the rumble of aggressive disapproval from the other warriors with a snorted growl, and turned and brushed his way through his disgruntled packmates and allies. Gemma realised that Rebecca had appeared swiftly at her side while she watched the retreating back of the speaker, and she cautiously sniffed at her coffee.

It was coffee.

They were not all against her.

"Mac shouldn't have joined me last night, should he?" she murmured sadly, watching the flickers of distrustful anger glowing in the eyes of the dispersing wolves.

"He needed to rest," replied his sister quietly. "He is most at peace with you. And all of our patients last night were Mackeld; whatever they think, they would never betray his actions to the Koschuk or the Vanilchov."

Not exactly the reassurance she'd hoped for. Gemma sighed softly.

She and Mac were summoned to Fealden Wolflord's home, Fort Amicable, two days later.

Fort Amicable was actually a castle. The turreted, buttressed battlements would have looked really out of place to any humans who found it: a vast, European-style stone keep, with layer upon layer of additional building work expanding the original building, complete with an outer rampart curving back to the step mountain cliffs. Reportedly only two humans had stumbled over it in the centuries that it had been here. The huge grey walls were hidden away in the crook of a small V-shaped valley high on the mountainside. The formidable structure faced across a wide glacial vale, perched on the edge of the almost sheer drop where the long ago glacier had sliced through the short, high river valley. It was shadowed and hidden by the looming peaks behind of the same grey stone, and sheltered by a thick forest which crept close to the base of the massive outer walls. The sheer mountains at its back meant that the only way up to the fort was via a very steep, indistinct series of pathways, and tree-falls were designed to put the rare humans off.

Gus told her some of the background, once he'd finally gotten through the interminable scolding and was talking to her normally again.

Helicopter or small plane was the other way in, and how Gemma and Mac had abruptly arrived nine days ago. Mac had been in shock, mostly silent while he piloted the small plane through the grey clouds in the early hours of the morning. He had explained to Gemma in brief sentences that she had to drag out of him.

The senshal had been so shocked and unnerved by what they'd found at the Grey lair that they'd unprecedentedly stepped in to halt an inter-pack territory dispute. They'd ordered a ceasefire, and demanded that the Tzo come and explain what he had known of his ally's underground activities, and how the hell he'd thought that that scent-masking drug had been invented. They had also demanded that the Mackeld bring his wereem along and explain what the hell he was doing creating one. Or setting one up to be created.

Mac had been seething. Gemma had been scared - she knew the penalty for a wolf, for creating a werewolf. She'd shivered until they'd reached here, and in the large, packed audience chamber the werewolf expert, Dr Coulter, had verified that there were the healed bites of seven different wolves on her skin. Seven. Fealden's testimony, and those of his grandsons and Jasmine had proved that it was one of the last five who had turned her.

Cub bites. Cubs from the pack of the Deadwolf, Grey. Tzo's ally.

Now there was a raging argument going on about who she belonged to, whether the Mackeld was to blame for biting her in the first place, and how to prevent this ever happening again. Mac spent most of each day in the audience chamber.

Gemma spent most of each day being batted in a series of bruising rolls across the coarse grass of the practice field.

Until she ended up lying on it. Groaning quietly, internally. Like this.

But werewolves heal almost as fast as wolves.

"If only Fealden and Waring are senshal of this continent, how did others cross the ocean?" mused Gemma suddenly, opening her eyes. She stared down past the turrets to the glowing rays of the sun reflected on the sheer, huge rock cliffs lining the opposite side of the broad glacial valley. They were lying together in the short grass of the practice field, above and behind the main buildings, but within the circling protection of the outer rampart and mountain peaks.

The Fealden wolf chuckled, "WolfAir."

Gemma turned incredulous eyes up to him, "You're kidding me?"

"Nope," he returned, grinning. "A small airline that runs charter flights between a handful of the world's major airports -- they have two bases here, one on each coast, with probably two aircraft in each. The senshal frequently commandeer them."

WolfAir. She squinted up at the clouds from her prone position on the turf, trying to imagine the logo.

"If you're recovered enough to start chattering Gemma, then it's time for you to get back to practice."

A long groan echoed in the air.

What her sneaky wolf hadn't told her about their trip to the Fort was that the Wolflord was furious with both Jasmine and herself, for endangering Gemma. And as she was now a werewolf, she was subject to wolf law.

And his discipline.

Strictly speaking, Gemma's training wasn't a punishment. She hadn't been a wolf when she'd made her pact with Jasmine to find the Grey lair. But now. It still felt like a punishment, even if the regimen made painful sense. Fealden was having her trained, ruthlessly, relentlessly, in the use of her new limbs. Gus had been assigned to train her, and was subject to discipline himself if her progress wasn't satisfactory. It frequently wasn't.

The Wolflord had not been in the least impressed by his grandsons either. The fact that they had allowed Jasmine to guard Gemma alone had rendered him momentarily speechless, glaring at the pair in incoherent disbelief at their inadequacy. Jeremy, because his attraction to Jasmine had clouded his judgement; Gus, because he rarely stood up to his natál.

The other pair were somewhere about. Jasmine always looked much more exhausted than Gemma was herself, completely drained, but doggedly determined to survive this Alpha-training-by-fire. Her insubordination had been worth it; her natál was recovering. As much as he ever would be able. Jeremy, when he joined them for the evening meal, was also trembling, tight-faced, and both snappy and brooding with Jasmine, feeling betrayed by her. Yet the pair were being trained together in a relentless series of sessions with the Mackeld, the Marsh and the Wolflord himself. They could barely stagger into the great hall every evening.

Gus shifted to loup and bounded to his feet with a snarl, propelling Gemma to stagger back onto her own four trembling limbs.

"You think no-one will ever attack when you're tired?" he sniped.

If she didn't run fast enough, he nipped her. If she didn't make it around the obstacle course better than last time, he nipped her. And boy, did it hurt, even if it healed quickly.

Ow. Ow ow ow.

Stumbling down the grassy slope to the lighted side entrance that evening, once her tormentor had finally left her collapsed face-down on the grass in the twilight, Gemma walked into her mate.

Cranky complaints began to tumble from her tired brain, reeling from her mouth, and she pleaded with Mac to get Fealden to stop it, or to at least let her have a day off - eight solid days, she was going to die. She fell silent, noticing his stillness. Her wolf just stared at her for a long moment, face expressionless, before he returned dryly, "Gemma, if the Wolflord hadn't pulled rank, I would be disciplining you myself." His voice dropped, and he added silkily, "I would go and thank him, if I were you."

She shivered a little at the look in his eye and then a spark of anger snapped through her - who did he think he was, telling her what to do?

Warm hands clasped her wrists before she could move, and he swiftly kissed her before she could get out of the way. Her anger was swamped under lust. And love.

Cheat.

"Discipline -" he began.

"- is a vital part of being a wolf," she finished the phrase on a quiet sigh, having had it drummed into her often enough by her trainer. "And physical discipline builds mental." She knew. "But -"

She fell silent again, frightened by the daily notching up of the anger within her. The number of times she had turned, raging in mindless fury, on Gus. He even had two small scratches, which his natál had laughed at him for. Jeremy and Jasmine were covered in scars, but then they were being disciplined by an Alpha, a Warlord and the Wolflord.

But she hated it. Losing control. Losing all sense of herself.

It was also getting more frequent. The cold sense of fatalism in the pit of her stomach was growing.

Then again, here in the Fealden stronghold they were again separated by his alliances, his betrothal. She had so little time alone with Mac, stolen moments like this only. Why waste it whining?

Gemma sighed, turning to lean back against her mate while his arms encircled her waist, "Well, if you want the humiliation of not being able to catch your mate in future, you just leave them to it."

Mac laughed, sliding backwards onto a perch on the rock wall which lined the path around the rear of the building, pulling her onto his knees. Tears leaked into her eyes. She was so tired. Tired and missing him. Why did they have to waste what little time she had? Couldn't they just let her enjoy him while she was still sane?

"I think chasing you will be more fun, once you can actually run on your four feet," he replied.

That reminded her, "Why didn't you bite me when we last mated, after the battle in Medway?"

He stilled, and sighed. She could feel him thinking, and the words came slowly, the realisation surfacing in Mac as he shared it with her: "I seem to have lost the need, the unstoppable, instinctive demand to bite you as we mate, now that you are a wereem."

Then he added, "Which is all to the good, I could stay human; it is not good to mate cross-species, the loup would have torn you again."

"So you only bite as a wolf -um- loup?" She knew that wasn't true. Her skin had lots of proof.

"The loup bite is most potent," he replied. His voice was slightly unsteady, she could hear him thinking dark thoughts, scent his anguish in the air.

Enough of that gloom. Time-waster. Turning on his knees, Gemma began to nibble kisses on his taut-pursed lips.

"As I'm new to this, I think you should give me a head start," she whispered. His body was trembling, and she felt his mood lighten slightly at her teasing beginning of arousal.

Then he heard someone coming, and she was on her feet, on her own, her lips burning with a brief, hard kiss by the time two young cubs tripped around the corner, snarling in a tugging, raging war over the piece of hide clenched in their teeth.

Bereft.

They fell silent as soon as they saw her, stumbling to a halt, and their eyes rounded in shock. Usually none of the cubs dared to get this close to her; they had evidently been warned about werewolves and their mad rages. Gemma smothered her anger at the interruption, and smiled tentatively at them, uncertain what to do. But they could still scent her irritation; a sad sigh escaped as they suddenly turned and tore back around the corner.

It was a brave wolf who dared speak to her. Watchful, wary eyes followed her everywhere, this was much worse than the Aster field hospital - she had usually been too busy there to notice. But Jasmine and the Fealden twins were regarded in surreptitious awe: the brave wolves who joined her every evening at her solitary bench for the meal, and proceeded to blatantly tease the volatile monster.

Mac didn't get the same looks whenever he stopped to speak briefly, formally to her in public. He was an Alpha. Of course he was safe.

Dr Maynard was the only other wolf to speak to her apart from the Wolflord. She tolerated his acrid, wary scent in her nostrils, because he provided a very welcome, brief respite from her endurance training, having persuaded Fealden to allow him two hours with her every day. The professor needed help to try to decipher the reams of formulae captured from the Grey lair, and was gleeful that they now had a metals expert on the premises, so he could pick her brains. But they worked in public, at twin workstations set up on one of the benches to one side of the great hall. He didn't quite dare take her up to his private office.

Despite the constant reminder in his musk, the hours of hard, mental work every day also helped to soothe the rage trying to take hold in Gemma's brain. But the insidious scent grated against her hackles, and it seethed from almost every wolf. Thank god she spent most of every day outside, with Gus. The constant scent of fear was feeding her rage: it was a consistent reminder that no, she did not belong with wolves. Her first wariness, back in the park, had been right.

She was no longer a human. But she was not a wolf either.

The following afternoon, Gemma was with Mac again, a public appearance. They were sitting on upright wooden chairs beside each other in what Gemma thought of as an office; a small, circular room high up in one of the towers. Behind the desk a tall, robust woman was carefully pouring tea into the first of three tall, bone-china mugs. Her short, grey curls were untidy, and her face lined with humour. She looked like anyone's idea of a fun, slightly bohemian Grandmother. Dr Coulter. The werewolf expert.

Gemma had no idea why they were here. Gus had simply delivered her to the door without explanation. She was still covered in grass smears, sweat and healing nicks, and her limbs were trembling. Unfortunately they were not trembling for the usual reason that they did around Mac.

What a waste.

A small smile flickered across her mate's face.

The desk was just visible under the jungle of plants standing thronged upon it, and the tea-tray was precariously balanced on a thick pile of books in the centre of the desk. Biscuit barrel, sugar-bowl, tongs, milk jug and the three mugs thronged around the tea-pot, gently steaming under its tea-cosy. Evidently they had been expected.

"Milk, dear?"

The woman's eyes were dangerously dark, pulling. Although not as deep as the Wolflord's.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 10



One blue-veined, beringed hand was hovering above the milk jug as she looked enquiringly at the young werewolf.

Sometimes the similarities between the wolf and human worlds really threw Gemma. She could have been ten again, round at her friend Julia's grandmother's house, on her extra-specially best behaviour during the afternoon tea ceremony; the biscuits had been so deliciously worth the effort.

"Please," she smiled. The difference was, Julia's grandmother had never made her nose twitch and her skin shudder from the power radiating off her. The woman smiled back at her, a little speculatively.

"Ulf?" the tall woman questioned Mac, after she handed Gemma her cup and instructed her to help herself to sugar and the biscuits.

Wow. Her stomach was roaring at the scent.

Soon they were perched around the fragrant tower in a civilised circle, and the woman - Martha - decided the time for small talk was over, and turned a steely gaze on Mac.

"What do you want of me, Ulf Mackeld?" she asked.

Gemma reached for her fourth biscuit, while Mac licked a crumb off his lips and sighed. His words were careful.

"Well, primarily to ask whether you have ever found any proof to the legend of Liu Tchung," he asked.

The woman's eyes turned to Gemma's, and seemed to look deeply into her. "No," she replied unequivocally.

Who?

Mac sighed.

"And the trial of Vincent di Buighi?" he pursued.

"What about di Buighi?" replied the woman tartly, her gaze switching back to Mac, a spark of confrontation in them.

"Well, he was indicted for being a werewolf -" began Mac, but he was interrupted.

"It was a set-up by the Medicello, Mackeld, you know that," snapped the woman. "He denied it to the end."

"Well, as weres couldn't hold positions of power, he would, wouldn't he?" replied Mac.

The indignant anger in the woman's eyes was rising, swimming through the room. "Even once he was stripped of everything, tried and convicted and incarcerated, he still denied it," she refuted. "He denied it until he died, still perfectly sane, still imprisoned, and no-one ever found any proof beyond Tornes' dubious testimony that he recognised di Buighi from the Caucasus war, over a century earlier. No, di Buighi was just a wolf with powerful enemies."

Mac opened his mouth, but the woman swept on, the spark in her eyes burning deeper.

"Mackleson even met him once, towards the end of his life: he wrote a paper proving that di Buighi could not be a were. The accused passed every test the physician could devise. And anyone who has ever read di Buighi's Observations recognises that he was one of the most lucid, brilliant minds of the time. He was friend to the Don, and exonerated after his death. I'm sorry, Mackeld, if you're looking for me to tell you that weres can stay sane, then I can't help you. They can't."

Mac smiled blandly at the tall, ruffled female. "That's OK, Martha, I was just clearing up a few points in my mind. It's one of the bits of wolf history that I never paid much attention to, and you are the expert."

Martha abruptly switched her gaze back to Gemma. There was an almost hungry look in the deep, blue eyes, now flecked with black. "How are you, my dear?" she asked. "How are you coping? Have you found your mordeur yet? It must be terrible trying to manage without."

Startled, Gemma tried to pull her gaze from the older woman's, but was held fast. She could feel the mind brushing over hers, seeking, analysing and felt her rage rising in response.

Coping with what? With going insane? What was the polite answer?

"Oh, it's going quite well so far," she heard a grinding, furious voice hissing between her lips, "The black rages are getting more frequent, and I've lost count of the times I've completely lost it and gone berserk, with no idea what I'm doing or saying."

The specks were there now, dancing in front of her eyes, but strangely the fury was being held at bay. By indignation, and contrariness. This woman wanted her to lose it. So that the werewolf expert could observe for herself a were losing control, write a research paper, add to her expertise, whatever. But Gemma was not an experimental animal, nor a toy. Ironically, fury was holding the fury at bay.

There was also the deep, calming anchor of her mate sitting beside her.

His mind brushed soothingly over hers, pushing back the pull of the blue eyes, and the world swam back into full focus while he stood up beside her, carefully placing his cup back on the desk.

"Thank-you, Dr Coulter," he murmured, and Gemma found herself on her feet, her limbs shaking in the aftermath of the rage as she followed him swiftly out of the door. Her mind echoed as they retreated down the staircase circuiting the outer wall, until two floors down she blew out a breath and said, "Eugh."

Then, curiously, "What was all that about?"

Mac lifted his head, his eyes briefly unfocussed while he inhaled sharply. Then he relaxed, murmuring, "No-one about." He sank down onto the deep, triangular stone window ledge, reaching an arm for her and she snuggled down into his lap while he bent one leg sideways along the stone to make a warm seat for her. Cool air blew in through the tall open slit to their left, the fresh scent of the pines and birch across the valley sweetening the breeze.

"One of the reasons my pack have been so unwelcoming to you, Picchu, besides their natural distrust of a were -," he began.

"Because I might go berserk any minute and attack," mumbled Gemma sadly. She understood this now.

Her mate sighed at her words, "One of the reasons is that they have been able to sense my turmoil, my inner fury, all week. I haven't been able to mask it fully in the meld, my internal - disarray. I haven't been this unstable, off-balance, since I was a teenager, if then."

Anguish twisted Gemma's face as she swiftly turned her head to look up into his. Tears sprang to her eyes. She kept hurting him.

He was smiling gently down at her, eyes peaceful.

Mad wolf.

"I've been so off balance because the rational side of me has been absolutely furious with my wolf instincts, which demanded that I bite you when we first mated. Hence condemning you to insanity. I have loathed that part of myself, giving in to my base urges, the lack of control, and have been unable to find my calm."

Gemma's head drooped where she sat, forlorn, on his knees. If only they had never met. Her heart creased in anguish at the thought.

Mac tilted her chin back up, the deep green eyes warm, capturing hers with the feeling in their depths.

"But your question yesterday - I realise that I no longer feel the urge to bite you. Which means that my instinct, since first I gave in to the primal urge to mate you, has not been just the morde - the bite of possession, claiming. But that I have wanted, fundamentally, to turn you."

She sighed. She understood how strong the deep, primal instincts were in a wolf, now.

"More fury - how could I do that to you?"

Her heart creased. He was going to hate himself for this.

"Yet the wolf side - the instinctive, caring, follow-your-instincts side is equally furious. Furious that I could really, seriously believe that I would do anything to hurt my mate. That I would allow it, promote it, even."

Gemma lifted her eyebrows slightly. Where was he going with this?

"I thought maybe because insanity is not a physical, immediate hurt, my instincts hadn't recognised it - but when I came to your parents' home that time, to heal you, it was my wolf instincts that refused to react to the burning arousal you lit in me. I held back instinctively, because of your fear, your wariness, and your hurt. Your mind needed to heal. I wasn't having my mate be scared of me. That is the wolf side."

Her hand had reached up and was caressing along his jaw, stroking the strong lines gently.

"My head's been spinning -- rationale savaging at instinct, instinct reasoning with rationale. But why? Why do I think I could hurt you? I don't. But I think I have hurt you - because you will go insane. Why do I think you'll go insane? Because it is what I have been taught. What I have observed."

His eyes glowed down into hers. Warm, green, loving. Her mouth curved in a little, tentative smile in answer.

"But I don't believe it. Something is out of joint. I could not want something so badly, that would harm you. It goes against my every instinct. Yes, you go berserk, as any wolf does, if you give way to your instincts, if the rational side loses control. But in that case the remedy is to teach you, as any cub it taught, to control your base instincts."

He hugged her again, joyously. "You just heard the world expert on werewolves: di Buighi could not have been a were because he was perfectly sane. That was the only argument ever brought against Tornes' testimony."

"And the other one?"

"Liu Tchung?" asked Mac. "He is a legend - a werewolf created by Xi Chen during the War of Stone Eagles, who went berserk on every battlefield, but regained his sanity in remorse each time the bloodletting stopped. According to the tales, after he saved his emperor's life in the war he rescued a princess and wedded her, scaled the Himalaya to bring peace from the Ice Dragon and sailed West, returning with the first physician to China. He's a much less factual figure."

"So you think -." began Gemma. He couldn't really think this was true.

"I know," he insisted. "That I couldn't hurt you. And there is some doubt as to whether all werewolves, always go insane. So together, my picchu, we will prove the learned doctor wrong."

Gemma's mouth crooked at the corner. "Good," she agreed. "I didn't like her."

She stared deeply into the oh-so-warm eyes: peace. He really believed this. Her stubborn mate had convinced himself, argued himself into the belief that she would not go insane. That he could protect her from this.

Yeah, right.

She sank her forehead down to rest against his chest, hiding her face while her hair brushed his skin.

She didn't believe it.

But it would make these last few months, weeks, days so much sweeter if she could pretend that she did. Lift this burden of guilt from him. And then just fall off the cliff accidentally one day, when she could no longer hold.

He hugged her to him, and they snuggled together quietly until the sound of a door opening downstairs, the scent of a wolf drifting up to them, separated them.

"It won't be easy, picchu," he warned as they passed down the staircase. "Unlike a child, your sexual responses are fully awake, and you have the strength to kill when the urge takes you. I am going to have to be very strict with you, my love."

Like she cared. What she feared was this lurking, ungovernable rage within herself. The urge to rip, tear into anyone who annoyed her, and the unwanted, vile urge to present her buttocks and lift her tail to any male who sniffed her heatedly. Suddenly, her mind cramped with a surge of fury at herself.

Mac's grip was fast around her wrist, holding back the furry, clawed fingers reaching to rake down her own face. His sombre, worried expression swam back into focus as she blinked the rage out of her eyes.

Her heart constricted on a deeper fear, swamping the lingering anger. More, much more than fear of herself was fear of the deep, bitter sadness reviving in his eyes. She had caught a glimpse of it that first night in the park. The deeply infused sadness within which he had walked untouched through life, when she had first met him. She would do whatever it took to prevent that bitterness from attaching itself to him again.

Get a grip, girl. Gemma blinked the angry tears out of her eyes, battling down the rage.

"I can't say no," she whispered the explanation. This was the one that really sickened her.

He kissed her gently, his lips lingering, meandering over her face. "Don't worry about it so, picchu. Your body urges you to mate when an excited male approaches. Your mind, your heart scream at you to call for me, and you do, even when you don't realise it." The corner of his mouth quirked against her skin. "Which is a very effective, if roundabout way of saying no, if you think about it. You do say no."

She snorted a half-hearted laugh.

"That's it? Don't worry?"

His voice was in her head, echoing, calming.

No-one, nothing can block this connection, picchu. You are my mate. You have reached for me when I am deep in battle focus. You can always call me.

She knew the soft blanket of peace and hope came from him. But it was nice to feel it.

There was silence in the large, echoing audience chamber two days later as a tall, grey Fealden wolf escorted her inside. Her eyes were first drawn to the simple wooden bench placed in the very centre of the open space at the front of the long, wide room, facing the seated row of senshal. Behind the seat were half-circle tiers upon tiers of wooden benches, rising like seats in a theatre, packed with wolves of both sexes, craning to see her.

She supposed she was the first werewolf most of them had ever seen.

Then her eyes unerringly found Mac, seated centre-right behind the wooden bench, on the first row. Her stomach lurched at the sight of him.

Why was he scowling like that? He was also trembling, holding himself still.

Mac? She questioned him silently, and fulminating black eyes met hers briefly while he returned, Stay calm. From the look of it he was struggling to follow his own advice.

They have decided to test you. We were only just informed of this.

The anger in the depths of those eyes was fuelling her panic, and she felt the rage rising with the fear. Abruptly, the blackness in Mac's eyes was swamped with green, and peace flooded her mind as she sank trembling into her seat.

In front of her, raised on a slight dais, was a second semi-circle of ornate, solid wooden desks, curved in an arc from her left to her right. Behind the desks, the warm afternoon sun slanted through the ornate, bowed stained-glass window, casting exotic shadows upon the multitude of powerful wolves seated majestically awaiting her.

Waiting to test her.

Suddenly, as the rage cooled on her skin, it was easy to dismiss the test from her mind. It wasn't as if they could do something worse to her than was happening already.

The closest of the senshal was Fealden, in the very centre of the long row. The Wolflord's expression was so carefully blank that Gemma instantly wondered what was wrong. To his left was Martha Coulter, smiling benignly at her in a way that increased Gemma's internal worry. To his right was a majestic, wrinkled Asian-Indian woman, who for some reason reminded Gemma of Gandhi - she thought it was the peace shrouded about her, and could feel herself relaxing as she briefly met the expressionless, black gaze.

The line continued, more males than females, but closely balanced, and all races, although the sole African she could see was a very black, ferocious-looking male seated down at her far left.

A flashing-eyed, olive-skinned woman three seats to the left of Fealden cleared her throat and announced with a strong accent,

"So, Tzo. The girl is a werewolf, yes, but there is no positive indication that the Mackeld Alpha made her. The scent of her mordeur is not clear, and she is too new for it to have yet faded."

Behind Gemma, three seats from the far left of the front row of the audience, a broad-shouldered, battered, very powerful looking man in his late fifties rose to his feet and bowed elegantly to the line of senshal, stepping forward into her line of vision. He was dressed in an elegant, silken robe, and his broad, oriental features were calm, expressionless. Deep, cold, dispassionate eyes surveyed the ex-human.

"The wolf opposite has marked her," he said in a deep, accented voice.

Mac.

A Celtic-looking redheaded male senshal, incongruously wearing a grey suit and tie among his multi-coloured, exotically-dressed companions, responded: "But his naulu is proof that the Mackeld intended her to remain human."

The Chinese Warlord turned slightly and bowed toward the speaker. "And yet he failed to protect her, and I have heard of no attempt at retribution toward her mordeur," he responded smoothly. "Strange, if he truly intended her to remain so."

"He has been a little busy of late," came the dry response from the Wolflord, and a rippling undercurrent of smothered responses chimed through the assembled wolves.

Tzo bowed again, even more deeply, to the Fealden. He made the gesture so effortlessly, gracefully, that Gemma was sure that no hint of irony was intended in the courtesy. Then the Chinese Warlord turned and strode majestically back to seat himself in his place.

The senshal all turned their faces to Mackeld, who Gemma realised had risen to his feet to her right, and was smoothly waiting. As Tzo seated himself, Mac stepped forward.

"The wolf opposite implies that I have no care to have my naulu disregarded. The truth is that neither I, nor Fealden Wolflord, have been able to determine just which wolf turned the wereem. She carried a hint of shiele from five of the cubs whom she rescued from the Grey lair, yips who had nipped her to prevent themselves from falling." The swirling black and green eyes turned toward his enemy across the chamber.

"I am not the wolf to avenge myself on a cub who cannot yet walk on two," Mac stated succinctly.

Tzo was on his feet. "It was your shiele that polluted her enough to enable a cub to turn her. And it is you she looks to. You are her mordeur."

"She looks to me because she knows me. A new were! She needs someone to guide -."

"Sit down," thundered the tall, African wolf to the far left of the senshal, and both Alphas subsided abruptly into their seats in the stinging silence.

"There is, so Dr Coulter tells us, a simple way to establish her mordeur," continued the African in his deep voice. The senshal all turned their faces toward the smiling Martha. Gemma could sense Mac behind her bristling with suspicion, and it made her nervous. More nervous.

"Yes indeed," murmured Dr Coulter serenely. "Let the wereem come forward."

The tall woman stood herself, passing in front of the long row of ornate desks in front of the senshal. Gemma felt a gentle prod on her shoulder from her Fealden escort, and suddenly surged to her feet, swallowing. She stepped forward to meet the doctor, embarrassed in the echoing silence. Dr Coulter turned her lightly by the shoulders to face the crowd of wolf faces fixed on her, and Gemma felt a flush rising in her cheeks, in her veins at the avid eyes.

"A new were's first instinct is to obey," the doctor addressed the waiting crowd. "To obey anyone," she emphasised.

Gemma felt Mac rousing angrily at the surge of male rut doft clouding the chamber at the simple statement. Her own rage was half smothered under fear, and then her nose twitched. Under the thick male scent she could smell female rut doft rising off the woman holding her shoulders lightly, holding her displayed to the crowd. Like an object.

Sorry, not interested, she fired the thought toward the woman behind her, and felt a twitch run through the woman's tall frame. Gemma's skin was beginning to tighten and anger cloud her mind, but then she felt a little loving nudge from her mate, and relaxed, nuzzling him back, relaxing into his mind.

She could scent the surprise rising from the woman behind her that her anger had subsided.

And remembered with a twinge of unease that this woman wanted her to lose control. Would like to monitor and record the reactions of this new wereem to stimuli.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 11



Mac's happiness was contagious. Gemma could feel it welling up inside her, pushing aside the worry while they ran side-by-side down the steep slope covered with straggly short grass, wind-fallen twigs and branches, and an old sprinkling of dry leaves. Then as she turned a sharp corner between the trees, a large shadow suddenly blocked out the light over her head. Her heart jumped. Low snickers of laughter sounded where the shadow had landed beside her - dammit, Mac! and her mate nipped affectionately at her rump as he leapt back over her again effortlessly, his joy bubbling in the air. Gemma skittered sideways instinctively, away from his teeth, and snapped a light reprimand back at him. She missed. Rats.

The white wolf's eyes were sparkling as he put on a burst of speed and bounded smugly around her, twitching out of the way while she kept turning to follow his movements, trying to catch him with a nip as he tauntingly, gracefully circled her. She stumbled over her twisting feet, but managed to roll upright again swiftly, and almost caught him, hearing the hoots of laughter in his mind as her teeth caught in the very tips of his fur.

A huge, wet slurp swiped across her nose and face while she coughed his hairs from her mouth. Eugh.

Damn the wolf!

Furious, but laughing inside, Gemma sprang back onto her four paws and sprinted determinedly after the rapidly retreating back of her mate. His tail was lifted, sweeping his hot musk in wide, teasing circles, and she could also scent his effervescent joy on the air. Then he started rolling his run rhythmically from side to side in the gaps between the trees, keeping just ahead of her sharp muzzle, stretching his tail backwards to tickle her nose teasingly, then sweeping it up out of the way when she lunged for it with her sharp teeth. His smugness was patent. Growing.

Gemma could feel her own laughter bubbling up beneath a cloud of slight bewilderment at this glowing joy. Mac was exuberant.

Her attention flickered while she wondered why, and she felt another wet slurp up the side of her jaw. Her focus snapped back, fuming, to here-and-now and she dove after his disappearing rump while he gave a little cough of laughter.

He was twice her size - this was so unfair!

Gemma saw a blur out of the corner of her eye, and received another wet kiss, tongue delving into her ear on the opposite side, while she turned again, snapping a few of the longer hairs from his disappearing tail and tumbling into another sprint after his excited, bounding, beautiful form.

Deep down, she could feel why. He loved this: the simple freedom to just run in the forest with his mate. Tease her. Play together. No pack. No war. Freedom they had never had together. Gemma could feel the intense control that was so much part of him easing, the strain of the dense, interwoven responsibilities lifting from his mind, releasing this bubbling, joyous mischievousness. She could feel her ears tilting in a smile as she tore after him.

Mac somersaulted forwards over a sharp drop from the top of a rock, turned human in mid-air and blew a smug 'can't catch me' kiss back toward her while he was facing backwards, upside down. Seamlessly he completed the loop to land back on all four paws as a loup, continuing his run. Her heart bounced with his happiness, admiring the strength, the beauty of his graceful, formidable frame.

Idiot.



Gorgeous idiot.



She knew there was a more serious reason why they were running through this forest, but could no longer be bothered to call it to mind. She was just happy that her mate was so jubilant.

It was contagious.

They tore one after the other down the slope, leaping over rocks and fallen trees, tearing through briars. Mac kept darting sly, smug glances back over his shoulder as he easily kept the lead on his mate. Gemma felt her heart lifting, easing into a gentle peace with the sheer grace of her own run, mingling poise and power. She was made to do this. It was perfect, glorious: the rhythmic, effortless pull and stretch of her muscles a kind of music in her soul.

Glorious is the word, Mac murmured the agreement in her mind, his eyes gleaming appreciatively as he paused to watch her joyous sprint after him.

Then the damn wolf whisked around and dove off further down the hill just as she reached him, keeping a hair's breadth ahead of her teeth.

Dammit! OK, maybe she should have kept that gleam out of her eye while she'd pondered where to nip him in return.

At the bottom of the next long slope her wolf landed feather-light on a flat patch of grass and spun suddenly in front of her, too swiftly for her to stop her momentum into him. A sharp, expert nudge of his muzzle and she was rolling onto her back, brain whirling three steps behind the movements as he leapt on top of her. Perfectly timed, their limbs entangled in a swift, continuing roll, until Gemma ended flustered on her back with the huge white wolf standing astride her, her heart pounding in excitement. His green eyes were sparkling with echoing feeling: joy, smug excitement, and beneath them both that rich, melting pull of deep, powerful emotion. His tongue licked lightly over her nose, and she felt her insides melting at his gentle affection.

A shimmer of tingling prickled down her spine and across her skin, and she was human, naked on her back on the grassy floor of the forest, with a large, happy man squashing her to the ground and kissing her deeply. 

He was clothed. 

Damn.

Mac's hands were angling her head, and his tongue started to slide sensuously down her throat, when suddenly he lifted his head and looked back up the steep slope, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. He sighed and rolled off her.

"Persistent idiots," he growled, leaping back to his feet, turning back into the lycan- wolf as he did so, and pausing to scent the air. Gemma's eyes blurred slightly, fire shimmering in her veins at the smooth, glorious ease of his powerful leap, the beautiful shimmer of his tawny pelt. Except for the smooth skin at his groin. That hard, pulsing cock. Mac looked back down at her, a glowing grin beaming across his face.

"Later, picchu. They've started in pursuit. Stop distracting me," he said casually.

She was distracting him?

Gemma rolled her eyes, sighing as she turned onto her front. She wrinkled her nose disappointedly at the change in mood, turning into loup form as she felt her mate drop onto his own four paws beside her.

They're going to catch us, aren't they? I can't run fast enough yet.

Mac snorted in derision and set off at an easy trot ahead of her. Gemma fell in behind. His tail was now just a few inches from her nose.

Hmmmm...

The hunt is not about speed, picchu. It's about cunning, he replied. Don't you worry your pretty little paws and follow me.



This time, she managed to nip the condescending wolf on the rump, and felt a squirm of pleasure in her stomach as his skin shuddered under her teeth and a cloud of lust thickened his musk. Oops. Gemma's insides churned with recognition, and realisation: a playful nip was a wolf sign of affection; an aphrodisiac. And a powerful one. Wow.

She gulped, her insides trembling with fire, bathed in his liquefying scent.

Steady, picchu. If they get too close, you're going to have to ride me, too. His tone was purring with anticipation.

Ooooh.

No idea whose mind that flagrant, delicious image came from - but wow. Her breath spluttered and she stumbled to a halt, a sharp image burning through her - riding her wolf: breasts free, bouncing to his rhythm, feeling the slick, hard force of him sheathed repeatedly, forcefully inside her, his tight grasp on her hips pulling her up and down on his rampant cock.

Gem, if you keep being that distracting, they'll definitely catch us. The warning echoed sternly, and Gemma could feel Mac trembling, fighting hard against the tide of lust rising in his own mind. I don't want to have to kill any of the idiots. He broke into a faster trot at the unsettling thought.

Sweat broke out on Gemma's nose, and she stumbled back into a much more ungainly run, following her disappearing mate at a steep angle further down the mountainside, frustration churning through her.

Why was that sleek tail so enticing? She kept wanting to sidle up and nip him again. Just one little nip. He could control himself. Nose twitching, belly tightening, she ratcheted up her pace sneakily, but he did also, and stayed just out of her reach. Dammit.

A bit faster.

Didn't work. Damn him.

Softly, softly, faster again.

Rats.

A quick dash of speed!

Aaaaw! Slow down, you damn spoilsport!



Your evil plans would work better if you hid your thoughts from me, Mac replied dryly, still just beyond the reach of her reaching teeth.

Hide them? How? You're my mate and Alpha, aren't you? Can't you just read anything I think? she asked indignantly.

Invading someone's mind is a form of attack, Gem, a nasty thing to do. I can only read your thoughts because you keep broadcasting them. Practically shouting some of them, he chuckled internally. You just have to stop broadcasting.

How? she asked again.

In response, a sharply embarrassing memory of her human face covered with a mess of cheese, nacho crumbs, guacamole and salsa smears pushed into her mind. One of Mac's memories, from that time he had come home to find Gemma, Ruby, Kate and Bethan mid tequila-party, giggling together in a crumb-and cheese festooned heap in the middle of the sitting room floor. There was a smile in his thoughts as he lingered on the red circles on her cheeks - it had seemed like a funny idea at the time to try out salsa as make-up. Blood burning in embarrassment, Gemma quickly shoved the image away.

That's it! That's how you block thoughts, he told her calmly. You can keep them in by just doing the same in reverse.

What? That had been automatic - she had no idea what she'd even done.

Think about it, Mac advised.

Brooding on the impossible, Gemma followed him absently down the steep hillside, not even noticing the effortless, loping run which two weeks earlier had been alien to her.

At the foot of the mountain, the stream that splashed down sharply from Fort Amicable foamed into a wider river which wound across the wooded plain. The fugitives shifted to human and waded thigh-deep along the course of the waterway into a dense thicket of trees. Mac was growing more and more tense at their slow pace, and kept looking around in quick evaluation, assessing their surroundings. 

Gemma was more than a little disappointed that after that one, quick glance, he had yanked his gaze away from her naked breasts and breathed deeply, determinedly focussing on the high treetops as he waded ahead of her. Damn his control. Finally, her mate stopped, slipped off his trousers and ...

Gemma lost track of what he was doing. 

Just look at that butt. I mean, it had been amazing enough following it around when he had had the wet trousers on, but now. Wow. And he was wearing nothing underneath, which meant there was nothing to spoil the view of that beautiful, taut curve of flesh.

Smooth, too. The warm skin shivered slightly as her fingers traced over the tight muscular outline, and Gemma melted at the shimmer of lust in his scent, leaning lightly against his back from behind. She snuggled against his sleek, wet side and curved a thigh around his hip so that she could nudge that hard, throbbing erection with her own leg. 

Her nostrils twitched. 

Something wrong.

Slowly her dazed eyes lifted, mesmerised by the broad chest stretched under his T-shirt, the strong column of his throat, the pulse beating hard under the tanned flesh. Eventually they reached his face. A light jolt ran through her, and the lust clouding her mind lifted slightly.

His eyes were - worried. 

"Picchu, please try to focus, I know it's hard," Mac said quietly. He swallowed, "But I really, really would prefer not to kill, and there's a whole pack of them hunting us now. I won't be able to defend you without doing so, if they catch us."

Gemma struggled to heave her mind out of the cloying pull of desire as she focused on the worry in her mate's eyes, his tone. The want was like thick treacle about her feet, her calves, trying to suck her back down, clinging to her stubbornly while she fought against the mindless, wanton lust. She gasped in a breath and nodded grimly. She really didn't want him to have to kill his allies for her, either. If she could only keep focussing on that worry and not on his arse.

Her blood jumped in her veins, and her eyelids flickered.

Wereem, she taunted herself in snide self-disgust.

"I think I'd better go in front," she replied hoarsely, still struggling not to lick her lips. Look down. Stare pleadingly at that oh-so-proud, welcoming erection that she could scent waving enticingly, bewitchingly under her nose. That one. There. Damn it looked delicious.

Mac sighed shakily and slapped his water-soaked trousers over the branch jutting out over the river above their heads, grabbing both ankle cuffs as they dangled either side of the support, and growled brusquely, "Climb, Gemma." He ducked under the water, hiding his rampant genitals in a blur of rippling water. She blinked and whined, reaching down. As her fingertips touched the surface, her hand was grabbed, lifted, and squeezed tightly around the wet cuffs of the heavy cloth hanging above their heads. The pain of the fist squashing hers around the material cut through her mindless lust.

"Try not to touch anything but the cloth over the first branch, so as not to leave any scent, and leap for the branch above it," Mac instructed, his voice harsh, and slightly hoarse.

Guiltily, Gemma jerked her head up, and after a few seconds the branches above her head swam into focus. She judged the distance.

What?

"I can't jump that," she protested.

"Yes, you can," urged Mac. "As a wolf, you can."

He meant lycan. Gemma's heart was now pounding for a different reason.

"I can't judge things as a wolf," she protested on a slight whine, a panicked feeling growing in her stomach. "I miss - I mess up. I'm worst in wolf form."

Her stomach trembled when she was suddenly swept out of the water and swung around onto his broad back by a muscular arm clamped around her waist. She clutched frantically at his tawny, fur-covered shoulders, legs closing automatically around his hips. The hot, clean scent rising off him melted through her.

What was he doing? This was no way to kill her lust!!

"Then cling tight and keep your thoughts and hands from roaming. Judging the jumps for us both will be hard enough without distraction," her mate replied slightly desperately, his thighs tensing as he lowered himself slightly for the leap.

His abs rippled against the backs of her calves, sending a shudder of lust through her.

Oh god. How was she supposed to restrain herself? He smelt scrumptious. The taut muscles rippling against her skin and the light brush of his fur felt even better. Her mind began to cloud over, lust pooling between her thighs, fingers sliding through his long shoulder fur.

The next second they lurched from the water, his fingers yanking on the cotton-covered branch to power them above it, where his feet landed on the cloth and bent legs snapped instantly to full length against the springy purchase, propelling them through the air not toward the thick branch above, but across at an angle toward a second one, further away in another tree. Mac flipped upside-down in mid-air and Gemma's stomach lurched, arms and legs clinging frantically while he snapped the trousers snagged in his hind claws over a new branch and then grabbed both cuffs with both feet, hauling in a twisting motion so that they ended up upright, much higher above the ground, panting hoarsely, hanging from his left hand clawed tight in the thick fabric. 

Gemma's mind was whirling.

What just happened? 

Actually, she was the one panting hoarsely. Mac was breathing hard, but easily, swinging to their momentum, looking around for the next move. There was a faint grin on his face.

Gemma's stomach was still recovering from the double back flip, and she drew breath to comment, but choked when Mac abruptly swung to leap out and sideways, launching them into the next hurtle through the air. The ground was flying up to meet them, but then they curved at a sharp angle, swinging from his clothing slapped over another branch, and were catapulted across a wide break in the trees. Gemma's eyes widened and she clutched frantically, a faint squeak escaping. They were flying toward a thin, broken branch pointing like a spear towards their unstoppable trajectory, waiting to prong Mac hard in the belly. His shoulders jerked as he twisted, slapping the wet cloth around the trunk of yet another tree to their left and they curved horizontally this time, before bouncing off a springy branch covered in wet cloth and somersaulting in the air to land with her wolf standing on his trousers half as high in a new tree, looking around for the next. Mac was absently stroking her arm with his free hand, soothing the trembling.

"Tsk tsk," he murmured teasingly. "Such a scaredy mate I have." 

Gemma made a half-choked rude raspberry noise in response, breath heaving.

Well, this death-by- exhilaration treetop travel worked at killing libido. 

Sort of - it was also a blatant advertisement of how damn strong, gorgeous, skilled her mate was. But the thirty foot drop below them was working as a healthy deterrent against distracting his attention right now. Later. Gemma's stomach was quivering in tension, muscles taut, blood pounding. Partially in excitement. 

I hadn't realised that wolves climbed trees.

Most of them don't, she heard his soft reply in his head. That's why this is the safest way to move, when hunted.

Safest?

His laugh was a little teasing. Don't you trust me, little mate?

She grinned and kissed him under the ear gently, before pressing her chin against his shoulder, peeping out over the thick fur, stomach relaxing slightly. Oh course she did. 

So long as your trousers don't tear, she replied.

Double-thickness, and interlined with Kevlar, picchu. I've done this before. Trust me.

Her heart lurched as they swung back into that blur of motion. How come he knew about fabric linings?

I'd never have guessed that sewing is part of Alpha training. Embroidery too? Gemma teased silently.

Mac's chest was reverberating with an internal chuckle as he curled in a lazy somersault toward the next branch. Gemma felt a wistful wish that she could do this Tarzan-type travel herself.

I'll teach you, picchu.

The words were like a soft kiss in her head. 

Gemma snuggled closer against him, but she still replied on a slight humph: Stop reading my private thoughts.

An image appeared in her head, of a hard, dry, baked-to-a-crisp wedge of solid brown and dark red shining crust arranged on one of her dinner plates, next to some fresh green salad. She batted the unwelcome image straight back out again, growling slightly, a flicker of the dark berserker anger creasing into her mind. 

So she'd left the quiche in the oven way too long, he didn't have to remind her that she'd tried to serve him the damn crisp!

You're getting the hang of this, picchu, he commended her softly. She pushed his unwanted opinion away too, feeling the slight tension in her temples as she did so. 




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 11



Oooh - so that was how you did it.

She tried to repeat the sensation again, a few times, but it was difficult with nothing to push against. 

Mac shared an image of her shrieking and shrinking away from him: he'd been in loup form, soaking wet, and shaking his fur all over her back in the forest when she'd been on heat.

That one was a lot easier to shove away, hard, and she felt him laughing at her indignation. She pushed stubbornly again, and the sound of him in her head faded, but wasn't totally extinguished.

Well done.

She thrust the compliment away as quickly as she could.

Give it a rest now, Gem. Training the mind is exhausting, and requires little and ofte -.

That one she managed to push away before he finished the sentence. She didn't even hear the end of the last word. She felt smug, although her temples were aching painfully. Not that she was going to tell Mac that.

You've learned the beginnings of how to shield, Gemma, not how to stop broadcasting. I can hear your smugness and feel your headache poundi -.

She pushed that away too, irritated, and felt the pain at her temples spike.

Her mate sighed, and her head echoed with silence.

Aaaw. Spoilsport, she complained.



He ignored that.



Hours later, after the sun had set and the blue, cloudless sky was darkening beyond the dusky silhouette of the forest, Gemma and Mac were loping easily in their four-legged forms up the steep side of yet another river valley. They had been running almost continuously since they left Fort Amicable, over a wilderness of wooded hills and across wide dales. Gemma was hoping that Mac would call a halt soon. Not that running in this guise wasn't as easy as walking as a human, but she was tired.

A welcome breeze curled around her panting form. Mac skidded to a halt, his head shooting up and ears springing alert. His nose lifted to scent the wind, a low growl sounding in the air.

What is it? she asked, watching the eerie, fearsome back-light fire in his eyes. His muscles tensed under the heavy, silken pelt while his nose twitched in the breeze.

Nigel, he replied brusquely. His black eyes glittered in challenge. Damn the wolf. This changes things: come on, Gemma.

The new pace that Mac set up the hill was punishing, and Gemma whined, falling back. She couldn't run at that speed. The Alpha spun, bounding back towards her with his eyes ablaze, and the sharp rebuke: Don't be lazy, sounded in her head as he nipped her sharply on the rump.

Ow! Not an aphrodisiac, this one. It was way too painful.

Gemma found that she was running back up the hill ahead of his sharp teeth and blazing eyes, smarting from the healing nick on her arse, and fuming inwardly. Damn Alpha! She waited indignantly for the rage to smother her so that she could turn on him, but there was no sign of it. By the time she realised that she'd have to attack the damn bossy-boots compos mentis, she'd already run half way up to the treeline, her limbs had warmed up to the new pace, and she begrudgingly admitted - internally, and very quietly because she was damned if she was going to let him hear this - that she evidently could run uphill at this pace. So maybe she had been being lazy. She preferred to think that the reason she had balked had just been unfamiliarity with her own stamina in wolf form.

It was interesting that she hadn't felt even a hint of the rage. She felt a touch of shame, now, that she had wanted to. Her mind tingled as she suddenly realised that the Don't be lazy hadn't been a mental order either. She was running fast, uphill, entirely under the prompting of her own mind. To avoid that nip. Just because she'd thought that she had to. But in reality, she was the one in control of her limbs.

Humph. Damn sneaky wolf.

They ran out into the dusky light above the trees.

Who's Nigel? she asked, mainly to distract herself from thoughts of how soft and cosy some of the thick stands of grass looked. 

Mac ran up alongside her, keeping pace with her. 

The African senshal who pronounced your sentence, he replied. He's a prime tracker, probably the best there is, and he taught me and uh - my brother all those tree-travelling tricks I used to mask our trail. They'll have slowed him down, but no more.

There was a faint tinge of guilt to his thoughts, and Gemma felt her blood running colder at the stark tension in Mac's tone. She could sense his uncertainty, doubt at being able to evade this hunter. Her heart lurched. Would the hunters kill him too, if they caught up with them? Maybe if he went back, apologised, turned her in, they would forgive him, be lenient to her wolf.

The look Mac shot at her burned with a furious: Don't you even suggest it.

Gemma blinked, feeling a different shiver running through her. Mac angry was oh so hot.

His ears twitched in amusement. You're supposed to find me scary, not attractive. 

Oh, that too, she replied in an appeasing tone. Yeah right. She knew he could read the sincerity of her deep, non-existent fear. He nibbled her ear affectionately as they ran.

So what do we do about the hunt? she asked.

Improvise, replied her mate dryly. And meanwhile, keep running.

They settled down to a steady, fast lope. Over the rushing of the blood in her ears as they crested the hillside under the deepening dusk, Gemma could feel the increasing rise of tension in her mate.

The pursuit was gaining on them.

She tried to put on more speed, but heard Mac cautioning calmly, Steady, picchu. Better not to stumble. Her heart was beating faster and faster with the awareness increasing in her own fur. The feel of being hunted, prey, was setting her blood shivering.

To distract herself, she queried silently, What kind of a name is Nigel? He was African.

His real name's N'gula, responded her mate absently. He seemed to be listening intently to something she couldn't quite pick up. One year he took on a couple of cheeky, insubordinate students who called him Nigella, which he didn't object to until he discovered it was a girl's name.

Gemma snorted as she ran. She wasn't fooled by Mac referring to himself and his natál in the third person. 

He taught the cheeky ruggare a signal lesson, but somehow the name Nigel stuck, her mate finished. Everyone calls him that now, including his pack.

There was deep affection twined through his thoughts. Gemma hoped very quietly, internally where he might not hear it, that the affection was mutual. Maybe Nigel would be lenient to Mac.

They ran down the next slope and toward another broad, grassy dale. The moon rose, bathing the river in silver light while they splashed through the belly-deep water as fast as they could. Gemma was breathing harshly as she pounded beside her mate up the steep wooded slope of the opposite hill, trembling from weariness and the slowly solidifying tension pulsing from Mac. A faint whisper of pursuit made her ears twitch. But what did she know? Maybe it was a damn owl or something. 

Suddenly, deep in the dense woodland on the hillside, Mac halted and spun around, mind echoing with incredulous disbelief and worry: Who the hell? The sounds of a raging wolf fight broke out below them. Gemma also halted and listened, incredulous. Had one of the hunting pack turned on Nigel? Who was reckless enough to challenge a senshal? The distant snarls rolled from a multitude of wolf throats - more than one wolf was involved in the fighting.

Your pack? asked Gemma, amazed.

They're nowhere near here. And I wouldn't let them, Mac replied tersely. The unspoken thought echoed: it would be too dangerous.

They could see nothing through the thick pines, just hear the furious melee in the valley below, and Mac turned and streaked toward a short crag jutting out above the trees to their left. He bounded out onto the open pinnacle, stopping a foot from the sheer edge, standing staring while Gemma panted up behind his shoulder.

She also gazed disbelievingly down at the dusky shadows of movement just visible to her wolf eyes in the dark valley.

The hunting pack had been ambushed.

It had happened where she and Mac had forded the river, only minutes earlier. Gemma shuddered at the astounding sight of the twenty or so hunters being smothered under an angry sea of hundreds of wolves who were still pouring out of the trees and attacking the pursuers as they struggled to gain the bank. Even to her untrained eye she could see that the wolves defending their flight were taking advantage of the height of the river bank and the impedance of the water slowing the movements of the hunters. This was not an accidental encounter.

Male, female, old, young, the eyes of the defending wolves were gleaming with rage in the dusky light as they took down the pursuers, sets of them working together, three or four in some cases immobilising each powerful hunter on the grassy bank or in the shallows. Within minutes, only a few of the hunter wolves were still on their feet: those grouped around the huge, dappled senshal. Nigel had fought his way ashore, and was spinning like a whirlwind, hurling off each melee of attackers who tried to down him, his sparkling eyes gleaming as the last light caught them. 

No sounds reached the watching pair, the fighting was too far away, but Mac kept flinching as he watched the fray centred around the senshal, whining softly, fur shuddering. His alert white ruff was haloed in the soft moonlight.

No!

Gemma kept hearing his injunctions in her head, but they weren't aimed at her.

Don't! Idiots! Not like that! Not Nigel!

Quivering with tension, the couple witnessed the increasing ferocity below. The wolves defending the shore were implacable; they were not going to move. Yet the senshal was unstoppable. Currently he was holding back his strength, trying not to maim, warning his opponents to just give it up. But he was having to gently up the stakes of each warning. And the stranger wolves were still refusing to budge. So in turn, Nigel was getting more tangibly insistent that they do so, more forceful.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that the muscular senshal would have to kill the defenders to get past.

Watching that graceful, contained power as he flung his attackers off him and slowly gained ground toward the hillside, there was no doubt in Gemma's mind that Nigel could kill the strangers. Easily. Maybe the hundreds of them would overpower him in the end, but at the moment the wolves defending their retreat were also trying to just stop the hunters, not hurt them. Neither side wanted to kill. But neither would give up, either.

Sickness began to pool in her stomach as black shining patches blossomed on the fur of some of the intractable attackers surrounding the senshal. Why was this happening? Who were they? What was going on? 

A harsh huff of impatience snapped out beside her, and Gemma felt the wind of her mate springing past her to land at the base of their viewing rock and sprint off into the trees. Back down the hill.

Mac! she called.

Keep heading south.

She was already springing after him when the command caught her mid-air, causing her muscles to seize so that she landed heavily and rolled uncontrollably down the steep bank to thud against a tree. Her mind blanked with fear of what Mac was running into, swiftly smothered by rage that he had dared to order her away. Blackness swamped her senses. 

Gemma came out of the berserker rage to discover, sheepishly, and with a little remorse, that the poor tree no longer had any bark on this side, within claw height. Such a stupid, pointless thing to do. Her jaws and right paw ached, and she switched to human to pull a splinter out from between her teeth. Eugh. Then she winced as her bare foot landed on a sharp piece of broken branch, and realised that she was instinctively, obediently, walking south. Without thinking. Naked. Damn him. She switched back to her four-legged form, and shivered as she heard a sudden howl of challenge echoing up from the trees below. She knew his voice.

Mac. 



No.

She'd seen Nigel fighting. And that had been when he was withholding his strength.

Now her mate was fighting the senshal. Fighting that ferocious, spinning, whirling devil she'd watched flinging off hordes of attackers. She could tell Mac was engaged with Nigel from the pounding of her heart in her chest, the shuddering blood in her veins. She felt sick. The sense of her mate within her mind had narrowed to a hairsbreadth, a barely noticeable, tenuous thread, returning no sense or feeling, just there. Only just.

Gemma felt a howl rising in her own throat, but didn't dare release the anguish. She didn't dare to distract him. Black spots swam again in front of her eyes, and she felt that she would almost welcome the blank oblivion, heart despairing while her feet obediently pulled her further and further from her beloved wolf.

Please, let him be safe, please.



A lurch in her stomach, and she circled, heart burning, to try and see, try to follow. He'd gone that way. Even while she stared white-faced down the hillside after him, the view blotted by the thick trees, somehow she found her feet had turned again and she was heading south, away from him. 

No.

Tears were running down her face while the ferocious snarls and occasional yelps echoed up from the valley floor, assailing her ears. The clench of terror in her heart again allowed her to force her feet to circle, so she could peer unseeingly down through the dense forest. But her feet moved on without her guidance, drawing her away, obedient to his last order.

Not his last, no, please not.

The sickness lurched further up into her throat, and she found that she was back human, her arms wrapped so tightly around her midriff that she could barely breathe, holding on, trying to hold herself together. She didn't want to remember that effortless blur of Nigel fighting. Her gasping breaths sounded loud in her own ears.

The valley had fallen silent. 

Mac? She panicked



I'm fine, picchu. Nigel has retreated.

Mac's mind was stunned, echoing in shock and fury while he sprinted back up towards her again. 

Then: Why aren't you running? he demanded brusquely.

The rebuke, coupled with the splintering relief from the terror shuddering through her set her mind spinning in incoherent fury, and Gemma turned and leapt for his throat, lycan, claws extended, just as her mate burst from the trees behind her.

She landed with a jarring impact on her back underneath him, her throat pinned with a palm to the floor. She shuddered to the terse words in her head, the blank rage flicking back from her eyes: We haven't the time for this, Gem. Either get running or accept orders. Mac's mind was churning with sadness, bitterness, intense rage and revulsion under a coating of shock. Deepest was a dark, stark anguish fused through every pore of him.

What? Where had those feelings come from? The rage in Gemma's head quivered outside the rising worry for her wolfmate.

Those were ex-Grey wolves. He answered the terse question in Gemma's mind succinctly, flinging up a shield around his raging emotions, blocking them from her.

Gemma's heart clenched, the berserk fury subsiding further. She had caught a memory from Mac, of the look she remembered in Ada's eyes. And Anne's. The bleak, hopeless, misery and self-loathing. Anger echoed through her, spiking as she realised what had so infuriated and upset Mac. Why his emotions were writhing.

What Nicolas Grey had done to his pack was not over simply because they had been freed.

She found herself loping as a loup again beside her mate up the hillside. Shock was rising through the anger: ex-Grey wolves? Her brain was churning worriedly. What were they doing here? Why had they attacked Nigel? Surely they would get into trouble for attacking a senshal? But what were they doing here?

They don't care what the senshal think. Mac answered bitterly. Then he seemed to force himself to relax, his mind soothed over hers, and he pulled himself together enough to explain further, albeit very succinctly.

The ex-Greys had been brought into the Fealden range to get out of the city, meet the council at Fort Amicable and amalgamate into other packs. However, most were too deeply scarred to circle, the wolf term for changing packs, and they were holding together as a leaderless pack, refusing outside help and seeing pity on every side. Pity was anathema to a wolf. 

Gemma could feel Mac's deep bitterness, he couldn't entirely hide it from her. He could understand why the ex-Greys were not ready to join other packs, did not wish to circle. The damaged wolves could not bear the thought of having an Alpha have any hold over them. And they were revolted and deeply ashamed at the idea of letting anyone close enough to read what had been done to them by Grey.

Eventually, after the ex-Greys had refused offers from all the Alphas present, Fealden had insisted to the council that they just be given space in the remote forests here, to find some peace and just - enjoy being wolves, as far as they could. 

That is one of the things that the senshal are worried about, Mac added. A pack of nearly a thousand renegade, ungoverned wolves suddenly loose in the Eastern ranges. Many of whom have learned some very bad ways of being a wolf. 

Mac was worried too. Something about that fight had deeply unsettled him.

The pair of them ran on silently, side-by-side in the moonlight. Gemma's mind was echoing with sadness for the ex-Grey wolves. She could feel Mac brooding darkly beside her.

No-one could understand why they didn't circle from Grey, announced Mac suddenly. At least those without blood-ties. He wasn't even an Alpha. He should not have had a pack, not considering what he was doing with them. To them.

Mac's mind creased in pain, and he slammed a lid on his thoughts. But a low growl escaped, and then the raw, anguished stream of thought that was plaguing him, what he had just seen: We thought they must have been to some degree complicit. But they could not escape. 

How do you know? asked Gemma. But her mate was too taken up with his own churning thoughts to answer.

A wolf can always circle, that freedom is a fundamental of wolf life, wolf society, our whole culture, civilisation. Our abilities. I was suspicious, but I didn't expect this. An adult wolf chooses his or her Alpha, there is no way of holding one. Any wolf is free to leave at any time, except during the meld. And an Alpha is only an Alpha because of his pack. If he loses their support, he is just another powerful wolf. How the hell did Grey force them to do his bidding? Force his will on them? It is impossible - a powerful wolf can break or stop a weaker, yes, but not bind one to his will. 



Gemma's mind was swamped in sarcastic repudiation, echoing with the bitter memory of the look of hopeless, tear-drenched, wordless pleading in Anne's eyes while she had bent under the rape of the security guard, unable to disobey the order given by Nicolas Grey.

Mac slammed his shields up against the image, wincing so hard that he stumbled.

That is impossible, he howled. It is impossible to coerce a wolf, outside the meld, and the meld is built from trust: you cannot force it on a wolf.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 11





They both shared a spine-chilling, simultaneous thought: The meld was apparently the only thing that Grey had not been able to force on his pack. If he had...

Mac's mind was resonating with dread. There was something much worse here than that which had already been uncovered. Worse than even he had suspected. Something that struck at the very heart of wolf life, threatening all of his people. Threatening the freedom of every wolf.

They ran in silence.

Eventually, Mac calmed enough to answer Gemma's question obliquely, by explaining what had happened during the fight. The soft words inside her head were careful, his thoughts held rigidly under control:

Nigel has fought infinitely more often than I, and was melded with the wolves of the hunting pack. I was losing. And so -.



He paused, and she could feel him clamping down on a spike of rage and revulsion. They were terrified of the power I would wield over them, hated me inside their heads, but several of the senior ex-Greys melded with me anyway. So that I could defeat Nigel. 

Mac halted again, and Gemma could feel his mind reverberating while he swallowed convulsively. She could not feel, see what he had seen, linked with the damaged wolves, her mate would not share this, but she could scent his deep, rippling distress.

Those from the time of the last Grey Alpha, those who remembered, they forced themselves to meld their shields into mine, and so lent me enough strength to outweigh the hunters. 

Mac's mind was echoing in shock, he couldn't believe that the ex-Greys had done that. Had been able to bring themselves to do that. After all that Nicolas had done to them.



Gemma asked softly, awed, But they trusted you to let them go?



There was a moment of bleak silence, then: They have met me before. The older ones. Mac's mind was clipped, hiding deep anguish.



Gemma felt a rush of pride in her mate. But he clearly could not deal with this, so she dashed along a different train of thought, the meld - I thought wolves fought one on one?



Only during the defasio or mortefio, Gem. Otherwise wolves fight in packs.



So your pack - and his?



They are both too far away, his tone was easing slightly. I can communicate over this distance, but it requires very tight proximity to battle meld. 



Gemma felt a surge of anger that he had issued that challenge solo, while ordering her to run. The anger was swiftly smothered by guilt at the thought of the Mackeld pack, bereft once again of their formidable Alpha in wartime. Because of her. 

Mac drew in a sharp breath and halted beside her suddenly, turned human, and swept her up in a bear hug. Gemma found herself shifting human, crushed in his arms, hugging him back as hard as she could, feeling his blood pounding just under the surface of his skin, his heart shuddering. Her mate lifted her further and buried his head against her shoulder, face hidden in her hair while he breathed deeply, raggedly. Gemma soothed his scalp with softly massaging fingertips, crooning gentle whispers of how much she loved him.

His heartbeat slowed gradually.

"You're going to make one hell of an Alfamme, picchu," her mate murmured eventually into her skin. His face was dappled dusky shadows, eyes gleaming in the darkness when he lifted his head to look down at her. "Don't you worry about the pack, we are in a ceasefire. And the senshal are deeply suspicious of Tzo's use of Nick's scent-masking chemical, they will not be easing up on him for a while."

Mac tone turned distracted on the last words, his mind flickering with the worry over those weapons. Gemma ran the fingers of both hands back through his thick, tawny hair, pulling lightly to tilt his head so that she could look deeply into his eyes. She said seriously "Alfamme matches Alpha, Mac." Jeremy had used the phrase to Jasmine, and it seemed to resonate among the wolves. "Those deeply scarred warriors trusted you. They were able to bring themselves to open their minds, meld, give you that hold over them. My Alpha mate."

Mac smiled softly, slightly crookedly. In answer he conveyed a picture from his head, not something he had seen himself, but a relayed memory, a message sent by one of his impromptu ex-Grey meld just before he'd released them. 

The memory was of this same valley bathed in golden sunlight. The watcher was focusing on a young wolf cub, she thought female, pouncing on a second cub out of a stand of thick meadow grass. Both of the sets of young eyes were alight with glee as the pair clashed with mock snarls and rolled across the sun-dappled grass in a playful fight. There was pride and hope in the bitter-edged determination of the protective watcher, and an overlay of thanks: The cubs would grow free of this shame. 

"They fought with me. But they fought for you, my picchu."

The burning fury rose in Gemma and tears lodged in her throat, behind her eyes. Black flecks were dancing in her vision. She wanted to curl up and sob, rage for the damage done to the watching adult, mourn for the wary sourness of mistrust, fear and self-loathing that curled around even that golden picture. She wanted to attack someone. Not just anyone. Nicholas Grey.

Her mate snarled, low, in agreement. 

Then he sighed, "But for now, Gem, we have to focus on the matter in hand. Nigel has been driven back, but I know him, he is a stubborn, proud bastard. And he's furious with me. He believes he is trying to free me from some lust-induced insanity, and was trying to convince me to give you up during our fight. No-one believes that a wolf can have a songmate who is a werewolf - yeah, right. I was probably equally furious that our best tracker is wasting time hunting us when Grey is still on the loose. But he has given up on finding Grey, there is no scent. Instead, to prove himself, Nigel will hunt us down. He will circle the ex-Greys and pick up our trail further on."

Mac read the somewhat bemused, questioning picture in Gemma's mind that had arisen at his words, and his mood lightened, distracted. Gemma was thinking of the pair of them, loups, sitting on a rock together, tails entwined, baying to the moon. Songmate?

"Not quite, picchu," he murmured with a hint of amusement. "There are many types of mate: a lovemate for a short-term relationship, lifemate or bondmate when permanently or officially joined, rutmate when the female is on heat." 

Mac paused, then continued softly: "Songmate is the term for the wolf who makes your soul sing with happiness, mates with the rare bond so tight that not even silver can block it. No-one would expect a wolf to do anything less than fight to the death for his or her songmate." 

His mind shimmered with the intense feeling behind the words. There was another moment of silence, and Gemma felt them welling up inside her. Her head sank back into the crook of his shoulder as she recognised the truth of the description, her heart - no, her soul singing to the warm echo of recognition in his head. Her songmate. Her wolf. Just as she was his. 

They stood quietly together for a long moment, Gemma's legs wrapped loosely around Mac's waist, both sets of arms hugging tightly. Their heads were tucked into each other's necks, a stolen moment of peace on the moonlit hilltop.

Eventually, Mac sighed. His tone was gentle, sober when he conveyed the soft words: My picchu, the ex-Greys have just risked themselves, their already precarious autonomy and safety, to help us remain free. To honour it, we must use their gift wisely. Run with me.



Always, the reply melted out of Gemma's heart.

Mac lowered her to the ground, kissing her deeply before breaking away and dropping back into loup form. Gemma followed suit easily, then she broke into a trot beside her mate, pride and love lifting her tiredness, determination burning in her veins. She would honour their gift. Her wolf bounded against her, curling his tail around hers and stroking his head along her neck and cheek, rubbing affectionately against her for two short paces before they separated. They steadily notched up their speed until settling into a smooth, fast lope, racing through the trees in the moonlight side-by-side. 

The Wolflord believes that you could be my songmate, Mac added quietly. He also believes that we owe you more than a vote of Deadwolf. Which is why we could fight our way free in the Fort: although he would not directly act against the majority vote of the senshal, the weight of his disapproval was smothering most of the wolves in the room. He is a sneaky bastard.

Gemma felt her heart lightening in hope. The feeling of rejection, the displacement of no longer being human, yet not being accepted by the wolves, eased faintly. She also felt a little tingle of pride in her veins as she realised that after all of Gus's training, she could run like this for several more hours. Minimum effort. She could run like a wolf. 





Several more hours? If only!



The sun was well over the horizon two days later when Gemma stumbled wearily and rolled, strategically angling her course underneath a thick bush and collapsing in a heap, back pressed against the trunk. Seconds later, a tawny-furred, black-clawed fist reached in and clamped on one of her forepaws. She bit it viciously and Mac cursed softly as he dragged her out. He clouted her sharply on the head, hissing, "They are only hours behind us again, Gemma," and she let go.

Let me lie still! she snarled grumpily.

No, he growled back.

They couldn't get away, Gemma thought fatalistically. The world's best tracker was on their tail, and although the endless wilderness was now being broken by more and more frequent roads, they didn't stand a chance. Gemma had realised the truth of Jasmine's words about the petrochemical stench the first time they had sprinted across the asphalt, her empty stomach heaving at the stain of diesel on the surface. She had thought that Mac's plan might be to stow away in a car, but no way. There was no way out.

Mac nipped her smartly: Run. Angrily, wearily, she broke back into a stumbling lope. 

And trust me, he added.

Mac wouldn't, couldn't tell her his plan. Early the day before yesterday, then again late yesterday evening, her mind had been gently read, and diverted by one of her mordeurs. Mac was pretty sure it had been the boy. Orders had stroked into her mind; gentle, insidious messages for her to look around carefully, cataloguing the view, especially the direction that they were running in, and then to run from Mac towards a landmark or the sun. She had obeyed without thinking, without even realising that the suggestions came from without.

Mac had attacked her both times, and her fear and anger at the relentless nips of his sharp teeth had pushed her into berserker rage, breaking her free of the hold on her mind as she had turned to chase her tormenter deeper into the wild forest. Her mate had only pinned her down and cajoled her back into calmness once he had felt the cub lose his hold on her, when they were outside the yip's short range. Mac told her that the cub was being driven around in a car, by those trying to locate them. How did Mac know? He wouldn't tell her. The cub could read her too easily.

Eugh, thought Gemma, revolted.

You're getting stronger by the hour, picchu, Mac reassured her. Give it a few weeks and you'll be able to break free of him anyway: all werewolves grow free of their mordeur eventually, and most mordeurs are Alphas, with much greater mental control than that obnoxious little creature. 



Isn't that when I go totally insane? she snarled back at him tiredly. She was running again. Her pads were on fire. Her joints felt like they were disintegrating. Her head ached with tiredness. Her stomach was sour and trembling in sick emptiness. Bossy didn't even begin to cover the descriptions for Ulf-the-Implacable-Insufferable-Alpha-Mackeld currently seething through her head. Bossy, domineering, officious, overbearing, autocratic bastard of a dictator. She didn't care if he heard her.



Especially since I'm a female, like you said?



He'd said it way back when he'd first healed her. And she'd noted since that the only two feeble contenders for 'sane werewolf' in their legends were male.



I've been thinking about that, he replied, not in the least bothered by the stream of insults she kept conveying. So long as she kept running while she thought them. My guess is that wereem went insane more readily because they couldn't say no to sex. Even the few who weren't created as sex slaves would encourage anyone to mount them. And as their scent was Alfamme until they grew free of the shiele of their mordeur, almost any male would, given the chance. If the wereem wasn't naturally promiscuous, maybe it would have driven her mad. It seems to be what annoys you most, although there isn't a hope in hell of me letting another male get to you.

She knew that he was trying to distract her from the damn running. And she was partly distracted, but more by the slight hitch in his thoughts, which she was beginning to realise meant he was hiding something from her mid-sentence. Maybe she could find out what.

So male werewolves weren't so fuck-anything-that-moves? she asked.

Hell, yes, they too smelt Alpha, and had orgies of sjeste presenting to them. But I never heard of it bothering any of them.

Typical double standards. 

But don't I smell of that disgusting little cub's shiele, not yours?

You still have not completed the change, picchu. Just as it takes time for the wolf shiele to overcome the human immune system and turn one, it then takes more time to totally eradicate the human. Your current scent is a mixture - your remaining human scent, the shiele of your mordeurs - including me, and the growing scent of your own wolf shiele.

She was still partially human?

Dammit, he had distracted her. But she had realised what he'd probably avoided sharing with her when mentioning wereem sex-slaves. Nastily, she sniped, So until I go insane, if that little slime orders me to, I'll roll over and open my legs even to his Dad?

Eugh. The memory of herself naked on her back underneath the aroused Nicholas Grey shivered revulsion through her tired brain for an instant. She wished she hadn't voiced that disgusting idea, but couldn't seem to stop griping at her mate. 

Suddenly her whole being clenched in fear at the vicious scent which invaded her nose and she felt herself swung through the air to land forcefully back against a tree trunk, the clawed lycan hand at her throat tight and threatening, holding her suspended. She'd seen another wolf held by Mac in this pose, once, and now realised why that wolf had panicked as her feet scrabbled in the air, powerless. Her mate's scent was boiling with uncontrolled rage, and there was no hint of green in his eerily glowing, raging eyes.

His long teeth millimetres from her nose, he hissed into her face, "Until you can control yourself, Gemma, then I will fucking control you. There isn't a rabbit's chance in the ring - I will rip that pup apart if need be."

The shroud of black rage rising in Gemma's mind was smothered under the wave of intense relief which flooded through her suddenly, and she tasted the wild tang of him on her tongue as she spontaneously loup-kissed his nose in thanks. Until this moment she hadn't even recognised the deep fear lurking in her own mind and heart. Fear that the cub could make her do that. Mac's eyes blinked suddenly back to green, and then she was in his arms, lycan, and he was hugging her so tightly she could barely breathe.

"Oh Gem," he murmured against her hair. "Trust me. There is no way I would ever let him. I will look after you."

She kissed his throat, his collar bone, feeling the tears rising in her throat as she clenched them back.

The next second, he had dropped her back onto her feet and the Alpha loomed over her again. So fucking run, he glared, his teeth nearing her shoulder and she shied swiftly away, shifting loup and breaking back, impossibly, into a lope on all four throbbing paws. 

Damn obnoxious, overbearing, outrageously bossy wolf!



Oooh, touchy, he responded.



Will you stop listening to every grouch I think?



Well, if you'd shield your thoughts, I could, he replied softly.

She slammed that thought back at him, and felt him wince slightly.







Got to stay awake.



Stay awake.



Easier ordered than done. Now that the black rage that he'd fucking given her another order had worn off, the shimmer of exhaustion at the corner of her vision kept closing in. So far the exhaustion had been beaten back by the damn command he'd conveyed before running off into the woods. To fetch her some clothes.

Stay here and stay awake.

Damn his bossiness. 

Her eyes lit on the small black metal object lying beside her where she was slumped cross-legged on the grass, leaning back against a tree. Her shoulders were slowly sliding closer to the ground. 

Stay awake.

Yeah, right.

Eyes almost horizontal, she recognised the shiny black back of his BlackBerry. He'd left her his phone. He'd mentioned it, something about it being safe, but she'd been too angry to listen. Angry because he'd been about to leave her behind.

Why did she have to stay awake again? - oh yeah, the obnoxious kid. Apparently her mordeur would be able to subtly nudge her to sleep-walk, but she'd still be asleep, and unaware of what she was doing. Mac would have no way of knowing that she was moving, if that happened. Any more than she would. So she had to stay awake.

The slight tingle of fear at the idea of what the kid could whisper in her sleeping brain drove back the fog of exhaustion, sharpening her tired mind. It made sense to stay awake. A languid hand reached down and picked up the phone. Gemma watched dopily. She was aware that it was her hand, but it didn't seem to be really attached to her.

They were close enough to some human place for Mac to run off shopping, so maybe there was a signal, and she could check her email. Try to spark some life into her brain.

There was something wrong with the world when the guy went clothes shopping and the girl was ordered to stay behind.



Five minutes later, Gemma was sitting bolt upright, quivering for a different reason, hunched over the small screen.



Finally, she thought. It felt like a rocket had exploded in her head. It was expanding, burning brighter, more fiercely, firing energy through her tired mind.

This was it. 

She could kiss Craig, however irritating and pompous her somewhat unethical colleague was. Bless his probably overdue for a wash cotton socks.

All of the wolves had forbidden her to seek help from anyone else in searching out the ingredients for the scent-masking drug, too worried about the formula getting into the wrong hands. And she hadn't. This was something else, and a complete fluke.

Three months ago now, she had been snatched from her lab and taken to Marshmont, leaving in the laboratory fridge a set of unlabelled samples from her analysis of the cream which Mac had rubbed into her then-human back to leach out the silver. The samples had been thrown out by the time she'd gotten back, and she hadn't been surprised, it was lab policy. She'd just dismissed the matter from her mind.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 11



But now, Dr Craig Portisman had emailed her a curious, slightly arrogant apology. He'd been late into work the morning following the break-in (for a change), and had had no time to prepare for his Forensics master students' practical, what with having to work in a different lab (yeah, like the two minute walk down the corridor to the biochem lab would have really slowed him down), and cover her classes (she didn't teach on Wednesdays). Finding the unlabelled samples someone had left cluttering up the fridge (tsk, tsk) he'd used them as an impromptu lesson, setting his students the task of deciphering the ingredients. 

OK, once he'd heard Gemma questioning the lab technician after she'd gotten back, he'd realised that the samples had been hers, but it had been too late then, and he'd kept quiet. They'd have been thrown out anyway, as they were unlabelled. No harm done.

But now he was coming clean. Because, when finally marking their lab reports, he had realised that their students had discovered something so unbelievable that he wanted to publish the attached paper of their findings. Enough of them had found it for it not to be a chance. She could be co-author, if she'd let him know where she'd got the samples from.

Gee, thanks, Craig.

Actually, no, scratch the sarcasm. Thanks. Really.

Due no doubt to complete guesswork, the MSc students had hit upon something in the cream which was so blindingly impossible, Gemma had never checked for it in her own analyses of the scent-masking drug. The cream had contained traces of an unusual organic compound (Mac's skin cells, she guessed). Upon breakdown, it looked exactly like a common human enzyme, but with a different metal woven into the ribbon-like structure. The students had found a new enzyme.

Whoopee!

Her excitement rose when she recognised that as this wolf-skin enzyme was based on antimony (not cadmium, which she'd thought had been the only possibility apart from zinc, and as the spectroscopy had indicated), then she could predict what it might form when coated with the scent-masking drug. She would be able to work it out. Here was the clue, the key that she had been looking for.

Moreover, some of the enzyme structures reported had had trace concentrations of silver bound inside the enzyme in place of some of the antimony molecules. The beginnings of a mask to scent?

Her heart was pounding, and a fierce light was burning in her head as she considered which stains she would need to work this out. Then her heart jolted.

If only she could still perform chemical analyses.

But the furnace was burning in her. She wasn't going to let a little thing like a deadly allergy to silver stop her. 

Hunched over the small screen, Gemma pulled up her latest email from Kate. It was useful having a friend who also worked at the university. Even if the linguistics researcher believed that a test-tube was merely a fiendish form of schnapps glass designed so that you had to down the contents in one. Kate had nevertheless agreed to pick up the remaining small amount of the scent-masking drug from Gemma's lab, and was keeping it in her home fridge in a fully sealed package, ready to mail on to Gemma. Time to get it forwarded.

Gemma's mind froze, stumbling over the words in the latest two-day old email from her human friend, words that leapt off the page at her. 

'Unbelievable - who would ransack a chemistry laboratory, for heaven's sake? Alison told me all the dangerous chemicals are locked in the store upstairs, they're completely bewildered and the police can't find anything gone, although they're trying to link it with the break-in you had there a couple of months ago.'

Damn. Probably rightly.

Gemma was shivering. She hadn't really thought that anyone would try and get that last bit of the concoction, that there would be any danger for Kate. Really. After all, the Aster had the formulae now, captured from the Grey lair. Although she and Dr Maynard had yet to decipher one for the scent-masking drug. 

Maybe the formula wasn't there? Maybe someone knew this? Someone who had broken into her lab to retrieve the last bit of the potion from the phial that Mac had taken off Nick?

So long as no-one realised that Kate now had it. 

Gemma's stomach was sinking, a cold feel growing inside her. The edges of her vision began to blur with the unreasoning anger, but she pushed it back. That wouldn't help.

Maybe he did realise. Nick had once hacked into Mac's Instant Messenger account. Could he read her email?

Gemma's stomach cramped, and she felt her hackles rising slightly. Black spots swarmed across her eyes, her mind blurring, and she slammed her defences up, struggling to hold the rage at bay.

She just had to assume that no-one had yet managed to hack through the university email security, as Kate's house hadn't been ransacked too. Or it hadn't two days ago. She had to get the dangerous package away from her human friend. Now. Right now.

Her muscles were all aching in tension, and the black spots began to force their way back into her tired head. 

A two day old email. What had happened since?

Gemma's forehead creased as she fought to hold back the fear-fuelled rage gathering behind her eyes, the spots spreading to block her sight. Dimly through her darkened vision, fighting to keep her mind clear, her eyes swam over the names on the screen as she scrolled through Mac's contacts. Her shaking fingers and nails were lengthening as she pressed call too hard, finding the first of the names she sought.

Pick up. Pick up. Pick up NOW.

"Mac?" Gus's tone was flabbergasted. "What the hell -"

Gemma broke in on him, her voice shaking with rage and fear as she stuttered out the words: "Kate took the last of the drug for me, Gus. But someone's broken into and ransacked my lab. If they've found out that she has it -" Her voice was rising in fear and anger, and she broke off, yelping, as the shattered glass in her hand cut into her palm. She yowled at the crushed BlackBerry in her wolf paw, flinging it away in fury as she bounded to her throbbing feet so that she could sprint to find an alternative method of communication. 

Why the fuck couldn't she control herself?

What if someone attacked Kate? Because of her?

Abruptly, her limbs locked with Mac's stay here order resounding in her mind, and it felt like the top of her head came off with the force of the rage exploding through her, the blackness obliterating her reason instantly.

She was flattened to the turf, fighting against the strong limbs pinning her to the ground, mind shadowed by clouds of black rage. She tried hard to bite the damn wolf but he reared his head back, evading her jaws. He fastened his teeth to the line of chin, the gentle bite sending a pulse of excitement through her, but she still bucked in rage under his heavy weight. His thick cock throbbed in the crease of her thighs, pressed against the entrance to her pussy, and the heat roared through her, rage melting under flame. She squirmed again, her legs parting slightly under his weight, and he grabbed her head and kissed her, hard. The blackness in her head vanished under pounding, aching heat.

Mac shifted human, and she followed suit without thought, widening her legs while he ripped open the fly of his heavy cotton trousers. She whined yes as he positioned the head of his cock, breathing harshly, and then he was sliding into her, weight heavy on her, the sweet, forceful stretch of his cock thrusting hard within her melting her body in pure, rich sensation. The rough, urgent pounding of his hips, the harsh, hot scent of his intense arousal built and built the lingering fire within her, pushing her higher. This was no gentle play; this was a raw, desperate mating. As she felt him biting down on her shoulder her brain whited out with the lightening creasing down her spine, and she heard her mate snarl through his clenched teeth, pushing his cock as deep as he could while he exploded within her.

Surfacing again, Gemma felt the blackness hovering inside her mind, clouds clustering as she remembered her damn idiocy in involving Kate in this mess at all. The words issuing from Mac were muffled under the coalescing rage, but his mind pushed through, and she heard the conveyed words echoing in her head.

Gus is en route.

The blackness lifted slightly, and she stared up at him bleakly.

I have set four of my wolves to guard Bethan and Kate, until Gus gets there and can deal with it. Postgrads - older wolves; they know to keep a very low profile, not draw any attention to the humans.

Then he was on his feet, hauling her to hers, pushing a bag into her hands as the black rage slithered away under the lash of her remorse. How could she have put her friends at risk?

They are fine. And you did right to ask Kate to remove the last bit - that may be the saving grace for the Aster.

He turned her around swiftly, and kissed her.

"Put your clothes on. Quickly, please," her mate requested, and turned away to re-fasten his trousers then pick up the splintered bits of phone casing while Gemma stared dazedly at the Hello Kitty backpack hanging from her fingers. 

Please, Gemma, focus, he asked. Nigel is less than thirty minutes behind. We didn't have time for that delay.

When would they have time to laze about and make love thoroughly? she grouched internally.

Get dressed, he answered. I will make time for us, I promise.

Trembling slightly in the aftermath of no sleep, constant running, too little food and too quick a fuck, Gemma pulled out the clean knickers and bra and swiftly dressed in them. 

What wouldn't she do for a shower.

The poppy-patterned cream blouse was tight cut, her breast pressing out against the soft material, and although the black shorts were looser, her pussy lips were way too overstimulated for the crotch rubbing not to be too much right now. Gemma bit her lip, close to tears at the drag of heat in her veins, too tired to fight it.

Mac asked her to raise her hair above her head. Bemusedly, trying not to think of how much she just wanted him to jump her again, she did as asked. A cloth covered her eyes, was knotted tightly behind her head and she choked in a breath, hands dropping to touch the soft folds: "What?.."

"I cannot allow you to see the road signs, picchu. I case Nick's cub comes within range again."

Gemma spluttered, the gentle curl of heat bursting back to full inferno her belly. It wasn't as if she minded the blindfold, but thought blocking out road signs was a bit of a wasted reason for wearing one. 

Did she never get enough?

Not of him.

There was a smile in Mac's thoughts as he turned her back to face him and kissed her gently, sliding his fingers through hers and tugging her down through the trees. Gemma stumbled after him, wondering how to trip him up and accidentally roll on top of him. 

Mac halted her after a very short walk; there was a slight, not unpleasant scent of metal and leather and oil. He dropped her hand, grunted lightly as something clicked mechanically, and she felt a brush of air as he moved, then a faint squeak and sigh. He lifted her hand again, and guided it to something made of smooth, rounded, padded leather.

She felt it over. 

"Get on," he urged. The heat of him was not far away, and she put at hand forward, patting at his shoulder, lower than usual, feeling down his back to the seat he was on, just ahead of hers. 

"A tandem? How'm I supposed to sit on a bicycle saddle when I'm this stimulated?" she grumbled sleepily.

Would she stop grumbling about everything? she complained to herself. The irony made her lips twitch. Her mate had a genius idea for scent-free travel and all she could do was gripe.

"If you think you've got it bad, picchu, you should try being male and aroused. Get on. I thought you might like our first stop to be the drive-through burger joint I spotted at the bottom of the hill."

Gemma scrambled eagerly astride the bike, ignoring the spike of feeling from her swollen labia. Food!

Someone was shaking her shoulder. Gemma mumbled, "Gerroff," drowsily into the mattress, sweeping a half-hearted arm through the air at her assailant. It didn't connect, and his hand returned to her shoulder to resume the shaking.

"Come on, picchu."

Damn bossy wolf. Gemma growled grouchily and burrowed herself further under the covers, squirming on her sleepy limbs to get away from that stubbornly persistent male and sink back into slumber. It wasn't like they had to take turns on watch or something. She remembered the sound of the anchor chain rattling down sometime last night.

She snarled sleepily, finding herself flipped up into his arms, still wrapped in the duvet. It was too much effort to do anything else, and she simply pressed her face into his shoulder to shut out the unwelcome sunlight, sinking back toward stupor.

Mac was swaying slightly to the motion of the boat as he carried her toward the short companion ladder. He had borrowed this small yacht off his friends Jonathan and Lianna, no trouble, when he and Gemma had turned up at the humans' house on their bicycle in a cloud of mud and road-stench. Apparently he'd been at college with Jonathan, years back. While the guys had filled the water tanks and checked the boat over quickly, Jonathan's wife had offered Gemma a heaven-sent shower, some toiletries, and spare clothes. As soon as they'd gotten under way out into the Great Lake, Mac had tucked Gemma into the bed in the aft cabin, and she'd sunk instantly into slumber. 

She would still be asleep if her wolf hadn't woken her up. Too soon. He really needed to learn to sleep longer. She could vaguely recall snuggling up to him at some point in that wide bed, why had he had to get up and drag her out of it?

As he hitched them both up the short flight of steps, Gemma tried to sink back into sleep.

God it was cold out here. 

She burrowed closer in to the warmth of Mac, pulling the duvet tighter around herself as he sat down at the back of the cockpit by the wheel. Her mate hugged her, cuddling her on his knees. She relaxed bonelessly against him and kept her eyes closed, trying to ignore the contrast of sunlight and light breeze dancing over her exposed right ear while the boat gently rose and fell, at anchor.

"I can sleep just as well in the cabin," she mumbled into his shirt. 

He sighed.

"I was hoping to share this sunrise with you," his chest rumbled as he replied.

Damn. How did he manage to make her feel slightly guilty for her grumpiness?

Gemma considered keeping her eyes closed. Just to show him. But no - she didn't get to see Mr Romantic very often, better not to waste it.

She sighed and stretched sleepily against him, straightening out her tight muscles before turning on his thighs to rest back against him, tucking the duvet over her feet where they rested on his knees, the back of her head nestling in the hollow of his shoulder. The sun was blinding against her still closed eyelids.

"This had better be good," she murmured, rubbing a hand across them.

Her eyes slowly blinked open. Closed. Open again. Gradually focused. Tears smarted, and ran from the corners, but she didn't think it was wholly from the brightness of the light. 

"Oh," she breathed wonderingly.

She felt cold lips nibble at her earlobe, then he kissed her softly underneath it.

"See?" he said teasingly. "I'm always right." Her right hand was resting gently against his thigh, and she changed the limb to lycan, swiftly extending and retracting her claws so that they prickled into his taut flesh, laughing softly when he jumped. He kissed her again, a smile against her skin.

"Sometimes," she amended softly, eyes resting peacefully on the beautiful, rich tapestry of light shimmering across the horizon ahead of them.

"Sometimes I'm always right?" he pursued. Then he swallowed.

Gemma barely noticed, absorbed in the beauty of the dawn. But she gradually became aware of the tension in the long-limbed frame underneath her, the slight tinge to his scent. Mac was uneasy.

What?

She turned her head to look up at her wolf. He was staring out at the dawn also, but his eyes were flickering black with some suppressed emotion. His expression was so carefully wiped clear that her heart clenched in worry.

"Mac?" she asked softly, combing a gentle hand through his tawny hair. Was something wrong with his pack? Had they not gotten away from the hunters?

Her stomach clenched again on a different worry. Was Grey torturing Natasha Vanilchov? Black rage spots danced in front of her eyes, but she forced them back. She had never really understood Mac's link with his adopted little sister, but knew that Tasha was very close to Mac. 

She caressed a hand over his cheek, quivering with her own worry. 

He was so tense.

"I wanted to ask you, picchu," his voice was low, barely audible. "You haven't had a lot of say in what has happened to you recently; there is no going back from being a werewolf, and no choice when you meet your songmate." He swallowed, and lifted her hand to press a soft kiss to the palm. Her hand tingled. It set off a chain reaction down her spine, and a soft explosion of moist heat low in her belly.

God, he smelt gorgeous. If he didn't also smell so damn worried, she'd be ripping his clothes off right now. Here. Luckily his scent was somewhat worried, so that she could restrain herself to just delicately unpicking the buttons on his shirt. Like this. 

And this.

Ok, so that third one had torn a bit, stupid slow button. 

Gemma struggled to tug her fingers out of the hand which had engulfed hers, but Mac held on, and the thickness of the worry in his scent broke through the heady lust. She looked back up into his black eyes, flecked with shimmering green. 

He was really troubled, or he wouldn't be hesitating about asking her whatever it was. Recently her wolf seemed to have taken to dictating to her what they were going to do, then dealing with the arguments according to her volubility and persistence. A habit she'd have to break him of.

Gemma lifted herself up, squirming around to kiss him softly on the lips. Again, and again, nibbling little kisses. He did so much for her. She was sorry she'd been so grouchy yesterday.

"Don't worry. Whatever it is, Mac, we'll sorry it out. I love you," she whispered, and felt his heart bound under her palm. Then his lips quirked faintly, and he lifted his own hands to cradle her head, thumbs stroking over her cheekbones as he looked deeply into her eyes. The deep, deep green was still swirling with black, and he swallowed again.

"Your Dad's birthday party next month," he began a little hoarsely. Gemma's heart clenched. Oh. Yes. Maybe she shouldn't go. She hadn't great control now, and in another few weeks - she seemed to be getting worse, less controlled. Her heart shrank further, realising her mate was trying to gently warn her that she would have to distance herself from those she loved. Well, from everyone else whom she loved. He could still control her. More or less. Her heart ached, mind echoing with bleak thoughts.

The gathering despondency was interrupted by the soft words he managed to choke out: "Would you go as my future wife? With me?"

What?



Gemma's heart sputtered to a standstill as she realised what he'd said. 

Her eyes fell, incredulous, to the little cream pasteboard cube now nested in his hand.

He fumbled open the small box with a finger. Her heart burst back into a battering pace, as she stared.

Mac never fumbled. 

He hadn't only been clothes shopping in town, a little wisp of thought curled inappropriately through her completely startled mind, while a beautiful little ring of alternating pairs of small emeralds and topazes, each separated by a single diamond, gleamed up at her. But it wasn't the ring that was making her heart swell, and tears spring to her eyes.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 11



"Mom invited you," she choked out the words, looking back up into his face. "But why? - I'm your songmate, Mac. I already belong to you."

His heart bounded and he smiled at her, eyes warm.

"I wanted," he bit his lip, a little hesitantly, "I want your parents to understand -" His voice cut off as she flung herself up against him, kneeling raised up on his thighs, hugging him as hard as she could, arms wrapped around his head.

"Is this a yes?" he whispered slightly unsteadily into her breasts, the plump mounds heaving against him. She couldn't let him go.

You know damn well it's a yes, she conveyed fiercely.

Say it aloud, he requested silently, his heart thundering. Then he asked formally, a slight tinge of amusement to his voice, the words muffled by the soft mounds pressing against his face: "Will you marry me, Dr Gemma Smith? Despite the fact that I'm occasionally a bit stubborn and have been known to bite from time to time?"

Occasionally a bit stubborn? A blush seemed to infuse her body. How many girls had a proposal whispered into their breasts, for Pete's sake? 

You picked this position, he reminded her. Not that he was complaining. I was all set to propose to you romantically on one knee at dawn, but nooo.

"Yes," she whispered back. There were a lot of things she wanted to say in return, but the scent of his rapidly rising lust was making her throat tight and her mind cloud over.

Good. Now we can both head back to bed. Mr Romantic had evidently skedaddled. Mac was on his feet and had leapt back down into the cabin with her in his arms even as he conveyed the thought.



But romance was not completely dead. They reached the shore the following day. Gemma's eyes widened as she took in the round, gleaming carriage waiting on the quay of the marina in the early morning sunlight. The four horses harnessed to it began shifting their weight slightly uneasily as Gemma and Mac approached up the gangway, even though they were downwind of the herbivores. 

A coach-and-four? 

She tried to decipher the logo discretely embossed on the side, just before Mac covered her eyes with his palm and murmured, "No peeking".

It would have been so much more romantic if she hadn't suspected that he'd covered her eyes so that she couldn't give their position away, however involuntarily.

Mac courteously took over holding the rear door for her from the driver, and she kept her head down, purposefully not looking while she climbed inside. Her mate was quivering with eagerness, and he pounced in after her as soon as she'd settled onto the springy, spacious seat. He rolled atop her and plastered her against the plush velvet, beginning to smother her face with kisses.

Her laughing protest was muffled by his greedy mouth, and the vague discomfort in her head at the idea of a driver watching them evaporated underneath those skilful lips.

It was a bit of a waste of a romantic carriage ride. Gemma didn't notice the equipage being set in motion; Mac's hands began to glide underneath her t-shirt. She didn't notice as the silk-lined, well-sprung vehicle crept its way off the smooth quayside onto a cobbled track either. Her mate's tongue slowly and strongly thrusting into her mouth in a very suggestive manner prevented her from noticing the bumps as they ascended slowly through the trees. 

Somewhere within her lurked a vague disappointment when the unsteady motion of the carriage smoothed out again, because she was no longer ground against Mac's hard body with each bump. She missed it. 

The smoothness of the asphalt road meant that she had to do her own grinding. Not an irretrievable situation.

She was aware of the flashes of sunlight beaming through gaps in the trees, because they bounced along the mesmerising lines of Mac's arms and bared chest, so smooth, hard, yet slightly yielding under her fingers. Who had pulled his shirt buttons off? They seemed to be scattered all over the seat and floor.

Some naughty woman.

She did, eventually, notice that the coach had stopped and the way-too-poker-faced driver was patiently holding the door open for them. But she only noticed because Mac sighed and leaped off her out of the opening. Her wolf, easily relaxed in his gaping shirt, untidy drawstring trousers, ruffled hair and bare feet, then spun to lift her out, swinging her around exuberantly in his arms. She laughed aloud at his joyous expression, blushing faintly as she pulled her own errant T-shirt back down to her waist.

T-shirts nowadays, they don't know how to behave.

Gemma was too distracted to notice where he was carrying her. The early morning sun was gleaming in a golden halo through his gorgeous mop of hair, which was still standing on end from her ministrations. That hair needed more attention. Lots of it. Gemma was purring internally to the feel of it teasing through her fingers when Mac stepped into the shadow of a vast building. Abruptly her lips froze, midway through kissing the bare skin over his bicep. Her heart bounded as she took in the breath-taking, beautiful view behind him, the multitude of rainbow colours of misty spray shimmering in the sunlight above the majestic falls; she only then realised that the roaring in her ears was partially external.

Mac stilled, and half turned so that he could follow her stunned gaze. A gentle sigh eased from his chest. They stood silent for a long moment. Gemma's throat was aching and a tear dewed the corner of her eye, peace curling through her. The fierce, perfect beauty of the light shimmering through the ceaselessly cascading water.

That's how you make me feel, picchu.

The words in her head were quiet, matter of fact. Her lip wobbled. Then Mac added, "Well, that as well," and a surge of lust powered through him as he turned to bound urgently on up the marble steps. Gemma struggled to suppress a sudden violent urge to bite him for the pathetic duration of his romantic conversation.

The urge was smothered as the vaulted entrance dwarfed them and she swallowed, blood shuddering in her veins at the awe and inadequacy thundering through her. She could see the doorman eyeing them surreptitiously, wondering who on earth this scruffy pair were. 

She flushed, vividly self-conscious in Lianne's T-shirt and baggy shorts, being carried by her barefoot mate, his slightly torn (tsk tsk) shirt hanging loose, across the marble atrium to a huge, ornate reception desk. Evidently they were in a hotel. A human hotel, judging by the scents of everyone around them. And a very, very exclusive one.

OK, Mac still managed to look fantastic whatever he wore - witness the several women around the hall eyeing him in both surreptitious and blatant admiration, but she was feeling seriously out of place. Everything around her was so discreet and expensive it was almost shrieking "What did the cat drag in?" at them. 

Her lips quirked against her mate's skin. Shhh. Mr Wolf doesn't like being called a pussycat.

Mac slanted a sarcastic eye down at her while he halted by the gleaming walnut countertop. She hadn't tried to hide that thought.

"Macmillan," he murmured succinctly to the really, really too instantly, eagerly attentive, immaculate blonde behind the desk. Gemma felt herself bristling at the faint hint of the girl's arousal in the air, the way the receptionist's eyes lingered on Mac's biceps, the light flush rising in the human's cheeks. A growl arose in her throat, but was smothered beneath lust at the brush of Mac's lips over her neck, and the light tingle of his breath in her ear when he turned his tawny head and murmured, "Easy, my picchu. Growling is not a common human trait. Just glare at her."

Who?

Oh. The girl.

Mac was now carrying her swiftly to the stairs, having hitched her briefly onto one arm to scoop up the keytag. She'd been too busy admiring his biceps herself at that point to bother who else was looking. But over his shoulder she couldn't help but notice the way the receptionist's eyes were transfixed by the smoothly pulling muscles in his taut buttocks as he loped easily away. Then the woman's starry eyes rose, tracing the broad shoulders, loosely defined under the gaping shirt. The small cherry-painted lips parted as a sigh escaped. 

Abruptly the human's gaze widened, caught by the dangerous light in the wereem's eyes, glaring over her mate's shoulder. But an imp of mischief seized Gemma, cresting over the rising anger, and she simply smiled wickedly and stuck out her tongue, an incredibly smug taunt gleaming in her sparkling eyes.

Which of us is he carrying to bed? Eat your heart out. 

The receptionist flushed scarlet and then blinked rapidly, dropping her head, eyes slightly fearful.

God, she'd enjoyed doing that.

"Picchu," growled her Alpha warningly, scenting the renewed aggression in her musk.

She wrinkled her nose up at him, and he flattened her abruptly against the side of the stairwell, and dove down for a smothering kiss, melting her into his embrace.

"Behave yourself," he warned. Eventually.

Gemma had to wrench herself back into coherency so that she could reply, but after a few deep breaths managed to force out a feeble squeak of, "Make me."

"Oh boy oh boy oh boy!" crowed her wolf, and suddenly they were bounding up the stairs four at a time. 

Why couldn't she keep her mouth shut?

What a ridiculously boring life she would have if she did. 

Oh boy oh boy oh boy, the exultant words echoed in her head while her taut, trembling skin shuddered in anticipatory glee.

The Rainbow Falls hotel. Wow. The hotel was renowned worldwide for the historical masquerade balls, held on the first Saturday of each season. Not her league at all, but so much fun for one night. Gemma's stomach was shimmering in excited anticipation. Tonight was the Fall Ball, and she'd had managed to cajole Mac into agreeing to attend. He'd enjoyed being cajoled. Especially as she'd mentioned that she'd appreciate it if he bought her some wolf-tooth caps, so that she could do it properly in future. 

Apparently they had to hide out for a couple of days while her mate sorted somewhere for them to disappear where she could still work, where Gus would deliver the remaining drug. Mac had reassured her that Gus had recovered the package from Kate, and her human friends were fine, although still under covert surveillance for their own safety. But they desperately needed an antidote as soon as possible, so that they could find Grey and find out how he'd manipulated his pack. Before he did it to anyone else.

They?

Gemma wasn't stupid. It had become increasingly evident that despite them both now being 'DeadWolf', Mac wasn't working in isolation. All Alphas could convey to each other. And at least one of his former allies was keeping him supplied with information to their benefit. She also knew that Mac had reported what he'd seen in the ex-Grey wolves to the Wolflord. She had a feeling Gus Fealden was currently on a covert mission as a delivery service to Deadwolf Laboratories.

But that was nothing she could deal with right now. They had a few days out of time. And her mate had picked this amazing place as a hideout.

Mmmmm.

Gemma felt her stomach fluttering in excited anticipation as she fitted the mask carefully over her irrepressible blissed-out expression and surveyed herself in the full-length mirror. She didn't think she'd lost this stupid smile for one second since her tawny-haired, gorgeous male model mate had kissed her breathless while he'd lowered her to her feet in the spa doorway two hours ago.

He had had to carry her back downstairs too. Her legs hadn't been working by that point. Much to his smug delight.

And hers. Oh oh oh and hers. Thank god as a werewolf she now recovered quickly. 

Her spine tingled. Her smile, impossibly, widened, a blatant, constant advertisement shouting "I have been supremely, gloriously fucked all day long." Would she just lose that cat-got-the-extra-scrumptious-thick-and-tongue-tingling-cream smile?

Gemma pulled a grumpy face at herself in the mirror. It bounced back instantly into a grin.

Huh.

She could pretend it was the dress making her smile. Gemma had always loved dressing up, since she was very little, and now she delighted in sweeping around the costumier's dressing room in the heavy, ruby red brocade, mastering her balance on the delicate heels. The bodice of the Elizabethan gown they had fitted for her was cut low, with a pattern of tiny pearl-coloured beads shimmering as she moved. The tight lacing around her waist make it seem tiny, lifting and supporting her full breasts in plump mounds, leaving her shoulders bare. The full boned skirt curved out almost horizontally from her waist, then dropped to just brush a large circle of the floor, swaying majestically as she walked. Gemma turned swiftly, and the full, heavy fabric swirled in a rich, sensuous curve around her, the weight pulling at the richly beaded waist, making her insides dance with the exotic, bewitching exuberance of this gown. 

Still smiling under her mask, Gemma swished superbly down the hallway to the reception area.

Apparently, the tradition was that the masked women would all assemble in the Honey Bar for an aperitif before the meal, and the males would swarm in to find them. Each man would offer to escort a lady to dinner, and newlyweds, or soon-be-weds, were the subject of much teasing attention, it being a point of honour among the other diners to attempt to fool or fluster either or both partners into accepting an alternative escort.

Like she wouldn't recognise her mate's scent. 

Her breath caught when the men finally appeared in the far doorway. Wow. She didn't need scent. His gorgeous hair was drawing her eyes across the room. Not just her eyes either, she could scent female interest rising around her. And she knew whose thick, tawny hair they were drooling at. Plus that strong, graceful, powerful build. The luscious lips. Mac looked magnificent, in a smart black velvet doublet, the slashed sleeves displaying a rich green silk which exactly matched the shade of his gorgeous eyes behind the mask. He stood in the doorway, hands on hips as he surveyed the room. His thighs stretched tight the skin-hugging hose, showing off the taut definition of muscle on his legs. And the tight mound of the codpiece at his groin. Gemma swallowed, eyes tracing over him. 

Then the green eyes caught hers, and he stepped toward her, drawing her gaze up, smiling, lifting her out of her private drool. Flaring, lustful black swirled into the green eyes as they slowly travelled down the length of her, and his desire scorched across the room while he speeded up his steady advance.

I think I may buy you that gorgeous dress. His thoughts were so blazingly heated, you'd never have thought he'd already spent most of the day fucking her.

She curtsied to him across the room, feeling the fire in his mind blazing higher as her deep cleavage was presented to him, pressing against the tight bodice.

Then she felt his irritation spike when his passage was impeded.

As she rose back to her feet, Gemma was first amused, then irritated, then felt a light tinge of anger as she watched the bevy of beautiful females jostling for turns to oh-so-accidentally sprint into his path, trip, or fling their clutch bag under his feet, so that Mac had to stop and they could start up a conversation. She tried to feel sorry for them; her mate was adept at swiftly disengaging himself, leaving a little trail of pouting ladies in his wake. It may be a game, but she had no doubt that the women would have played it to the rousing finale, given a chance.

Then gradually she became aware of the hint of danger growing in the sparkle in her mate's eyes as he crossed the room, and realised that she herself had collected a little circle of admirers.

The scent of their human arousal was cloying, a disturbing, distasteful drug in the air, surrounding her, making her twitch on a shudder, shrinking slightly. Then the bile rose in her throat at the increased, greedy, interest in the air aroused by her almost undetectable withdrawal.

The roman emperor to her left offered her a small bowl of olives, eyes gleaming as he tilted the dish. He drawled, "Mademoiselle?" and lifted one of the tart fruits, biting suggestively into its flesh, eyes gleaming lustfully. 

It should have made her giggle. But the scent was wrong, the thick, heavy pushing smell of male human arousal invading her head; the smothering, unsettling reek of gang lust rising from the group closing around her clouding her brain. The fear, the temper, the shattering fear of her own temper were rising with it. 

"No thanks," she breathed, and shrank away, trying to evade the posse around her. The predation in the scent rose with her fluttering movement as the men encircled her again, and she felt her hackles rising, teeth lengthening, the tang of anger sharp on her tongue.

Shh, my picchu. Calm. I am almost with you.

The words in her head soothed over her quivering tension. Then abruptly both she and her mate froze, incredulous, when she felt the oily skin of an olive being traced gently along her collar bone, then stroked suggestively down to trail along the V of her cleavage. The Caesar's eyes gleamed blatant meaning down at her, and she watched in disbelief as he lifted the fruit back to his lips and bit down, slowly. 

Right over her mate's naulu. Black fury obliterated her reason.

Coming back to herself, Gemma's vision was filtered through a black haze, her brain still seething. She was clamped to Mac's side, and clamped also within a powerful hold on her mind that she realised had prevented her from shifting wolf to rip the human to pieces. That man had dared to touch her.

I'll deal with him. Mac's anger echoed darkly in her head.

The wave of her own fury abated just as abruptly as it had descended, and she was released. Gemma stood blinking the last black flecks out of her vision while she distractedly watched a very suave, quietly seething wolf holding the large, struggling would-be emperor by a simple, unbreakable grip on the jaw, and casually forcing olive after olive after olive into the spluttering mouth, too swiftly for the man to expel them. She realised that she must have only been out of reason for a second. Silence gripped the little circle where they stood, and no-one except her mate moved. The rest of the men were watching avidly, mouths slightly open.

Breathlessly, they all waited. Olive followed olive. The silence and stillness, the realisation of what was happening were spreading out through the room as other guests and staff turned to watch and little murmurs rippled through the crowd.

The man's cheeks were bulging like an overindulgent chipmunk's, his eyes goggling at the uncanny force of the grip on his jaw and the strength of the fingers which ruthlessly posted the olives between his lips when Mac eventually broke the breathless hush, saying softly, "I believe my fiancée said no." Her wolf relentlessly forced yet another small fruit between the lips straining to close around the huge, choking mouthful. 

"Now, why don't you just apologise to her and then we can all go in to dinner in a nice, civilised manner, hmm?" continued Mac, halting the hand holding the next olive, the threat wreathed in silk. Gemma felt the male staff who had been moving warily and reluctantly towards them halt, and look at the intrusive Roman hopefully.

"Urgm zuggig," gargled the emperor plaintively, rolling his shocked eyes toward Gemma, olive-scented drool splattering over his chin. The faint wisp of anger in his sweat was smothered under the engulfing fear.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 12



"You're saying this was me?" asked Gemma incredulously, stroking her finger gently along the white crescent of a fresh scar on Mac's forearm. She shivered lightly in distaste, sitting on his lap. Her mate tightened his arm around her waist, pulling her closer against him and kissed her temple gently, lips smiling while he lazily steered the yacht one-handed.

"You're a feisty little madam when you want something: last night you wanted me." The deep voice resonated with smugness. Then he sighed mournfully before adding, "Whereas I just wanted a romantic, starlit cruise."

Gemma's heart lightened and she snorted indignantly. "Yes, well, you obviously need sparring practice - you must be getting slow if I can catch you." Then she soothed her fingertip a second time along the curve of the slightly raised white line, stroking gently, and guilt roiled again in her chest.

"You didn't want to fight me; you wanted to pin me down and ravish me," her mate corrected her. And then added in an undertone, "I don't think you were in a rage at all, you were just pretending."

Right. Her stomach was churning at the knowledge of the new blank gap in her life, but her lips were twitching.

"So the poor little Alpha got hurt trying to protect his virtue?" she drawled sarcastically.

"No, I got hurt because I let a delightfully enthusiastic werewolf have her wicked way with me," he grinned against her hair, before turning his head to nibble on her ear. "Couldn't resist."

Wait a sec. "I thought you, um, restrained me when we - when I'm in the rage and we're. Um. You and I," Gemma spluttered to a halt, a flush rising in her cheek. Blushing again, dammit.

She'd experienced the restraints a couple of times over the four days at Rainbow Falls - surfacing from the blankness to find herself bound and gagged, limbs immobilised. And usually being very thoroughly, lusciously adored with tongue, teeth, and hands. The whole of him. Damn the blank patches in her memory. She was missing so much.

Mac leaned closer and whispered the missing words in her ear, "When we're making love?" Her skin shivered to his breath. And his words. She'd noticed that the wolves tended to call a spade a spade, and a little glow lit inside now as he described how their sexual relationship was changing, too. Changing from less frantic to long, slow savouring of each other. Well, sometimes.

Her mate sat back again and shrugged. "You lost control last night because you hung down in the cabin too long, making us tea. Wolves get badly travel sick, partially from the confined feeling in most vehicles - I wasn't going to add to the torment. And no-one could hear you. Besides, you weren't really aggressive, just - uncontrolled." Mac's eyes were gleaming at the memory.

He had had to tie her up when she was insane over the last four days. The hotel had indicated that they were decidedly concerned about the loud shrieks and howls which sometimes emanated from their suite. And you couldn't effectually gag a wolf - or werewolf - without immobilising the claws also. Gemma had been the one who had insisted that they stay at Rainbow Falls as long as possible, not wanting the blissful escape to end. Not yet. Despite what Mac had said about it irritating the wolf in her, Gemma's secretly believed that her real annoyance with being tied up was that she couldn't remember.

He didn't agree. So could she persuade her mate to tie her up when she was compos mentis? No.

Damn stubborn wolf.

"You should restrain me: I bit you!" she murmured sadly, tracing the marks of her teeth.

She could feel his lips smiling as he kissed her again, right over his original bite on her neck, lips lingering.

"Yes, finally - thank-you." Her mate sighed happily. His voice deepened with feeling. "My picchu, you carry enough of my marks that no wolf could ever be in any doubt as to whom you belong. Now I finally carry yours. I thought you were never going to claim me."

Her blush deepened on the ripple of pride which welled up this time, and Gemma traced the mark again, this time with a hint of possessiveness, "So you let me bite you?"

"You should see the one on my left buttock," he whispered into her ear.

She'd claimed his butt? The blush fused up her neck, and she spluttered on her reply. Which failed to manifest as words. Or thoughts. Except one indignant wisp: He was making it up. Although actually, it sounded pretty likely. Very likely.

You can check if you like, he offered. Please do.

She ignored that.

Her brain was flickering through images of other places she'd like to bite him; claim him. He only had the two marks, on his arm and his buttock - plus the old tear on his chest where she'd bitten him the night after she was turned, but that wasn't as clear. Whereas she has dozens of his marks on her neck and shoulder - she obviously needed to catch up. Fair's fair. Her flush grew and insides squirmed. Why didn't she remember? she thought crossly.

You can do it again, any time you like, picchu. Please, oh please.

Gemma swallowed against the heat in his tone, and concentrated on her mind shield, pulling together some privacy to indulge in a bit of lustful fantasy. About maybe biting a delicate little trail down across his belly one day. Marking out her own personal track, the road to delight. Mmmm. She smiled to herself.

Mac shifted underneath her, unsettled, and his arousal growing. "Why're you hiding what you're thinking? I'm obviously participating in your head, why not share?" her mate growled grouchily.

Her smile grew, and Gemma pulled the shroud of her mind-shield closer. Her doft was thickening as she absorbed his amazing scent, and her nipples tingled into alertness, a ripple of awareness shivering over her skin.

Mac shuddered in echo, nipping her neck, his aroused musk thickening. "Dammit," he cursed into her skin in a muffled undertone, "Last time I teach you anything. You can hide your thoughts, Gem, but not your scent. Tell me what you're thinking."

Gemma chuckled internally at his insistence, and determinedly kept her thoughts shielded. She'd noticed that her wolf became a lot more excited when he had to guess what she was dreaming about, with her increasingly rich doft perfuming the air around them. A lot more excited.

A very, very good reason to learn to shield her thoughts properly.

Mac slid his right arm up her torso, his hand gliding up between her breasts, and Gemma twitched violently, feeling her control flicker. Cheat! She thought at him, and quickly lifted her head and looked out across the estuary, the shimmering water calming her, taking deep breaths.

Who invented any rules? he retorted, his fingertips tracing her delicate skin, making the nipples pucker and harden into bullets.

The suddenly blare of a warning siren sounded from close by across the water, and Mac suddenly lifted his head, focussed on a large metal marker poking out of the water, and cussed as he swiftly swung the boat around to pass to the right of it.

"Stop distracting me, picchu," he complained unfairly. "We're getting too close to shore - why don't you keep a lookout instead of playing silly games?"

"I win," Gemma whispered very quietly, hugging the arm that was back around her waist hard.

She heard his snort in her ear. "You mean you get a reprieve," Mac retorted, also sotto voce.

Gemma smiled again, while slowly her eyes and mind re-focussed on their surroundings.

The night had been clouded, and the dawn air was warm, the breeze a gentle brush on the skin while the yacht skimmed the last, long reach up the narrowing inlet toward the glittering lights of an awakening city sprawled across the river mouth they were approaching. Tiers upon tiers of houses rose, and the faint orange haloes of the streetlights outlining the surrounding hills were dimmed under the blinding blaze of the rising sun reflected on the multitude of windows.

Gemma sighed as the lips nibbling possessively over her neck lifted, and Mac adjusted their course again slightly to make way for a large containership heading out of the port. She blinked her dreamy eyes wider, taking in their destination, and snuggled her head back into the crook of his shoulder, tracing her fingers over the light hairs on his bare forearm.

"A city?" she asked softly, amazed. "You're planning on hiding a werewolf in a city?"

She wasn't sure what city this was, and didn't want to ask. She was even wary of focusing too keenly at the large, ostentatious buildings lining the majority of the central shoreline, in case she recognised a national monument.

She enjoyed the rumble of his chest behind and beneath her as he replied, "There was a house available here with a private laboratory."

Gemma sighed.

"Work. Working for wolves. When your stupid senshal have condemned me - and you by association," she growled. Why was she doing this again?

She felt her mate tense under her. He was possibly more angry about her sentence than she was.

She knew the answer to why work really. It was simple. For Mac. And for Ada, Anne, the other victims of Grey. Herself. But that didn't mean she wasn't irritated that the idiot senshal would gain too.

Mac forced his slightly trembling frame to relax. As far as possible. His lips brushed her skin again, and he murmured, "I'll make it up to you, picchu."

A sudden hope exploded, "You mean you'll finally tie me up when I'm compos mentis?" she pleaded.

He growled, half a groan. "Not when it'll drive you into rage, Gemma. Please don't ask me again."

"No, I mean, once I'm better? You threatened to once. I'm still waiting," her voice was an almost breathless pant by the end of the sentence, and she was trembling, finding it hard not to squirm on his lap.

Mac stilled suddenly under her, and she smelt a sudden pulse of something in his scent, something pungent, calling, unrecognised. It tingled down her spine, seeming to melt her bones.

Mac was trembling.

She turned on his thighs, and looked up into his face. His eyes were closed, but reopened on a scorching, yearning look which made her heart burn with aching fire, melting into feeling that had her leaning forwards to brush his lips with hers, over and over again.

His voice was a whisper when she retreated. "You have never, ever mentioned, "when I'm better" before, picchu."

Holding his eyes, the tremble became contagious, and Gemma sank against him, wrapping her arms around his wide shoulders and holding on fiercely.

Just - Mac.

"So?" she whispered eventually, and felt his chuckle shake his frame.

"Yes, I promise. When you're better I'll tie you up and indulge myself," he replied softly, voice rich layers of meaning.

"Yippee!" Gemma rejoiced quietly, the sound muffled against his skin, enjoying his laughter in response.

When she eventually turned her head back to see where they were, her eyes meandered over the mishmash of criss-crossing streets rising up over the low hills on either side of the inlet, roads disappearing behind the hilltops, and appearing again further away. Spires dotted the horizon, and a castle was perched on a low, solitary hill to their left. Beautiful. Crowded. Human.

She sighed.

This was the end of their little honeymoon. But even returning to reality couldn't quell the deep, satisfying melt of happiness which seemed to have grown inside her over the four days spent indulging her wolf and herself. She felt as though she was floating through life in a warm, steady glow.

Another flicker of memory of the hours lost to blank insanity flashed in the corner of her contentment, but Gemma pushed it away before it really registered. They had begun to treat her "lapses" as a slightly unfortunate commonplace, a tiresome inevitability which came and went a bit like a rainstorm. She might regret the lost time, and be secretly irritated at her own lack of control, but it made it easier on both of them, treating the rage irreverently, as an inconvenient misfortune.

She knew it was much easier on Mac, that when she was with him, sane, she wasn't despairing, angry, or sad. And it wasn't even an act. She defied anyone to remain sad with such a gorgeous mate. She hugged his warm, muscular arm to herself, feeling the reluctant revving up of Mac's own internal network, his skin beginning to exude the tingle of controlled power and enhanced alertness of the Alpha returning to full throttle as they skimmed under the light breeze toward the multitude of tall masts marking the marina.

Besides, she felt it was only fair that she do her best to make it easier for him - her mate made accepting the rage so much easier for her. Because she did trust him to control her, keep her from becoming a danger to others. She lifted his hand to kiss the palm, holding it open to admire the strong fingers and work-roughened palm. Kissed it again. So she would look after him in return, by being as normal, loving and cheeky as possible, while she was sane.

Suddenly her nose wrinkled as a waft of the smell of the streets they were approaching hit her nose.

"Why in a city?" she asked.

"More minds muffle conveyance, Gem, even humans' thoughts. The brat would have to be well within the metropolis, and in the right suburb, for you to come within his range," Mac replied.

Her petty little malevolent mordeur. Gemma shivered lightly.

"Besides, it's highly doubtful that they would even try to look here, as this is the last type of place any wolf with any sense would take an insane werewolf," he added.

Gemma smiled, and turned on his lap to nibble kisses on the lips of the senseless wolf she was perching on.

That evening, Gemma was nervous. It was a silly reaction: half of Mac's pack, well, more like the vast majority of all wolves she had met, blatantly distrusted werewolves and were deeply suspicious of her, yet here she was worrying that his human friends wouldn't like her. They were walking into the old town from the old wooden house close to the centre which Mac had arranged for them, to share a meal with Jonathan and Lianna. Mac's old friends had come out on the train to retrieve their yacht, and were going to take a long weekend holiday sailing it back. Mac had offered them dinner in thanks for the loan.

Gemma fiddled slightly nervously with her necklace as she walked down the road toward the harbour hand in hand with her wolf, glancing down at the flare of her new rose-patterned sundress, the soft fabric clinging to her possibly a bit too closely, frowning as she worried about it, biting her lip.

Then she smiled at the pattern of the artwork on her toes, peeping out of the end of her delicate sandals. Mac had hated her painting her toenails, choking hoarse breaths, pretending to retch, then disappearing in a huff around the corner of the old white-painted wooden house when she had continued to ignore him, leaving her sitting on the back porch in the dappled shade of the apple tree, indulging herself. Yes, she'd had to turn her head away to take a breath too, but they had come out very prettily, and the smell didn't bother her now that they were dry.

Mac half-growled. "I still prefer them natural," he grumped.

"You have no taste," she returned, "They are much prettier like this." Gemma stood on one leg and held out her left foot, wiggling the toes in the warm evening light, balancing with a hand on Mac's arm to demonstrate. "See?"

"Very pretty," agreed a man who was emerging from the side street to their left, and he grinned down at Gemma as he halted beside them, ready to cross the busy road too.

"Thanks," she replied, smiling back happily. The human was much taller than her own height, although possibly not much older than her own age, despite the creased, weather-beaten, slightly peaked-looking face under his mop of dark hair and the tanned lines which made him seem older. Worldly. His scent had a peculiar, fresh-yet-musty edge to it - something that set him apart as different to the detergent-and-cosmetic steeped humans back at the hotel. He was smiling at her gently, and the smile deepened as he looked into the soft brown, bright smiling eyes turned up to his.

"Hi, I'm Gemma, this is Mac," she introduced herself sunnily, putting out a hand, "We've just moved here."

There was an infinitesimal pause before the man reached out his own tanned, cracked hand, and gently shook hers, a strange light at the back of his eyes, smile twisting slightly. He shot a look at Mac.

"Her fiancé," her wolf augmented her introduction succinctly, his left hand closing lightly yet firmly around the bare skin of Gemma's upper arm, the arm closest to her new acquaintance, steadying and also enclosing her, while he held out his own right palm to shake.

"Samuel," replied the man, releasing Gemma's hand, his eyes lifting to the hand encircling her arm, then passing on to stare expressionlessly into Mac's face. He made no move to shake the Alpha's hand.

Gemma felt a light tingle up her spine, a warning at the slight edge of insolence staining the air, but she ignored the undertones and shot a teasing glance up at her mate, "See? My toes are pretty." She turned her gaze back to the human and added, "You have good taste."

"I'm not the only one," he agreed pointedly, and shot a second slightly envious, slightly challenging glance as her mate, the double meaning obvious.

Gemma felt the ever-present tingle of power shimmering off Mac's skin increase almost imperceptibly, while he courteously, non-confrontationally nodded to the human, dropping his hand. Her mate commented dryly, "I don't think he was complimenting you on your toes, picchu."

Samuel's lips twisted slightly in acknowledgement, his eyes drooping cynically, and both males eyed each other for further silent seconds, the lips of the human straightening into a hard line. There was a feeling of measuring in the air before abruptly Samuel breathed out harshly and twitched his eyes back to Gemma. Then he smiled again, sparkling, his eyes crinkling at the edges in accustomed creases. His gaze lingered a little too long looking into her face, softly lit with her joy in life, then he took in a long breath and muttered, "Enjoy your evening," and brushed past them.

Gemma's mouth opened to call after Samuel, draw him to relax into a little more chat, but Mac's hand closed around her elbow and he began to tug her across the road while he replied shortly, "Thanks. You too." Then he sighed quietly and added under his breath, "What is it with you and strays, Gem?" slightly exasperated.

"Stray? How do you call a human a stray?" Gemma objected in a low tone, glancing back over her shoulder again after the tall, retreating figure as she was towed away. Although her mate was right, she did think the guy needed - cheering up. Friendship. Companionship. Whatever you wanted to call it. He needed reasons to smile. Like Mac had once.

"He was homeless, Gem. Couldn't you scent it?" Mac replied. "And he's been in a fight very recently, and is on something. He was only noticing a beautiful girl, meant no harm initially, but he's naturally aggressive and started burning for a reason to pick a fight with me and prove how strong he is to you, prove himself."

Gemma watched Samuel's erect back disappearing around the corner. Her stomach quivered doubtfully, but she wanted to chase after him even more now, look after him. Somehow. Without offending him. Or Mac. Why were males so proud?

"Maybe I could offer him a snack in return for the compliment?"

"Maybe you could not insult him with handouts, and treat him as you would anyone else."




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 12



Gemma swallowed that, and allowed her mate to tug her down the cobbled old street toward the harbour.

Gemma was teasing Mac as they walked back up the same route much later, again hand in hand. Lianna and Jon had been delightful: relaxed, urbane, and obviously keenly interested and delighted in "Mac's girl." Jon had spent some time teasingly admonishing his old college friend for lapsing from his supposed vow of asceticism. When they had studied photography together up at Preston, Mac had apparently barely noticed the hordes of girls who had swooned around him all the time. The most he'd been seen doing was kissing one of them occasionally at parties, although he'd stopped even that when it made them so much more persistently determined. Jon had rolled his eyes at the memories, and told funny stories of having to step over girls waiting hopefully on their Mac's doorstep when he visited.

Gemma had found it fascinating to discover so much about her mate which she didn't know. She hadn't even known he had a arts masters, on top of the forestry degree he'd studied before becoming Alpha, and her brain was puzzling out how he'd managed to fit it in around running the pack and all else; well, she knew he had endless stamina, it shouldn't surprise her any longer.

The reminiscing had been so much fun, but not the best of the evening.

That had been the dogs.

They'd been at a small waterfront restaurant, relaxing together at little outdoor tables, enjoying the soft evening sun and scents, and the succulent, excellent seafood. It was as the light had begun to fade that Gemma had first noticed a pair of supplicating eyes gazing out of a mop of greying hair, the eyes of a small dog tucked quietly in a corner away from trampling feet, just staring.

Staring at Mac.

He or she had been quivering gently, longing etched along every line of the tiny, scruffy frame.

It was then that she'd begun to notice the others. Their table had been ringed by a motley collection of mongrels and pure-breds, all of them crouched quietly, half-hidden a circumspect distance from the Alpha. All worshiping with wary, silent respect, wistfully hoping for his acknowledgement. By the end of the meal, there had also been a little circle of offerings placed slightly closer to his feet: two balls, a bone, a sock, and even a small, very chewed-looking doll, each cautiously presented by an awestricken supplicant who had slunk out and then returned silently to their nooks.

Mac had been careful not to look at any of them, and had exasperatedly conveyed a rebuke to Gemma for doing so. The dogs weren't true pack animals, he'd told her, and weren't circumspect or reliably obedient. They would draw the attention of the humans just by gawping; generations of wolves had had to spend many a long night in Lemark training the local strays not to follow them everywhere so damn obviously there.

But they're cute, Gemma had replied, Go on, the little fluffy half-scotty is dying for you to look at her.

Mac had shot his mate a warning look, and Lianna had asked her about their new home, distracting her as she described the spacious three-bedroom house a little incredulously, and slightly. The large, old wooden structure was set on a corner of two streets very close to the old town, the garden backing onto an expanse of parkland. There were a multitude of rooms: two in the basement facing down the hill toward the sea, five at ground level and a further four bedrooms above. There was even an attic, an artist's studio awash with light.

Gemma couldn't help wondering what had Mac been doing in her cramped student flat if he could afford something like this.

But that wasn't what she wanted to talk to him about right now.

Gemma was dancing along beside her mate as they crossed the four-lane main road separating the old town from their residential area, looking up to tease him about his snooty distain of the sycophantic fan club.

His lips were twitching as he replied, "You just like them because you've finally come across some creatures even you could beat in a wolf fight."

"Hah!" retorted his mate cheerfully. "Really, I feel a certain bond with other creatures who are sneered at by the supercilious pure-bloods," she joked.

Without warning a shockingly sharp, tearing pain ripped through her mind on the echo of a piercing shriek.

Dazed, Gemma found that she was on the roadway, crushed down onto one knee by the pain, trembling in the aftermath. Then in a split second, the blankness that usually swamped her sanity smothered blanketing over the pain, dulling it, while her awareness of her surroundings yanked to full alert, sharply focussing on the headlights bearing down at speed, and her unconscious mate lying beside her in the road.

Mac had received the full force of that blast of pain; what she had caught had been an echo, through him, and that had been bad enough. There had also been a cry for help. Multiple, anguished voices.

Car.

In an instant she was on her feet, white face turned to the lights, waving her arms in panic to alert the driver. The horn blared and the vehicle swerved abruptly around them with a screech, violent swearing audible from the open window as it skidded past almost on two wheels, the air of its passing sucking at her skirt, diesel fumes choking sickness into her throat.

Horror-struck, Gemma focussed on the second set of lights not far behind, cresting the rise of the roadway, coming fast.

She dropped to squat beside her wolf, urgently forcing her arms under his shoulders, trying to clasp her small hands across his chest but unable to reach, instead clenching her fists in his shirt, heaving, hauling ineffectually. She was shouting desperately at the approaching vehicle with the tears rolling down her cheeks, panic fluttering in her veins.

She couldn't budge him. Not an inch.

On her feet again, her wet cheeks shining in the light as she windmilled her arms around her head, the car swerved with a screech around them, another set of gentler, gasped words rolling over her with the sound and the reek, but she was already back on her knees, desperately twisting Mac into a straight line, dimly remembering her first aid courses, hauling up his knee and heaving with all her might to roll him heavily onto his side.

Her skin was prickling with the thunder of an approaching truck, the peripheral awareness alerting her both to its size, and to the sleek car overtaking it - some insane driver, overtaking on the rise. Two sets of parallel lights approaching. Approaching fast as she heaved again, straining every muscle until she thought her veins would burst, and feeling her songmate roll over again onto his back, one measly foot closer to safety.

Then suddenly as the thunder of the engines grew louder, Mac moved. But not of his own volition. The face of the man dragging him was a rictus of furious, tortured strain, the thin, jean-clad legs almost folding under the weight of the wolf. A pulsing vein was etched sharply in the thin neck, a second thick line pulsing at his temple in the orange glow of the streetlights while the human strove with all his might to haul her mate backwards toward the side of the road, staggering slowly, yet inexorably, under the dead weight.

Gemma leapt back to her feet, heart bursting, waving frantically at the approaching blaze of lights as she kept pace protectively in front of the slow procession, gulping back the tears. The overtaking car's brakes shrieked, and the powerful vehicle slammed to a halt, bouncing back onto the rear tyres at the weight of the halted momentum. The powerful vehicle waited with the bumper two feet from her, hazard lights blinking, engine purring silently. The wide eyes of the driver watched the small cavalcade through the windscreen silently.

The human's breath was rasping hoarsely as he attempted to heave the dead weight of the wolf onto the kerb. Gemma dropped down to help, and together they hauled, tugged, and shoved relentlessly, breath panting in unison until the inanimate body was lying safely face-down on the walkway.

Breathing harshly, Gemma lifted her strained face to the rescuer, swiping away the tracks of tears, and her shocked eyes met his blazing blue ones. Samuel. Again.

"You," he choked, heaving for breath and for words to express the anger and incredulity on his face. "What were you thinking, staying out there with him?" he snarled at her furiously, a strange look of longing on his face. If his voice hadn't been so rough, the rebuke could have been Mac's. "What the f-. Insane! What, you think two dead is better than one?"

"Yes," the soft choked answer fell from her lips without thought, and stopped him dead. Samuel surged to his feet and stood glaring at her a sort of hurt, chest heaving.

The idea of leaving her mate had never entered her mind at all.

Samuel's eyes rested for a moment on the small hand cupped protectively over Mac's head, and he closed his eyes, and reopened them on a burning, bitter look.

"Be more careful in future!" he bit out, and swung to stalk off up the street, shoulders hunched angrily.

"Samuel!" Gemma called after him, plaintively. She owed him so much. But her voice broke, and the "Thank-you," was a choked whisper.

He didn't turn.

Mac was crying when he opened his eyes.

Haunted eyes.

He didn't say a word, just swung wearily to his feet and lifted her up into his arms, hugging her to him painfully, as though he needed to hold her, needed the comfort.

Gemma looked into those eyes and the questions died on her lips. She just slid her arms around him and held on, hugging him as hard as she could while he loped back up the hill toward their house, face buried in her hair, breathing raggedly.

She hadn't known that a call from his pack could be that debilitating. Each time, previously, he had taken a second or two to centre himself before answering, control paramount.

Mac hadn't known, either, he explained wearily once they were back at the flat. He sat frozen at the kitchen table, staring at the wood, while Gemma quickly made him a hot cup of coffee.

Nicolas Grey had just tested a new tactic, the Mackeld Alpha explained. Grey had coordinated simultaneous attacks of his remaining wolves on several of the younger Mackelds; those young wolves studying elsewhere, out of range of their families and the rest of the pack, when the link with their Alpha the only clear one sustaining the gensis, the pack-sense.

It was only during the past two generations that larger numbers of younger, less powerful wolves had travelled some distance to study, out of the communal range of the pack. And this of course made them vulnerable, although the vulnerability was not something Mac or anyone else had really thought of before. The Aster had been at peace among themselves for so long.

His voice was hoarse, and Mac struggled to continue, face twisting, eyes closed in grief. The young Mackeld wolves had been attacked and mutilated, severely and suddenly tortured, ripped through unbearable pain to the brink of the edge of life, where the only thing they could cling to was their Alpha. Four of them. Simultaneously. He shuddered.

Gemma was frozen by the sink, eyes wide, tears arrested by the horror as she stared across. How did he bear this? A hand reached her way, and she saw the raging pain in his eyes as she met them, heart creasing for his hurt, stepping closer automatically.

"Did they survive?" her whisper was quiet. Then she wished that she hadn't asked when she read the answer in his face.

"I have recalled all other remote members of the pack," was all Mac said, "And warned the Council." But there was something else in his face, another shadow.

"Gem," his voice was hoarse, and the hand reached again. She rested hers in it, twining her fingers around his, and he drew her back between his knees. She tried to enfold him in her arms but he held her away, and tilted his head up to hers, eyes sombre as a finger lightly caressed her cheek.

He tried to speak, but failed. Blinked, mouth twisted almost into a snarl. Gemma could feel her own heart shrinking within her. It was rarely her mate struggled to put something into words. Abruptly he lifted her right hand and kissed the palm, furious eyes glinting through tears of sadness as he looked into hers and said softly, straightly.

"Those were the wolves guarding Bethan and Kate."

Gemma stared.

Her friends. No.

She could feel the tremble of the rage rising like a tide within her as the meaning slowly sunk in, her fists clenching, lengthening claws digging into her palms.

Her fault.

"Are they -?" she manage to choke, her deadly teeth lifting in a silent snarl, her heart burning painfully in her breast, pounding, the guilt sickening. The stupid drug. Her fault.

"There is no trace of them - no bodies, no blood - I sent the other Mackelds to check on their way home. And there is no scent of any other wolf on the four dead," her mate said bleakly.

Captured? Hostages?

Mac's last words were filtered through the echoing, shattering anger as sickening images played through her mind of what Grey did to people in his power. Kill. Her own, piercing howl was inaudible to the werewolf, the taste of blood on her tongue blanked by the blackness in her head as she leapt to attack.

Gemma came round the following day, but the fire was flaming within her, burning fiercely, making her volatile and snappy, and this time she violently resented the time she'd wasted in the stupid rage. She spent all of the long, seething, guilt-ridden hours of the day working at setting up the lab in the basement. Rigid, furious determination drove her, and if her damn mate hadn't been larger, faster, more powerful and more stubborn and eloquent than she, she would not have left the flat at all until she had found a solution to that damn drug and tracked down and killed the fucking Grey wolf.

And, please God, freed her human friends.

Mac had had to literally drag her out of her lab and the house by one arm, ignoring her rising protests, insisting that he knew wolves, and that the wolf within her needed time outside. She had shut up as instructed on the street, glowering silently, and stumbled furiously along beside him, her arm held tight by his hand. A corner of her mind was wondering why the hell the towering anger she felt didn't consume her this time.

However, eating supper together at a little table down by the wall of the old fishing harbour, watching the waves rolling under the joyous sunset and scenting the breeze soothed something in her blood, mellowing out the fury into a deep, productive determination. Powerful, but no longer wasting energy in anger. Thank god for Mac. He thought of things. And he did know her, and understand the werewolf far better than she did. Now she could think clearly, not simply through rage, and do her best for her friends.

He was the most gorgeous, thoughtful mate in the world.

"Told you I'm always right," Mac murmured.

Alright, maybe he had a few irritating characteristics.

Then her heart melted again when she remembered what else he had done for her today, and she leaned across the table to kiss him.

While she had been out of it, her wolf had had an express package couriered from the Fealden range. A package of hair and blood samples donated by ex-Grey and Fealden wolves, so that she could test to see what was different about the polluted cells while waiting for Gus to arrive with the phial of the remaining drug that her Alpha had captured off Grey. She kissed Mac deeply, delighted that here was something that she could do now.

It would also stop him voicing his smugness.

They would have to wait a while longer for the drug itself to be delivered, Mac had explained earlier today. Fealden Wolflord had chartered a plane for Gus from Kilkenny, but his grandson had been ambushed by a pack of scentless wolves at the airfield. Gus had barely gotten away with the small flask intact; the enemy wolves had been intent on trying to smash or procure it, while trying to overpower or kill him. Gemma thought that it must have galled the massive wolf to run, but he knew what was important.

Gus would be a while, apparently. After a second ambush, pursuit, and a dangerous explosion on a flight he had intended to catch, Gus, Mac and Fealden had decided that it was safer that he run all the way from the Western mountains while evading pursuit. The sparse wolf airfields were too easy to monitor and flights too difficult to police against determined sabotage.

But now Gemma had plenty to do in the meantime, with all her samples. Moreover Mac had today introduced her, online, to an eminent retired physician in France, Valerie, who had offered to teach her wolf biochemistry through the secure web link his brother Karl had installed to the house. Valerie would guide her through how any drugs and minerals she isolated in her tests reacted in the wolf body.

Soon, soon.

A week later, Gemma's eyes gleamed as them met those of the physician on screen.

"So as you can see, there's definitely still traces of a barbiturate in the hair, and while all I really know about those compounds is that some humans use them when driving after drinking because the cops supposedly can't smell the alcohol - how do they work on wolves?" she asked.

"I -," the wolf woman hesitated, and the delicate, lined face was thoughtful as she looked up from reading the results on her own screen, glowing eyes slightly narrowed. "I am afraid I do not know. All I can recall is that we do not use them, because of the side effects. But at a sufficiently low dose, maybe -." She trailed off, and a finger came up to tap the side of her wrinkled cheek rapidly as she thought.

"If I draw together my old team, we will test this, find out -," Valerie added.

Gemma interrupted her, eyebrows twitching together. "I agreed with Fealden Wolflord before I started any of these tests that I would not share the results," she said softly, "You have been approved, so Mac tells me, but -."

Valerie's eyes flashed in return, the powerful glare suddenly scorching Gemma, and she blinked and shuddered in the burn. But then the lightening was gone and all the old physician said, softly, was, "If you can trust me, you can trust the people I trust. Mac will agree to this."

Then the slight Frenchwoman added, "There is silver in the hair also; and many other ingredients, you tell me. If you could find out which silver molecule it is, that would help; we react quite differently to different manifestations. I have just sent you a list of the general wolf autoimmune reactions to silver in its different forms."

The blue eyes were narrowed warningly: "This is also highly sensitive information. Do not share it."

Gemma nodded, her thudding heart still subsiding back to peace after that flash of burning power. Her eyes were slightly wary as she murmured stubbornly, "I will also ask Mac about your team."

Valerie's mouth thinned, and she looked straight into the wereem's eyes, her own flaring with churning, deep power again.

"You have no idea of protocol, have you? To say such a thing to a wolf is tantamount to asking for a fight," the physician stated coldly.

Gemma shuddered, still holding the searing blue eyes, although it was difficult; she was longing to blink and look away, "No, I have no idea of wolf protocol," she agreed. "Among humans, it is considered rude to share a secret without first checking with the one who entrusted you with it," she managed to answer against the feeling of challenge, as calmly as she could.

The aged face suddenly lit into a warm, true smile, the ominous feeling lifted, and Gemma breathed in shakily in the rebounding relaxation as the power in the eyes subsided.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 12



"Among wolves also. Ask by all means. I will not share this knowledge until you have confirmed with your Alpha," the old woman promised. Then she added, seemingly inconsequently, "You will make him an excellent mate."

Gemma's heart clenched in pain and longing. "I am a werewolf," she retorted gruffly, glancing down to open the new email which had appeared to hide her eyes. "Heaven only knows what I will end up." Then a thought occurred to her: "I wish - do you know if I can get hold of some of Dr Coulter's research papers so I can at least find out what might happen to me, what is likely?"

She wanted to shield Mac as best she could.

The disgusted snort which answered her was easily audible over the video link, and Gemma looked up from the notes on the wolf autoimmune response to silver, startled.

"You're the third werewolf she's ever met," Valerie answered the question in Gemma's eyes caustically. "So what makes her a 'Werewolf expert', hmm?"

The old lady shook her head, shrugging in a French fashion. "Today, perhaps, we know so little. But what you really need are copies of the old tracts from the physicians who used to actually deal with the werewolf armies, day in, day out, during the Steppe Wars and before. The ones Martha ignores because they do not agree with her. I believe that some remain in the Caucasian archives, and will see whether we can perhaps obtain copies."

Gemma smiled tentatively. She daren't hope.

Yet Valerie was proving to be such a gift. A sharply intelligent mentor, who seemed also genuinely interested in Gemma's responses to and frustrations with her changing self. She had charmingly asked only yesterday whether she could take notes on her young friend's progress; after all, though retired, she was a physician, and while she had known many werewolves when she was young, she had not paid much attention to them. It seemed to be the time now to redress that omission.

Gemma herself was a researcher, and here she found someone who wanted to help. Someone Gemma didn't have to hide the insane, feral side from. Someone it didn't hurt to see the steady erosion of her sanity or hear how it felt. Poor Mac.

Two days later, the young werewolf was again sitting cross-legged on the floor of her room in front of her computer screen, her brain firing with fierce volleys of careening thoughts as she read and sifted through the meanings in her latest email from the physician. Valerie's emails were never light, easy material. But they helped so much. She didn't register the soft sound of the heavy door opening behind her.

'I agree, the meticulous case notes in the last chapters of Meditations on Symptoms could be interpreted as meaning that some of the insane werewolves kept for observation periodically regained control of themselves, even once they appeared to have grown free of their Mordeur. However, the ancient language of the text makes the translation ambiguous, and there is no other surviving document such as this. Many believe that Amesteres was ridiculously biased towards werewolves. And nowadays, nobody cares.

The world has changed since the Steppe Wars, and the gap between humans and wolves has been growing for a long time. It is now extremely rare for a wolf to live among humans for a significant period, and it has been almost three millennia since last men were truly aware of our existence. As creating werewolves gradually became less needful, then less fashionable, then frowned upon, and of late downright illegal, we have also grown increasingly detached from humans.

I'm a little disturbed by the growing distrust and dislike of humans which is rising throughout our world, enhanced by the escalating industrialisation and urbanisation of human society. Tzo is not alone in advocating that we combat the pollution which so damages our ranges and restricts our freedom by direct attack on the source: the humans.'

"Picchuuuu?" Her mate's voice was soft, with an atrocious French accent. He had paused just inside the basement room, leaning back against the door which closed with a solid clunk. ""Not tonight, Picchu."," he misquoted.

"Mac!" Gemma cried joyously, bounding up from her position cross-legged on the empty floor, where she'd been sitting facing the large screen embedded into the cream concrete wall. She spun and ran happily across the echoing vault-like room to greet him, apologising, "You're back! I didn't hear you."

The relaxation of his taut frame was so slight that it was almost impossible to see, and besides she was mesmerised, as ever, by the beautiful grin that split his face while she sprang into his arms and hugged him as hard as she could.

"What, only a hug?" he complained, and she lifted her head, tilting it back while he bent his lips fiercely to hers. A long, slow tingle shimmered down her spine, and she felt the warm relaxation gradually melting through every pore while his arms tightened ardently.

She was panting hard when they finally broke apart, a happy little smile curving her lips, and she ran a gentle finger down his nose before she dove back in to hug him again.

"I didn't hear a peep from you, picchu, you are getting very good at shielding your thoughts automatically. What had you so absorbed?" her mate questioned, lifting her up indulgently so she could kiss his nose.

"Valerie's volunteers experienced a similar loss of scent when they tested a minuscule sample made of our latest findings," she explained happily. Mac rolled his eyes at the "our", but in truth he helped immensely - she had a fantastically energetic lab technician at the moment. He didn't know much about chemistry, but every single implement in the lab was meticulously washed, dried and returned to its place almost as soon as she placed it in the soaking solution, and any new chemical, implement or piece of equipment she asked for appeared overnight, if not within hours."

"The scentlessness only lasted for seconds, but -," Gemma grinned up at him, not finishing the sentence, and her mate lifted her up and swung her around in a circle, kissing her breathless.

"You genius," he said proudly as he put her back down again.

Gemma fluttered her lashes, wrinkling her nose cheekily up at him, muttering the words Alfamme matches Alpha under her breath while she regained her breath. Then she continued cheerfully, "There are other ingredients I haven't really worked out yet. The bit there must be to make it adhere to a wolf, because it lasts far longer in the ex-Greys, I'm still finding it hard to pin that down. And there is more to it, but we're getting there."

Mac dropped a brief further kiss on the tip of her nose, before releasing her, slanting smiling eyes back her way as he turned to wrap both hands around the smooth vertical bar of the handle embedded in the door.

We are a perfect match, he agreed, bracing his right foot on the wall beside the door, and gradually leaning back, hauling with all his weight and strength, pushing with his straightening leg.

Yup, we complement each other beautifully. I am the intelligent one. You are the delicious, brawny ornament, Gemma teased.

"It's a beautiful evening," she continued quickly before he could reply, resting her hand lightly on his straining back while she glanced up at the wide, short windows situated high up at the top of the blank concrete wall. She smiled at the shimmer of multi-coloured warm evening light bouncing through the panes down into the bare room. To think that she used to argue about him dragging her out to eat every night.

Slowly, as Mac hauled, breathing hard, the door cracked open.

"Shall we stroll down to the harbour?" she suggested.

They never spoke of the reason she was in this room; the deeply scored rips and bites on the door and doorframe, the scrabbling scratches up toward the high, soundproofed windows. She knew he detested leaving her in here, but as her rages frequently now lasted several hours, he had to leave her somewhere secure occasionally while he went out for food, or to replenish their chemical stock. Today he had been out to collect more samples for her from the parcel office. She had asked him to leave her behind, so that she could get on with deciphering the latest results. And the only safe place to leave her was in her basement strongroom, in case the rage hit.

She had been so touched, the first time she'd come around alone in here. Her computer was in the lab, but along with the other refinements he'd had added to the house before they moved in, his brother Karl had routed her office computer to an additional, huge touch-screen monitor embedded in the concrete wall of her 'panic room'. That was how she referred to this place. And the screen was not something with which she could hurt herself, or her mate, but a reminder as soon as she came to herself that her wolf loved her. Was thinking of her, and did his utmost to help. By giving her her work. And her contact with the outside world.

The door clicked into the locked-open position, and Mac sighed and let go of the handle, breathing deeply as he straightening up. He slid a hand down her arm to engulf hers and suggested, "The Waterfront Café?"

A normal couple, deciding where to go out for the evening. Gemma smiled to herself as she walked upstairs with her wolf.

"Only if you'll talk to the poor wee worshipping mongrels. I'm not being seen with a superior-than-thou almighty Alpha, it's embarrassing."

"Hah," responded Mac, "You wait until we're followed around like your Pied Piper, then you'll find out what embarrassing really is."

"They've promised not to," cajoled Gemma.

"They're dogs: most of them haven't any discipline," her mate objected.

"Nor have werewolves," she retorted.

Mac growled under his breath, snorting something that sounded like, "That old sympathy argument."

Gemma grinned and kissed his knuckles, "We wolf rejects must stick together."

Mac swooped around faster than she could blink, plastered her to the wall, and kissed her deeply, searingly. Reject?

Gemma struggled to think coherently as he lifted away, her mind shuddering from his passion, body aching in want and blood surging in her veins. The air brushing her skin was torture. Her body was so attuned to his.

Do you feel like a reject? he asked.

Gemma had to heave in a few more breaths, brain whirling in heat, before she managed to reply.

"Um -not sure," she whispered hoarsely. "Could we try that again?"

They were late for dinner.

Another week almost gone. This one frustrating in its lack of further progress. Gemma was sitting in her lab, labelling up a new set of plastic bags for the next series of experiments, and griping at Valerie over the web-link. Mac was upstairs in the kitchen, roasting something that smelled delicious.

"Yeah, I'll say the rage is getting stronger," complained Gemma. "I can't believe how contentious the wolf bit of me is," she growled to the old woman. Her mentor was sitting stiffly upright in her armchair, her strong, lined face clearly visible across the web-link in the pale evening light which was filtering in through the windows of her small home on the other side of the world.

"What happened?" responded Valerie. "What triggered the rage this time?"

Shifting her buttocks on her chair, slightly flushed, Gemma opened her mouth. "I -," her cheeks reddened, and her throat tightened around the next words.

She's a doctor, she reminded herself.

"I felt a sudden surge of - affection," she explained inadequately.

The old eyes crinkled in amusement.

"It was totally inappropriate," Gemma complained, suddenly eloquent. "We were in the middle of the grocery store, yet I was suddenly furious that he wouldn't let me -." She broke off, the red in her cheeks darkening.

However, Valerie was now serious, alert. "Are you sure? Were you aware yourself how inappropriate the time and place were?" she queried, eyes pondering something internal.

"Of course I was! We were in the middle of a crowd of happy shoppers, for Pete's sake!" squeaked Gemma.

"Then think," admonished the old physician. "The anger. And the lust - I refuse to call it affection - catalogue the sequence properly. I assume you were not at all angry about anything else initially?" she asked.

"No," returned Gemma, slightly puzzled. "I was happy - teasing him." She flushed darker again. She wasn't going to go into details about that.

"So hence your lust increased," concluded Valerie. "Because of where you were, did you supress it?"

"Of course I did! I'm not into exhibitionism."

Valerie smiled, "So, did you actually get angry with yourself for repressing your natural urges, or with your mate for rebuffing you?"

"With Mac!" retorted Gemma. "He -" She stopped abruptly, thinking back. She had been tense, feeling that shimmer of overpowering feeling - lust or rage, she wasn't sure which, growing within herself. So she had pulled down his head so that she could kiss him in blatant invitation.

She felt as though a heavy stone of guilt was sinking in her stomach.

She had already been seething when she kissed him, because she had been restraining herself.

And then she had raged at her mate, taken the fight to him when he had endorsed her own internal denial of the lust.

Dammit.

She felt a little sick. How was she supposed to deal with this? When she couldn't control the wolf inside her, she turned to Mac, expecting him to do so. Then attacking him when he did.

Head down, jaw jutting she glared at the foot of the wall, tears glistening in her eyes as she whispered as much to her mentor.

"Stupid wolf," she growled in conclusion. For once she didn't mean Mac.

Gemma heard a sigh from the speaker and looked up to see the old physician wrinkling her nose reflectively.

"Therein lies your problem, I think."

"You don't say - stupid, stupid, werewolf," Gemma cursed.

The liquid blue eyes lifted, and the alert gleam in them sent a jolt through the young werewolf sitting at her desk. "No, you misunderstood me," replied Valerie. "You treat the wolf part of you as though it were not part of you," added the Frenchwoman. "As an irritating disease, an enemy, and you never allow yourself to live in your wolf side."

"It keeps attacking people! Attacking Mac! All it ever .."

"I," interrupted Valerie firmly.

".. does is -. What?" exclaimed the werewolf.

"I keep attacking people," the little old lady corrected her phrasing. Gemma felt a surge of revulsion followed by a flash of rage, and glared at the screen. That is not me.

"And you are finding it harder to control because you never listen to what it is trying to tell you, convinced that the wolf side is merely insane and wrong. So you - the wolf, you - are getting angrier. The wolf within is not an enemy, Gemma. You have to learn to read that part of yourself, to pay attention to your instincts, because unless I miss my guess they are growing in strength as the change progresses. In a wolf-born the balance is pretty much half and half. And you will not be able to smother half of yourself, or even hold yourself in check much longer."

Gemma growled, furious. "IT is NOT ME!" she hissed. The wolf side was an irrational, feral bundle of nerves and powerful emotions that just messed everything up and wasted time, precious time, when she had a desperate feeling that she had so little left. That was what she resented most of all: the time lost in the mad rages, time which she could have, should have spent helping or loving her mate.

She was halted by a responding deeper, admonitory growl from the old woman rising to her feet on the screen. Valerie's eyes were growing dark, glowing as she walked forward toward the camera, glaring power. Even though the link, it echoed.

Something inside Gemma shrank. The internal, whirling bitterness subsided, to her astonishment, and she gaped, held by the glowing, fiery black-flecked blue eyes of her mentor. Wolf eyes.

"Don't growl at me, child," rebuked Valerie. Gemma's mouth was still open, or she'd have felt her jaw drop at the form of address.

"Shit happens. You are a wolf. Stop whining, accept it, and learn to live with it," said Valerie.

"I am a werewolf," spluttered Gemma.

"Shut up," responded the woman on the screen. "Which of us is the physician, here? Have you yet to find anything in our research to suggest that there is any tangible, physical difference between a wolf and a werewolf? I have not. And I know far better than you what to look for."

Gemma gaped for a moment longer, then felt a second rush of boiling anger at the hope briefly engendered by Frenchwoman's obtuseness and snarled, "The rut cycle. And no cubs."

"New wereem came into heat on average four times in the first year, which is principally why they were created," agreed Valerie. "Whereas a sjeste is fertile about once every three years. But a human female, once a month, is this not so?"

She continued, "The texts indicate that by the time a wereem had reached insanity, grown free, the rut frequency had also died down. They were then tiresome as pets, and dangerous to keep for sentimental reasons as they could be cunning in their rage, seeming sweet, yet treacherous, so were nearly always destroyed."

Gemma felt her lip lifting in a silent snarl, anger tightening along her skin. Yes, what she had read had communicated this knowledge also, but to hear it stated so matter-of-factly made her burn with resentment. It explained the attitude of the majority of wolves she'd met since she'd been turned. Wolves saw her as a mindless, dangerous plaything or accessory. She wouldn't explain things to a pet either. Or keep a dangerous one.

"There is no reason to believe that in time a wereem's reproductive system would not have reached the same two-year cycle as that of a sjeste," continued Valerie, breaking into Gemma's seething thoughts, the glowing blue eyes still holding her.

"Some were kept," growled Gemma. Kept as pets, curios, or ornaments.

"Only two records mention wereem who had not managed to kill and be killed by the end of their second year, and their cycles were never recorded. There was never the need. And yes, no wereem was ever noted to grow with a litter but during the change that is understandable, after all we cannot breed with humans, and after the change, a sample of two is too little to draw conclusions from."

Gemma half-whined, half-growled in response, her throat muffled with tears and the rage seething afresh through her. She felt as though part of her was melting in sadness. If only they could-.

"But that is for the future. First you have to remain sane," Valerie baldly stated, half answering the werewolf's unspoken wish. "And I believe that the reason you will go insane is not because it is predestined, or inevitable, but simply because you are too scared of the wolf now within you to try to learn to control it, and too bitter to recognise that what the wolf side suggests is not always irrational and idiotic. You have to learn to accept your wolf."

Gemma snarled full voice, fighting to bite the speaker from which the idiotic suggestion had emanated, but was held trapped by the deep, powerful eyes of the wolf on the screen. The Alfamme, she realised, startled, as she glared into those old, echoing, beckoning eyes. And a damn powerful one.

"Stop it!" the physician admonished on a sharp note. "I know you are angry - I would not wish to go through puberty again either, wracked by unfamiliar instincts, and especially not were half of me a fully rational adult, and the other a barely understood child-mind in an adult body. But that is how it is."




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 12



The accented voice softened, "Watching both you and the Mackeld together, I believe that you do have a true, deep bond. You both brighten and relax when he is with you. When you lose yourself to rage, he spends every atom of his strength protecting and trying to console his insane mate."

Valerie paused, and sighed. "If you lose the ability to regain your sanity, then he will spend the rest of the long life of a werewolf guarding you, and loathing himself for not protecting you from this. When you die, early or late, then so will he, in grief, and guilt."

The aged physician's voice was low, deep with feeling, and she paused again before adding, "Are you going to condemn your songmate to such an existence?"

Caught, Gemma stared at the screen, quivering. The urge to tear into the machine, rip herself, anything, was sinking beneath the weight of worry for her mate. And love of him. So, so much stronger. Tears welled up in her eyes as her emotions writhed under the soft words, and she shuddered. Yes. She knew Mac. Knew what she was doing to him. She couldn't do this to him. Yet she was.

Valerie smiled briefly, a flash of sun across the stern features, "Aha, as I thought. Both sides love him, and will pull together for this," she said with satisfaction.

Gemma breathed harshly into the long silence, and felt, in wonder, the rage ebbing away. This was the first time it had subsided fully in days. Tears welled up, and began to roll silently down her cheeks, head sinking as she pondered the impossible.

How to not get angry.

Gemma sank down onto her chair again, lifting her heels onto the seat and hugging her fur-covered lycan knees, stunned, her body shaking with fear of what she would do to Mac. Shuddering at the thought of what he went through, every time she lost control. How she would feel, if it was him slowly, slowly turning insane. And her fault, her bite. She couldn't bear it. But how could she control herself? The harder she tried, the harder it was to control. She lifted her wet eyes, begging to the Alfamme on the screen.

"How?" she whispered. No one else had managed it. No wereem. Ever.

"So," said Valerie, her voice soft again, caring, and she nodded in satisfaction. "You must learn to embrace the fierce, flamboyant, feral side. Not everything the wolf within guides you to do will be wrong, Gemma. It is like trying to suppress the urge to mate or eat or sleep - you may be able to smother or distract your wolf instincts for a while, in fact you must be able to, but you must also indulge them to survive. You must build in time to become a wolf mentally, as well as physically."

"How?" Gemma whispered again.

"We'll start simple," her old mentor reassured her, then smiled warmly. "Something you will enjoy. You and your mate."

Gemma growled in a sudden pulse of intense frustration, her clawed fist smashing down to squash the stupid, delicate myo-arm that she couldn't get to tease apart the fond filaments under the microscope.

Her fist was halted millimetres from impact by an immovable clasp about her wrist, and a second hand gripping her left hand tightly as she drew that back to use instead. Gemma snarled and wrenched against his hold, but Mac hauled her back, away from the bench lining the wall of the lab.

"I think you need a break, Gem," he said. The words were soft in her ear, smothered by the frustration dinning in her head as she fought viciously against the grip holding her fast, suspended above the floor as she squirmed.

Then she relaxed in his hold. Her jaw was still partially wolf, and she forced it back to human as she bit out, "I'll take a break when I've put this lot in the incubator." And waited for him to let go and get back to his own work setting up and calibrating the newly delivered photospectrometer on the other side of the laboratory.

"Well, I think you need a break now, Gemma. You've been getting more frustrated all morning," Mac said quietly.

Her insides twisted again with rage, and she wrenched against the unmoving grip, snarling, "I'll decide when I need a break!"

The Alpha's voice was even softer as he replied, "I'll give you a count of three to decide for yourself, Gem. Think about it. Are you thinking clearly right now? Just take a break until lunchtime."

He was going to order her out of the lab?

Her anger swelled, and she struggled harder, but his last word also caught at something inside her, and a different surge of feeling rose in contrast to the anger. She battled, head wanting to keep working, to not obey every little word he said. Yet her heart wanted to stop. And make lunch.

A pulse of happy anticipation surged through her, swamping the frustration, and the respite from the smothering anger allowed her to realise how unproductive her juvenile refusal to listen to his reasoning was. Simply because he always thought he was right. So Gemma stilled again suddenly, a little smile playing over her lips.

Lunch.

"OK," she breathed out, releasing the last of the anger, stomach trembling now for a different reason. Anticipation. "I'll stop working and make lunch if you promise not to come upstairs until it's ready."

Her blood began to purr.

His nostrils twitching to the abrupt change to his mate's scent, Mac set her gently back on the floor and turned her to face him, looking suspiciously down into her gleaming, hooded eyes.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

Gemma's smile was sweet, and smug. "Do you promise not to come upstairs until I call?" she repeated.

Mac's eyes narrowed a little, and he offered cautiously, "I promise not to come upstairs until you call me, unless you do something dangerous."

"Done," she agreed, shooting him a mischievous look.

Mac sighed, nipping her lower lip lightly in a soft kiss, and drawled, "What are you up to? I'm nervous."

Gemma pulled her face together and looked melancholy, sighing, "You don't trust me."

He snorted, "When you try and look innocent? No."

Gemma grinned back up at her mate, and set a finger to his lips.

"Shh," she whispered. "It's a surprise."

Mac made a noise that was half growl, half-whine under his breath, and nipped her finger.

Gemma laughed and turned towards the door. "I'll call you," she said.

"Be good," growled her wolf, turning back towards his task with a little smile on his face.

You bet.

Half an hour later, having prepared all the basic ingredients with care and set the dining room table, Gemma unearthed the simple jar of peanut butter from behind the washing powder, and stood weighing it in her hand, a little smile on her lips.

The jar was still sealed. She had sneakily bought it last time they'd been grocery shopping, while Mac had been at the deli counter ordering meat, and she had hidden it in her shoulder bag before rejoining him for the main shop.

She found it endearing that Mac had such a weakness for peanut butter. When he had first moved in with her in her flat, she had begun to notice that whenever she made herself a peanut butter sandwich or piece of toast, she'd find a new, unopened jar on the shelf the following day. Or later that evening. Eventually she'd investigated, and had found the old, empty pot hidden underneath the rest of the glass recycling, looking as though it had been licked clean.

Which it probably had, come to think of it.

She'd taxed her flatmate about it, and he'd looked very sheepish as he'd confessed. He could manage to leave a sealed jar alone, but as soon as it was open, he'd just have to have a little taste. Two. Or three. And end up buying her a replacement jar.

Gemma smiled to herself as she walked to the top of the stairs, holding the pot behind her back.

"You promise to stay downstairs until lunch is ready?" she called.

Mac appeared in the lab doorway, looking deeply suspicious as he took in her serious expression, belied by the sparkle in her eyes.

"I have promised, picchu," he agreed. "You are just making me more nervous now."

"Good wolf," she replied sunnily. Then Gemma pulled the jar out in front of her, unscrewed the cap, carefully broke the seal and took a tiny taste with the end of her index finger, smiling mmmm at him as the flavour exploded on her tongue.

The next second, the jar had disappeared from her grasp, and Mac was scooping out a fingerful, standing three steps below her, holding it out of her reach.

"Mac!" she called, shocked. He had promised.

"I'm still three stairs down," he grunted, the words muffled by the spread coating his tongue.

Gemma made an exasperated noise and dove for the jar, which was whisked out of her reach, although his other hand steadied her ungainly landing on the bare wooden steps.

Gemma stamped on his foot, grabbing again at the pot. His foot moved before hers landed, the stair echoed hollowly, and he smiled lazily at her around his third mouthful of peanut butter.

Tears sprang into Gemma's eyes, of irritation and disappointment, and she bit her bottom lip to stop it wobbling. "I'm making peanut butter chicken!" she protested, wiping off the blood from where her stupidly sharp teeth had sheared through her bottom lip, "Give me that! You're ruining my lunch plan."

Mac hesitated, finger poised, looking back deep into her eyes. Then his face contorted briefly in effort, and he handed her the jar. His hand was trembling faintly as he forced it to let go.

"Sorry - but don't challenge me unless you expect a reaction, picchu," he suggested quietly. Then Mac bent his head swiftly to run his tongue along her cut lip, sealing the bite. He followed up the healing with a soft brush of a peanut-scented kiss, before she moved back out of his reach.

Gemma stared up at him balefully. His eyebrows twitched together.

"What?" he drawled sarcastically. "Did you think I wouldn't react to you tormenting me with peanut butter?"

"I thought you would stay downstairs," she retorted.

"I am downstairs. You should be more specific in your demands," he replied, not in the least abashed.

Huh.

Then he smiled beautifully, a hopeful look appearing in his eyes. "Are you really making us chicken with peanut butter?" he asked.

"I was," Gemma answered sarcastically. "I will, if there's enough of one of the main ingredients left."

Mac leaned back in again and kissed her fleetingly, hard.

"You are gorgeous, you know that?" he said, eyes beaming.

Gemma tried to remain indignant, but melted in the face of his delight, and turned away with a little smile.

"Stay at the foot of the stairs, in the basement," she instructed over her shoulder as she walked back to the kitchen.

"Yes, oh my little jug of sweet sweetness," Mac replied, enthusiastically bounding back down the steps.

Gemma checked that the table looked perfect, untying the apron which he was wearing over her favourite sundress. She was still smiling, and her blood was soft in her veins. Valerie had been right. The wolf within her loved indulging her mate, settling into peace for the first time in days. And she was enjoying herself. While the food had been cooking she'd decorated the table, showered, rubbed lavender oil into every inch of her skin to make it extra supple and smooth, then dressed in the flared, simple green dress which he loved, carefully brushing out her long, wavy locks.

She hummed as she carefully polished a little water mark off his knife, and straightened it on the table. She couldn't do this all the time. But she could build in time to do it. She loved doing this. Loving him.

Gemma walked back to the top of the stairs, standing barefoot on the end of the carpet, and called softly, "Lunchtime."

Her ears twitched to a metallic clang, a crash and swoosh of a deluge of liquid from downstairs, and then soft lips brushed over hers, her fingers closed gently over the delicate object which stroked over them and Gemma stood gaping up the stairs to where her wolf had just disappeared from sight, shivering from the freezing drops of water which had hit her as he passed.

He'd jumped into the emergency shower?

Her eyes fell to the object in her hand. A peony: one of those which were still lingering in the flowerbeds outside the side door of the lab. Her lips twitched, as she realised that Mac wouldn't have even had to step outside to pick this for her, hence sticking to the letter of their agreement.

"The food will get --," she called indignantly after him, but stopped, breathless, when her wolf appeared beside her again before she finished the sentence, dressed in the immaculate white shirt which he hadn't worn since their first night out with Jonathan and Lianna, and taut black trousers moulded to his thighs. He usually wore loose, casual clothing, it made it easier to shift between wolf and human, but --oh, did she love him in tailored trousers and shirt.

His hair had been roughly towelled dry and raked back with his fingers, and his only ornament was the chain around his neck, from which, nestling against his chest in the v of his open shirt, hung her engagement ring for safe-keeping. She couldn't wear it in the rage.

Gemma gulped at the sudden, overwhelming sense of him, dazed eyes watching him wrestle with his cufflinks, gaze caught by the fine golden hairs decorating his strong wrists. Then she murmured shakily, "Let me," and stepped in to help. The heat of his body this close set her trembling, his musk melting into her. His breathing grew slightly heavier as she stood within the ring of his arms, shakily feeding the links through the buttonholes. She was aware of an answering tremor lighting along his limbs, his scent growing stronger.

"Let me wear my ring?" she requested, breathlessly.

Mac lifted her chin with a gentle finger, and looked deep into her eyes. Then he smiled softly, lifted the chain over his neck, freed the ring and kissed her palm before separating her slender fingers, hold her hand steady to thread his ring back onto the middle finger.

HELP!

Gemma's mind and heart were suddenly seared by a haunting cry. She was jolted, jerked into bewilderment and anguish by the feelings accompanying the single word: terror, misery, and a faint, final, begging hope; the little cub calling her was desperate, pleading.

Please help!

The scared, confused conveyance tugged at Gemma's heart strings, and she was already leaping toward the front door when she was halted by the palm clamped implacably around her wrist.

Please?

The fact that the conveyance was now being phrased as a request, rather than order, helped her mind to clear, and Gemma looked back over her shoulder to stare at her mate, startled, questioning.

Mac was perfectly still, standing in a very alert, wary stance. Battle ready. He had obviously caught an echo of the shout in her head, but he shook his own. "It's a trap," he muttered.

Gemma twisted her wrist frantically in his grip, stomach writhing in urgency. "She's in a forest - carried by her father; he's helping her convey, boosting her range, but he can't stop running," Gemma explained urgently, the tears starting in her eyes at the terror of the cub. "He's been recalled by Grey, somehow. And ordered to bring his daughter." The explanation was totally inadequate, she couldn't convey the weight of the desperation in her mind. Both the cub's, and the distant echo of the father's.

"I can sense the cub through you, picchu, but not the wolf," replied Mac. "Yes, your little mordeuse believes that they have been recalled, and maybe her father cannot fight it - although he can boost her call." But that does not mean that it is true, or that it is not a trap, he finished on a gentle conveyance. His words clouded the desperate cling of the cub, and she pushed them aside, impatient.

"Even if it is a trap, that cub needs help!" she protested.

If what she says is true, and Grey can somehow recall his wolves, then they all need help, Gemma. They need us to stop him; to find him. And to track him, we need you here, unravelling the drug. Mac was adamant.

Frustrated, frantic at the sinking hope in the scared mind still just clinging to hers, Gemma hauled at the unmoving hand about her wrist, snarling, "I have to go!"

Her Alpha's eyes were growing dark, glowing, "You have to think. Reason, Gemma. One cub, one adult - very sad, yes, but there are many, many more who need your help. Without you, none of them have any hope."

"Let me GO!" howled Gemma, yanking furiously at his implacable grip. She couldn't believe he'd said that, and glared at him furiously. "I am not sacrificing a little cub on the chance that we can save more. You can't be serious, Mac!" she protested.

Mac's eyes were opaque, black depths, the power echoing in them and he sighed softly, "I cannot allow you to go."

HAH.

"I am not your chattel," she gritted furiously between her teeth, anger melting through her.

She was wrestling bruisingly against his grip now, her second clawed fist also held fast so that she couldn't rake him with it, then suddenly she felt a pang of intense loss shoot through her as she lost her connection with the cub. The little tot had lost her last hope.

Gemma froze, washed by a new sense of guilt, and suddenly her head drooped to hide the tears running down her cheeks. Mac wouldn't let her go. Maybe he was right, but- she couldn't bear it. How could she? How could she go on? Go down to the lab and get on with the next test? Anne killed. Bethan and Kate had been taken. The young Mackeld wolves guarding them had also been killed. Now she was abandoning a tiny cub to Grey. God only knew what he would do to her.

Her mate stepped closer, sliding his palms softly up her arms, but she stood frozen, her mind racing, driven by knotted, bone-deep pain. No. She couldn't accept this.

"Will you go?" she asked her mate softly, voice choked.

"I have to guard you, Gemma," Mac answered.

And guard others from her.

"I will stay in the room," she promised, the desperation rising within her. Don't give up, little cub. "I have a lot of results that need interpretation; I can work in there, work with Valerie; you said it yourself, no-one will find me here, in the city." Please don't give up.

Mac growled, "I don't think anyone will find you in the city, Gemma. But I can't risk it, and leave you unguarded."

Her head snapped up, and she stared intently up into those glowing eyes, her own fiery, "The risk is minuscule, compared with the risk to that cub and her father. I heard them, Mac, you didn't, not properly. She can't - we can't just leave her. Them. And you know why Grey wants to get hold of my other mordeur, don't you? She is being taken back because of me."

She stared up at him, eyes fierce, yet begging.

Her Alpha stared down at her silently, challengingly.

Her lip was lifting as she continued, but her face was also creasing in sorrow, emotion writhing through her, "I can't leave her to whatever Grey has in store for her, Mac. I can't. You can't."

There was a silent battle going on between them, she felt as though she was battering against that wall of iron control, soundlessly hammering her fists against the unyielding surface. Mac knew what was logical, what was right. He wasn't budging. He wouldn't repeat it, but she could feel the no in his mind.

Her face puckered. "I can't," she rasped harshly, angry at her own tears, closing her eyes to squeeze them back, "Please, Mac."

He flinched.

Her eyes flashed open again, and she stared hopefully up into his angry, frustrated expression. Mac didn't believe this was a good thing to do at all.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 12



"I may be gone days," he objected brusquely, "I can't leave you alone, and caged, for that long, you will get too - upset."

She could feel him aching at the thought, with the fear that he might lose her.

"I'll be fi-," Gemma choked suddenly, realising that they both knew that she wouldn't be fine. They knew it. But she had to persuade him to go. Please Mac.

"I'll kiss you a lot when you get back," she whispered an amended promise, staring up into his angry face, pleading eyes wet with tears.

"You already kiss me a lot," he growled back, glaring at her. His eyes were echoing with anger that she would ask this of him. And anger that he couldn't deny her when she was this desperate, however hazardous the outcome.

"Where the hell were they, what is her range?" he snapped.

The tears rolled freely as Gemma dropped her shields and showed her mate the image of the road sign the cub had sent, hope shining in her face as she slid her fingers into his hair and teased down his head to press gentle kisses of thanks to his lips, her heart swelling.

His eyes were burning with bitter anger as he pulled back out of her reach, saying, "I can track them from there, assuming his scent has revived." Then her Alpha glared down, the furious power in his eyes searing into her, making her shiver to the echo of it prickling in her veins, "You have to promise me that you will call if you feel any kind of threat, any tingle of unease, the slightest hint of the other mordeur. And check in with me every hour."

"I will," whispered Gemma, slightly startled by the shudder coursing through her from the look in his eyes. The gleam deepened, heightened, and her mind seemed to echo in battering waves of shock.

"Promise me: "I will check in every hour. I will call if I feel any unease or threat."," he insisted. She swayed, feeling her mind reeling even as a corner noted that this wasn't an order. Yet the feeling shimmering off him was shaking her, making her shiver under the force of it.

"I promise," she echoed, her eyes caught by his, and suddenly her skin tingled into alertness, body straining to the pulsing feeling within, and she realised what a promise meant to the feral wolf inside her. Her voice thickened, becoming more husky, "I promise that I will check in every hour - except when I'm asleep. And I promise to call you if I feel any hint of threat or unease."

Her brain was aching with the strain of forcing in the amendment. It didn't work.

Mac kissed her fiercely, promising in return, "I will wake you if you're asleep." The glow in his eyes was sinking as he turned away, adding pointedly, "I will also return if I think you are hiding anything from me."

The angry wolf had already marched over to the dining room table. He scooped up the lovingly prepared skewers of peanut-coated meat, and handed several to her, growling, "Eat!" as he stuffed one rapidly into his own mouth and splashed water into a glass with his other hand.

"I can finish clearing up, Mac, please get going."

His spun with the glass of water in his hands and the flash in his eyes just dared her to say any more. He was not at all happy about this anyway. Gemma tore off a mouthful without another word and swiftly chewed it down, gulping the water he handed her while he lifted a second skewer of meat for himself.

Their eyes met as he handed over more skewers, taking the glass, and his had softened slightly. Delicious, he conveyed softly, licking his lips, although his mind was still seething. Gemma blinked tears. She hated the feeling of him so angry at her. She also knew she was right.

Mac closed his hand around her fingers, where she was holding her own half-eaten skewer of meat, and guided her to lift it to his lips. His fierce eyes were holding hers, and he gently stripped a cube of tasty meat with his teeth.

I am furious, Gemma. But that does not change the fact that you are my mate. Mates share kill.

Gemma's lips quirked, slightly sadly, and she bit into the meat he was holding for her. She had been so happy making this meal for them. Best laid plans.

I suggest you make more of them next time, her mate replied shortly. He was still very angry, alert, and slightly preoccupied with his brain on full whirl as he planned what to do.

In minutes, her belly stuffed, the last, lonely piece of meat held unnoticed in one hand and a taut, brief kiss lingering on her lips, Gemma heard the door of her panic room clang shut behind her, and seconds later the echo of the front door closing and locking. Mac had swiftly dressed for a run while she'd changed into warm, comfortable clothing for her stay down here as instructed, and now he set off down the street at a fast pace.

Sudden fear creased Gemma's heart. What if he was right? What if it was just an elaborate trap, and she had sent him into it?

Please take care of yourself! the plea shot from her mind into his.

Mac's thoughts were calm as he replied, the tumult of emotions settled now that he had made his plans and was en route, Don't worry about me, picchu, I am not easy to trick. Just keep letting me know you're safe, and then I will be able to focus on the task in hand.

His tone soothed her worry. Mac was not concerned about getting caught in a trap; he was worried about her safety and sanity, locked in that little room without him on hand. Determined to return as soon as possible. Gemma stuffed the last piece of meat into her mouth, wiping her slightly greasy hand on the wall, for want of anything else, and then stopped as the flavour exploded in her mouth, savouring the rich taste, chewing slowly.

This tastes almost as good as you, she told him.

Mac wasn't amused. Look after yourself, my picchu. His mind was aching with half-hidden worry, and Gemma felt guilt roil in her stomach that she had made him leave.

I promise, she replied.

She was sober as she sank down in front of the screen and poked it to make it come on. But she noted internally that Valerie was right. Putting time aside to indulge her mate soothed her. This new tactic didn't prevent the rages from enveloping her when something dramatic happened, but she seemed to be calmer in between times, thankfully.

The smile grew a little impish.

Maybe the best way to look after herself, and so look after her mate, would therefore be to work on her secret plan while he was out.

Gemma managed to hold the rage at bay well into the second day, with Valerie's help, concentration and anticipation overriding the increasing worry, hunger, the itchy, confined feeling on her skin, and the reek from her small latrine in the corner.

The strict, controlled concentration required for creating the wolf travel sickness medication she was working on secretly with the French physician helped immensely. Valerie had been intrigued at the idea for the drug; wolves had never bothered to invent any such remedy, as they rarely saw any need to use vehicular transport. Yet humans had travel sickness pills, and had also adapted similar products for their pets.

Gemma's inner wolf was getting very excited at the idea of using the drug to evade her mate on the run for as long as possible, and her mentor was highly supportive of her indulging in a little "rut-evasion practice," to release some of the tension in them both. But Gemma would have to make it out of the city to turn it into a proper chase, and there was no way she could evade Mac long enough to get even out of their suburb on foot, never mind the whole metropolis, without an extra sneaky tactic.

He he he. In some ways it was good she had this time when she couldn't work on the scent-masking.

"And when he catches you, do not disappoint him by not putting up a good fight," the French physician advised absently, writing down their latest amendment to the travel-sickness drug for her ex-students to mix together and test.

"How do I fight off an Alpha? I can't fight at all," Gemma told the woman on the webcam tetchily, while looking again over the results of the latest skin samples from the ex-Grey wolves. And Mac's skin, as the only control she currently had. She was scowling slightly; she still couldn't work out what bound the damn scent-masking concoction to them. Hers just disintegrated in seconds, although there was a brief, scentless period.

"Yes you can. He's been training you while you're in the rage," Valerie replied calmly.

Gemma looked up. "He what?"

"Didn't you know? That's when you want to fight, so he shows you how. He trains you while you are raging, awake, and angry with him. Often for hours. He prefers to spend the time with you, and your wolf side is very physical, very ready to attack. It often seems to soothe you, then when you calm down and you're not angry with him - well, you often resurface at that point, you must know what you prefer to do with him in harmony."

No wonder she always came around absolutely ravenous.

Gemma's mouth was still open. He fought her! But - that was dangerous!

She spluttered, heaved a sigh, and then calmed down. Valerie wasn't the one she wanted to talk to about this stupidity. And she couldn't reach Mac at this distance. He was now the one who instigated the contact, and checked in with her.

"This conversation is just proving that I can't fight him off," she gritted to her mentor instead.

"Don't mistake not being able to injure him in a rage with not being able to fight him off, sane," Valerie replied. "A male who cannot run down and subdue a mate without harming her is unworthy to mate. If Mac did hurt you during the fight, even inadvertently, he would probably be so ashamed he would be unable to sustain an erection."

Gemma blushed even at the medical phrase, but remembered the four wolves fighting Mac when she'd been on heat, remembered their frozen, shocked reaction to the sound of her yelp. Ah.

"This is necessary, for male wolves are generally larger, and stronger, but if a sjeste truly does not desire one who catches her, he cannot subdue her. She may bite him. And if he will not listen, she may bite him anywhere she wishes, which works."

Gemma blushed again.

"Most sjeste love the fight, and find it very exciting if a strong male can overcome them," said the physician. "We rarely have to injure a would-be mate, they are very sensitive to scent, and realise if their attempts to subdue the female are not being successful. However, this is exceedingly rare with an Alpha. Most females just keel over at the scent of an aroused one, lifting tail and presenting their rump eagerly."

Valerie concluded, with a sigh, "An Alpha finds this tedious. We are hunting animals. The fight excites them too."

Gemma suddenly looked up, intent, her eyes on fire. "You mean - he is getting a lot of practice in on how to subdue me, while I'm crazy?" She was fuming now. Talk about unfair!

Valerie smiled. "He's the Mackeld Alpha. He has subdued all of the senior wolves of his pack, both times he fought the succession. I think it is you who is learning, not him."

Gemma was distracted. "So, what about Warlords and the Wolflord - how did they get their positions?" she asked. She'd been wondering about this. "Did Fealden fight every warrior on the continent? Or everywhere? He's the only living Wolflord, isn't he?" Gus had proudly told her this about his grandfather.

Valerie blinked, her eyes shadowed as she pondered her reply. "The Warlords - the Alphas of a region, if they need to work together against a common threat, will band together. A Warlord is chosen either because one Alpha clearly has knowledge which surpasses all others to combat that threat, or yes, by the defasio, but only among the Alphas."

"So Marsh beat Mac in a fight?" Gemma was a little surprised. From something Jeremy had once said, she didn't think they'd ever fought the defasio.

"I believe not," replied Valerie. "Your mate's natál, Tor, was Aster Warlord before he was killed, but then Jon Marsh took over as his second while Ulf was returning from Europe. I believe Ulf never even challenged Marsh, they were in the middle of the second invasion by then, it wasn't the moment."

So maybe her wolf could beat the Marsh. Not that she really cared. But she was secretly sure that he could.

"And the Wolflord?"

Valerie sighed. "A Wolflord only arises in extremes, there have only been a score or so throughout our history. He is a wolf whose battle meld gradually grows to the point where he can encompass several packs; even several Alliances."

Gemma was looking puzzled, so the French physician continued, "An Alliance is just that; the Alpha's agree to work together. Each pack still holds to its own Alpha, and the melds are separate, although the Warlord then links with the other Alphas, so he can direct all operations, albeit through relay, which delays things a little. The Warlord also has the double whammy of having to maintain the links outside his battle meld. It is very difficult to do, as the meld is basically a lock-down within each pack. He has to maintain pack meld and keep a series of communications open, but only through himself. That is why the senior wolf or Warlord often becomes the focal point for attack, his shield cannot be at full strength and allow conveyance outside the meld."

"So only the Warlord melds with the other Alphas?"

"No, it is not a meld, any Alpha can break free if needs be."

Gemma digested that. She wasn't quite sure what Valerie meant, but it sounded complicated. And difficult.

"And the Wolflord?" she pursued.

"A Wolflord. Hmm. When one Alpha will not only meld with anther, but releases his pack to meld directly also, all of the wolves together, then technically that creates a Wolflord. But the title has only been bestowed where overwhelming numbers of wolves join together under one Alpha, often repeatedly. The title is not hereditary, it is a rank, given to the lynchpin of the mass meld which occurs only when a threat is intense, and annihilating, a challenge to our very existence. No Alpha readily relinquishes his wolves to another."

No, she could bet they didn't.

"The power is colossal, but the strain also," Valerie continued. "It has often killed the Wolflord who held the meld, breaking him." Valerie's voice trailed off, her face brooding.

Gemma's face was surprised, and a little awed. She had felt the edge of Mac's battle meld once or twice, the strain of it. She couldn't imagine a wolf being able to hold more than one pack; to hold multiple times that number of connections in his head.

Ouch.

"It is over a century since Fealden last had to hold such a meld, but the wolves of your continent do not forget what they owe him," Valerie finished gruffly.

The Frenchwoman looked up suddenly above the top of her screen, and quickly pressed the camera off button. Gemma's skin prickled alert and she fell silent, listening to the sudden liquid ripple of French, and the sounds of other wolves moving around her mentor's living room. She got back to reading the last results of the scentless tests, silently.

After a few minutes, the screen flashed back on, and Valerie was smiling in satisfaction. "They managed a five minute journey on the bus, without significant symptoms," she announced proudly. "They did not test if for longer, but will do so tomorrow. However, I still think we should add a little more ascorbic."

Gemma grinned back, nodding, "It shouldn't do any harm, from what you say. You're the expert."

Valerie smiled again, "I do not do drugs like this. This was your idea, mon petit garou. But I believe that it is well worth pursuing. To make you well worth pursuing."

Gemma smiled slowly back.

A car alarm bleating stridently, incessantly in the street that night drove her frustration higher and higher until she was pulsing with the need to tear from the room and rip the damn thing to pieces. She tried to coolly remind herself that all she could was wait it out, but even the satisfied conveyance from Mac that he had both evaded the expected trap and caught, subdued and accepted father and daughter didn't block out the grating sound beating the black waves higher in her head.

"Oh, come off it," exclaimed Gemma indignantly several days later, looking down at her small Mordeuse in disbelief, "You don't even know what half of those words mean!"

Sometimes she wished that Mac had never rescued the damn ex-Greys.

Rowan wasn't paying attention. Having delivered her message, the cherubic little toddler was trying to climb up onto her favourite werewolf's knee, smearing spaghetti sauce on the lower half of Gemma's jeans. The little cub had forgotten her fear of the wereem soon after she and her father had arrived. And now none of the ex-Grey cubs showed the slightest fear of Gemma. A few of the adults emitted wisps of it, but those ones were not encouraged to hang around the house. That still left a respectable, growing crowd of ex-Grey adults and cubs who came and went all the time while the Alpha was out, a selection of whom were now cramped together in Gemma and Mac's kitchen, chattering happily over cups of coffee.

No-one knew how many of the ex-Greys had been recalled by Nicolas, because the pack had begun to disperse in chaos, to flee incoherently from Fealden's range as soon as they had begun to notice. A significant proportion had been on their way toward Medway when Mac had intercepted each, and fought them to a standstill. Most had then circled to the Alpha, suspicion overridden by a deeper fear, and a deeper instinct. Others such as Penny and Skye, Rowan's mother and natál, had since circled to him directly, alerted by family.

All of those who Mac been intercepted had had a small puncture wound, usually in their flank. They didn't recall being stung or injected. They just remembered the sudden, urgent, compelling order to return to their hated ex-leader.

Thank god Mac was stopping them. And now, his new warriors were helping him to widen the net, to assist their Alpha in redirecting many of their former packmates. Those warriors who weren't assigned as her guard, that is. Mac found it much easier to focus on the task of tracking down ex-Greys knowing that he could leave Gemma roaming freely in the house, free to work and socialise, while he was away. There were easily enough koiru - wolf warriors - here who could overpower her when she lost it.

Because the ex-Greys weren't scared of her. They were more scared of Grey, of being recalled. And fiercely loyal to both Mac and Gemma. Her head now constantly ached from each of the sore, cramped points in her mind where the ex-grey wolves had cloven to her, and Mac had shown her how to accept them. Each wolf's connection felt like a tight, tender knot in her mind. As though her hair was being grasped tightly: not quite painful, but aching. A constant, quiet mesh of constrictions.

At least they didn't convey to her. Mac had warned them not to except in extremes, and they preferred not to share thought, and so reveal some of their vile memories. Gemma was aware that her mate fielded the occasional sudden rush of feeling blasting towards her, usually an echo from one of the kids, but Mac kept her shielded. He was right, she couldn't deal with any further emotions just now, the pack gensis, mind mesh, made her grip on reality feel shaky. Although it also seemed to keep her slightly more grounded, the feeling of being part of a tightly knit, loyal group.

But she wanted to shield herself. Mac needed some kind of respite. He was constantly looking after her, and now the needs of the ex-Greys were making more and more demands as the pack grew. Attacks on outlying or remote Mackelds also commanded his attention increasingly frequently, so he worried how to keep them safe also. And Natasha needed strength, almost daily. Nick was trying a constant, slow pain to wear down the Vanilchov sjeste's will.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 13



Gemma lay in lycan form along the tree branch, silently watching the huge white wolf running past underneath her. She was shivering in eagerness, and felt a quick surge of excitement pulse through her as she watched his intent chase. But however beautiful the powerful, rhythmic footfalls, the damn wolf wasn't sprinting nose-to-ground at anything like full pace, which told her he was thinking about her trail more carefully than he was supposed to. Considering how aroused she was with all this tearing around trying to evade him, he was supposed to be more fuddled than this by her mating scent.

Typical. Some annoying Alphas were disappointingly good at controlling themselves.

Gemma smiled to herself, liquid want seeping between her thighs as her mate disappeared again amongst the dense trees.

However controlled he is, Mr Alpha didn't notice me above him, she thought smugly to herself. Thanks to the imperfect scent-masking drug she was wearing.

He'd probably guessed that she'd use it, though, her wolf wasn't stupid, and he knew she could disguise her scent for a few seconds.

The werewolf felt a little fuzzy-headed, disorientated when she slithered down from the tree, but couldn't work out whether it was an unknown side-effect of the drug, or the very well-known effect of the delicious scent of her aroused Alpha, which almost knocked her over when she landed silently on the springy turf.

Triumph shot through her; the scent was richer than she'd smelt it in weeks, since he'd started exhausting himself chasing down the ex-Grey wolves. She bit back a whimper of anticipation.

Gemma stiffened the suddenly intensely wobbly limbs which just wanted to fold to the ground and wait for him to come back and find her- Not helping!, and made a mental note-to-self as she swayed, fighting the desire. If she wanted to keep a clear head on the run, avoid his musk. Her blood pulsed in excitement, the arousal knotting her belly tighter.

What was the point in running? He would catch her soon anyway.

Um... the longer the chase, the more heated the mating?

Her feet started to stubble along the ground, driven by the urgent nudges from the still slightly in control corner of her mind.

Just imagine him even more aroused than this!

Her legs started moving faster, slightly more enthusiastically.

Yum yum yum.

Gemma shivered in the voracious hunger, but managed to force her limbs back to full pace - she was learning which arguments the wolf within understood too. Although actually it was hard to tell right now which part of her wanted to run away from him (none), and which part wanted to run after him (all); reason was only an occasional wisp flirting through the huge swirl of lust roaring through her.

Hauling herself away from him felt like pulling a steam train uphill, and she was panting hard when her brain finally resurfaced, trembling as she ran slowly through the trees, back-trailing her scent. And his.

Wrong direction. Wrong wrong wrong.

He's a wolf. He likes hunting.

The wild shiver in her blood settled into an intense, bone-deep tremor at that thought, less uncontrollable, but richer, and she finally managed to break into a sprint on all four paws, careering toward her next planned trick-point, scrabbling internally to hold a lid on the stubborn surges of lust which were still urging her to just turn around and follow this delicious, rich musk trail. Pounce on him. Tie him up again.

No Argen rope.

As she ran, suddenly she caught the scent of him overhauling her rapidly, and the excitement flared through her, a jolt of pleasure mixed with annoyance when she realised just how little time her mate had wasted on that false trail.

Damn Alpha.

Yippee!

Now she was really running flat out.

Chase me, chase me. The excitement was coursing higher, higher; competitiveness churning in her heated blood. The beauty was, she could run as fast as she could, because she knew he would still catch her.

Eventually.

Gemma dashed out of the trees at the foot of a tall sandstone cliff which was basking in the late evening sun, following her own earlier trail, with Mac's scent overlaying it. This was the only other place she'd used the scent-mask, a minuscule portion of it, while she'd scrambled scentless up the rock face earlier, to quickly arrange the rope over a handy tree protruding from a crack half way up, before she had leapt back down again onto the same spot.

Gemma could hear her mate's excited breathing as he burst from the trees behind her and she bounded on winged paws up the brief, steep incline of short, bare grass to the foot of the rock wall. Flashing lycan, she yanked down the loose tail of the rope she'd hidden, twirled it securely, multiple times around her furry right wrist and clamped it tight in her fist. Her stomach was jumping in a strange mixture of excitement and nervous squirming when she heard claws scraping on the large boulder directly below her, just as she slashed the cord holding the rock-bearing end of the rope secure with her own left hand. Trembling with arousal, the slight wereem was jerked up into the air when the released counterweight dropped free, and instinctively swept her legs wide, almost horizontal, to evade the wild, magnificent pounce of her mate as he leapt to catch her.

Her eyes gleamed down into his, laughter in the warm brown depths, when, at the top of his leap, twisting lycan in mid-air, Mac just missed getting hold of her. His fingers at full extent, claws sheathed, just managed to stroke lightly along the inside of her thigh while he missed his catch. But the gentle glide of his fingertips along the sensitive, naked skin of inner thigh, brushing over her wet pussy, made Gemma's eyes glaze over, and she gasped in a harsh breath, vision blurring as her aroused juices pulsed out in a short burst of pleasure.

Her eyes jerked back into focus at the burst of fire that suddenly ignited in the green-flecked black orbs holding hers at her intensely aroused scent, and Mac let out an involuntary howl of frustration as his delicious, wanton mate was towed further out of reach by her makeshift lift while he fell back to earth. He landed back as a wolf on all fours, clawing the turf in intense need, glaring want up at her, while Gemma's eyes were held, mesmerised by the inferno burning in his. She was dimly aware that she'd halted at the top of her lift, more aware of the deep tremble beginning to shake her outer limbs.

They stared at each other.

Both panting short breaths of lust.

Gemma felt a little tingle of mixed pride and almost fearful excitement as Mac slowly licked her errant pussy juice off his lips where the drops had fallen, his amused, hot eyes burning higher, promise of retribution trembling through every alert hair on his shoulders.

That was unintentional; you stroked me, she conveyed on a whisper, her spine creasing in a ripple of pleasure again as she relived the sensation of his touch.

Her mate didn't answer, but instead burst in a leap toward the rock tied to the rope holding her aloft. Gemma heart pulsed and she spun and clenched her clawed fist around the tree just as the weight holding her up fell off the other end of the rope. She began to haul her way quickly up the easy rock-face, desperate to get to the top and get away before her mate caught her, excitement shuddering in her veins.

She knew he would torture her with pleasure after that one.

A little bubble of glee clouded her mind, and she blinked, shaking her head to clear the lust.

Then she realised that she'd stopped moving, just clinging, heaving for breaths and panting, staring blankly into a deep crack in the stone while she trembled, trying to clear the fog of lust in her mind.

Her mate had disappeared from beneath her.

She shuddered again against the want, looked up, looked down, shook her head to try to clear it, judged the distances, and decided that she still had a better chance of reaching the top and carrying on than escaping if she headed back down, so lurched shakily back into a series of smooth, hurried moves up the slab. Maybe rock-climbing on the rut wasn't such a good idea. Her limbs seemed to have partially melted, and she was glad when she eventually rolled over the edge.

Running as fast as she could through the forest again on four paws, she knew she was making a racket, and her rich scent was leaving a trail a mile wide, but she couldn't help it, her blood was beating so wildly in excitement that she could barely hear, barely see, stumbling clumsily along the short grass under the trees. The anticipation pulsed higher and higher as she raced along, mind teeming almost incoherently through images of what was coming.

He was coming.

Think!

The rebuke- to-self shot into her head, and Gemma shuddered, swerving toward the deep river gully, blinking back into memory the only other trick she had left. A brief, coherent wisp pondered: how the hell was she supposed to do this when in heat, when his musk would make her even less capable of retaining a smidgeon of intelligence?

Mac footfalls were heavy behind her, she could hear him racing through the first fallen leaves in pursuit. Her spine was tingling at the noise, blood growing, impossibly, hotter.

Astonished. He never usually made any noise at all. But she could clearly hear him, getting nearer, nearer.

Slowly.

Her blood was thundering in her veins at the crisp crackle of the leaves under heavy, soft footfalls; the quiet, heavy breathing steadily gaining on her from behind, slowly, inexorably.

Dammit, he could run much faster than that, too, the thought surfaced through the racing excitement.

Realised.

Her mind blanked on a new surge of exhilaration and tingling trepidation as she recognised that her mate was purposefully running slowly, noisily. Overhauling her very, very gradually.

Letting her hear.

Letting her stay ahead.

For now.

Letting her know he could catch her whenever he wished.

Gemma collapsed into a roll, her legs giving out underneath her at the shattering excitement, the realisation of the futility of trying to outrun him pulsing through her veins. She sensed her mate pounce, gleefully; but a last, desperate surge of stubbornness shot through her, driving her roll to power back to her feet, then to dodge around a tree and tumble into an ungainly, uncoordinated sprint for the trunk of the fallen tree across the gorge. She tore across it at full stretch before turning at bay on the far side, rising to her feet as a lycan eyes glowing. A different, hotter fire melting her blood, stiffening her trembling limbs.

There was no other way off this grassy little plateau perched above the stream bed, apart from climbing further up the sheer hillside, which would take time, or climbing down into the ten-foot wide cleft the water had carved. Which would take her closer to him.

All right. Time to fight.

She was lightly swaying on her feet, blood pulsing, eyes gleaming, as she waited for him to try to reach her side of the gully. Guarding the tree-trunk bridge over the fifteen foot drop into the shallow, rocky streambed.

Panting, blood seething with want.

Mac halted on the opposite bank, drawing himself up to full height, lycan, eyes burning back into hers. Her eyes stroked over the rich colours of the tawny pelt; the strong, proud frame. God, he looked magnificent. Then his scent drifted across to her, and she shuddered, eyes losing focus for a moment.

It was a good job she was a bit stubborn too, or she'd just lie down right now in an enticing pose. Maybe on one side, with the curve of her hip clearly visible, one leg drawn up so that -- Concentrate! she cursed herself, and refocused on the aroused, gleaming eyes of her mate burning into hers across the narrow expanse separating them while he stepped closer, to the very edge of the log.

Caught you, he sent, in quiet satisfaction.

Glee simmered in her veins. Yes, he had cornered her. Caught her? Maybe. Maybe not.

So come and get me, she growled back. Daring him.

His eyes burned higher as he stepped slowly onto the log, still holding hers.

Another slow, meaningful step, those eyes gleaming hotter, hotter.

Don't be so sure of yourself, Mr Wolf.

When he was a third of the way across, Gemma bent and heaved the large rock lying at the edge of the gully over the side, watching as it snapped straight the thick cord she had tied securely to one of the sturdy branches, about a meter out from where it protruded from the side of the trunk.

The heavy weight swinging like a pendulum underneath the log began to twist it in a roll, and she looked up, her eyes burning smug, amused triumph at her Alpha across the gap between them.

What was that about having caught me? Bet I can climb off this shelf faster than you can climb out of that gully, she taunted.

Mac's eyes flashed as he exploded into a full-out sprint I wolf form up the falling log towards her, swift as an arrow, claws shredding the wood for purchase. The trunk was twisting as its downward momentum increased, but his paws kept pace effortlessly with the turning footing, eyes holding hers.

I knew you'd be up to something, he retorted, unfazed.

Gemma's blood pulsed, her own smugness faltering under an aroused jolt of trepidation, and her foot swept out to shove hard at the end of the log still rolling off this bank, pushing it over the edge in a surge of ridiculous panic as he swept nearer.

Then she leapt sideways and backwards, claws springing unnoticed from her fingers as she dodged the last, powerful leap of her Alpha, Mac springing faultlessly from the top of the falling trunk to land and roll across the grass at her feet, uncurling upright onto two legs in front of her, grinning at her.

His eyes were alight with pride and lust. Some of the pride, she realised, was in her.

Although the smug gleam at the back of his eyes was for himself, dammit.

Her blood was singing while she pounced at him, determined to wipe that smile off his face. She wasn't going to allow anyone that smug to mate her.

God, it was humiliating fighting him, she thought a few seconds later, a strange blend of frustration, pride and arousal churning through her each time she failed to dodge. Or connect.

The damn wolf kept kissing her.

She couldn't land a claw on him. Each time she launched an attack he evaded her effortlessly, then sneaked past her defences while she was still trying to work out where he'd gone. Alright, so he then gave her a good indication of where he was by the heated brush of his lips over her hyper-sensitive skin, but by the time she swiped for him again, he was standing back out of reach, his eyes gleaming, laughing at her, scorching her with ever greater smugness each time he paused to let her re-focus on him.

Her lips were burning with his kisses. Increasingly deep kisses. And the tremble in her limbs was growing to the light nips and suckling bites he also pressed to other parts of her body. She shuddered, trying not to melt under this onslaught. Tried to land another swipe on him while he kissed her deeply on the mouth, thrusting his tongue inside, but it took a second to break out of the fog of lust. Then he nibbled on her collar bone. Kissed her shoulder. Jawline. Stomach. Underneath her ear. Inner thigh. Damn him! Warm lips brushed over her palm, infuriatingly, millimetres from her deadly, purposeful claws.

Oh! She was burning with frustration. Both kinds.

And the kisses were getting harder. More sensual.

Her mind was beginning to swirl, losing to the lust.

"Nose," the husky, aroused voice drifted quietly into the air tingling against her skin.

While her fogged brain deciphered what he'd said, the melting wereem reeled backward from the feather-light kiss, exactly where he'd warned, and her eyes lit with a sudden surge of wrath that her mate was so damn smug.

She was in the air without thought, and her arms wrapped around his head as her powerful legs twined around his chest, trapping his right arm to his side when she landed on his back from behind. Her elbow was tight locked across his mouth, and she bent over to nip hard into his earlobe. The taste of him sent a little shiver of aroused possessiveness up her spine.

Mac was leaping and spinning even before she landed, the whirl so fast her head blurred, and even as her teeth closed on his earlobe she found that her legs were flying loose in the dizzying force, then she lost the grip on his head, then was held only by his arm cradled protectively across her back before she landed dazedly with her back against a tree, breath heaving one gulp of air before it was taken from her by the skilful, deep kiss of a lustfully hungry Alpha. His tongue was fencing with hers, forcing an entry, teasing around her mouth.

Her mind sunk in the pleasure of it, a wave of passion swamping her body when he began to thrust his stiff tongue down her throat, possessively, imitating his immediate intentions. The smothering lust was cut through by a flash of temper that he was so sure of himself, and Gemma's claws raked the air where he had been seconds before. She followed his swift retreat making furious, ineffectual swipes, growling in dissatisfaction before halting abruptly. This wasn't working.

Mac's eyes were gleaming with playful delight and he stood licking his lips, quivering in anticipation just outside of her reach. Then he leapt in again and immobilised her wrists, sweeping her legs out from underneath her with one of his, and twisting her to lower her face down against the soft turf, pinning her down with his weight atop her. He nudged his surging erection against the mound of her soft buttock, breathing hot excitement in her ear, and Gemma was washed over with a second surge of aching lust through which she heard the soft words against her hair: "Surrender to me." The wereem bucked in anger, snarling, wrenching free of his slackened hold as he sprang back to his feet and out of range, laughing.

Her legs were trembling as she rolled back to her feet, and she could feel the moisture pooling between her thighs.

Damn she wanted him.

But first she had to show him he wasn't boss. Bite him properly for being so smug.

She leapt again, this time aiming for his stomach, but found herself rolled onto her back, her wrists pinned beside her head, her bent legs held down beside her waist, feet almost touching her buttocks, stretched achingly wide by his weight as Mac leaned his weight against her thighs.

Her slit was completely exposed, stretched open beneath him. Her stomach clenched, the knot of desire cramping in a rush of excitement as a pulse of liquid surged urgently to moisten it further.

His heavy, throbbing cock was exuding heat and hunger just above her gaping, wide pussy lips. Every hair on her body tingled to alert and her eyes glazed over again as his scent thickened. The sense of complete immobilisation bowled her over. "You know you want to," he murmured gently. The anger flashed back and she blinked out the lust to glare back up into his burning eyes.

Mac held her gaze, his black eyes glittering with passion, and gently, oh so softly, slid the tip of his cock along the length of her aching, empty slit. He watched in deep pleasure as her eyes fluttered closed, an agony of craving washing across her face.

Then he laughed as they flashed open again, black frustrated anger glittering in the depths, and he leapt backwards off her as her long teeth snapped up into his face.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 13



"Come on then, Picchu," he coaxed her softly.

She pounced on him.

He seized her as she landed, spinning her to face away from him, and immobilising her wrists briefly as he nibbled lovingly on her earlobe from behind, murmuring "mmm". She could feel the want, the excitement pounding higher through him, and he pushed his hard, racing erection against her thigh.

"I'll make it good," he promised huskily.

She growled as he released her and jumped to bounce off a tree trunk, twisting in mid-air to dive on him from above. Mac laughed softly while dodging aside and catching her swooping form, spinning her in his embrace, bending her back over his arm, hips crushed briefly against hers to emphasise the growing, insistent bulge surging against her while bruising her lips under his with a deep kiss, before twirling her on out of reach in an odd woodland waltz.

Gemma's head was whirling, the kiss and the feel of his muscular form pressed against her imprinted on her skin, panting through her veins. She blinked as she spun to a halt, free, swaying, trying to remember why she was fighting him.

Because I adore you, her mate whispered in her head. Because I'm aching to make you surrender to me, watch you melt helplessly under me when I win.

When?

She spun again as the fire shot through her, diving to grapple him around the knees, topple him, but he bent faster than she could see and grabbed her thighs, lifting them up, apart, so she was arched upside-down with her back to his front, her hands still on his knees, her thighs parted about his head, legs resting on his shoulders. He blew softly onto the aching, wet, wanting slit inches in front of his face, and Gemma yelped a long groan, heaving herself in an impossible strain of her abdomen to sit upright, grasping at his hair for balance.

She was sitting on his shoulders. Her legs were parted around his head, and Mac moaned in lust and clasped her buttocks in both palms hard, hauling her forwards to slide his stiffened tongue into her wet pussy, probing deeply, thrusting urgently.

Gemma arched backwards again with a gasping shriek. Her mind was lost, shimmering in heat; the distant sensation of cool turf against her back was a welcome contrast to the heat pouring through her, tide fighting higher at the swirl of his wet tongue licking, licking between her legs. Little snuffled grunts of excitement sounded in the air and a shock of pleasure seared through the girl lying legs splayed on her back, moisture rushing to coat that wet tongue as she realised that the eager noises weren't hers.

"Mac," she sighed, mind disconnected, focussed only on the skilful swipes of his tongue against her achingly aroused, melting flesh, fingers tangling in the thick, tawny locks

He stilled and lifted his head, eyes burning in arousal and satisfaction as he uncoiled above her, crouching astride one thigh, trembling in want.

"Is that a please?" her mate asked softly.

The anger flashed and Gemma was sitting upright, her teeth in the join of his neck, hands clamped around his shoulders. Mac remained perfectly still, an arm cradled across her back, a low moan escaping into the air as he trembled. Her stomach clenched at the checked power in him, the thickening, breath-taking scent of achingly aroused Alpha swamping her. Her Alpha. Who had just allowed her to bite him: delighted in it. His arousal was swelling impossibly against her thigh, and she trembled weakly in the rich scent of his pleasure flooding around her.

You are so delicious, his words scorched into her. This want hurts.

The words, the feeling behind the words and in his scent, the tremble of his skin were scorching through the wereem; she felt the tremble in her growing, melting through her as she pulled her teeth back, licking apologetically over the small wound, sealing it, her eyes losing focus as her limbs began to shake.

"Sorry," she almost whined. It was his own fault for being so damn smug. Licking gently over the bite, Gemma felt a strange, curdling mixture of guilt for hurting him, and intense pleasure for marking him. Her stomach was melting with a wish to surrender and pounce at the same time.

"Please?" Her voice was a gentle breath in the air, mind softening, melting, delighting in the knowledge of who she belonged to. Her mate had caught her, fought through her defences. She was so his.

Mac laughed softly, arousal and sheer joy pulsing stronger through his scent, and pulled back to kiss her gently on the nose.

He breathed harshly for a few seconds, pressing his forehead against her while she delighted in his struggle for control, feeling the burn of it across her skin, melting her.

"That was a beautiful dance," the deep voice was hoarse, rich with a deep note of joy, release. "May I have the next?"

Gemma moaned quietly into his chest widening her legs, silently pleading, but found herself in bewilderment on her feet, shifting human to a gentle brush of suggestion from his mind. Mac was humming, humming in delight, she could feel him fighting all of his carnal instincts in order to draw this out, savour the moment. She whined needfully while his right arm slid down to clasp her waist lightly, and his left pulled their clasped hands out. Gently, gracefully, he began to waltz through the first fallen leaves in the shimmering rays of the setting sun, twirling her skilfully around their small grassy stage.

No! Gemma's mind was thundering with lust, and she groaned and struggled to get closer, press against him, but he laughed huskily and twisted, guiding her instead through the steps of the dance until her blood began to pulse with the rhythm and her feet to move to his movements. Her blood was keening, melting down at his scent, his strength and grace, his gentleness. Mac, alight with lust, wanted to dance with his songmate.

A little smile was trembling on her lips and Gemma could feel her heart melting further, even as she relaxed fully into his embrace and spun, swayed, stepped delicately under his guiding hands, feeling his fierce tremble increasing as she danced to his rhythm. The gentle grace, heat and strength of her mate was penetrating every part of her, driving the heat higher, higher, and she had never felt so totally, completely melted by his touch. There was a low, continuous moan on the air, a counterpoint to the music he was humming, and her legs suddenly collapsed underneath her. She flopped onto the grass on her back, gasping in want, and groaned, "Please."

The word only surfaced as a hoarse pleading sound.

"My picchu," Mac murmured, dropping on one knee beside her and clasping her hands with his, drawing her back onto wobbly feet as he rose to his. "You led me a fine dance; I can still taste you on my lips as you escaped up that cliff," he murmured softly, a slight gravel hint to the words as he spun her so that her back was to him. "You don't think you're getting off that lightly, do you?"

Oh-oh.

His hands were cupped just in front of her naked breasts, delicately brushing the nipples as he swayed his hips against her from behind, now humming a soft dance tune.

"I love your breasts," he whispered. Gemma's glazed eyes tried to focus on the strong fingers teasing around her nipples, and she moaned at the tortuous brush of the fur on the backs of his fingers against her naked, aching flesh; her breasts were hairless, and very sensitive, as was her groin, only a soft, short band of fur outlining the top of her abdomen. His hands were large enough to cup the entirety of both mounds, and his hands closed tight briefly, squeezing aching flesh out between the fingers before he lifted them again and pinched the protruding, aching nipples, pulling them delicately outwards.

"Mmm", he murmured.

She moaned, "Please," again, almost incoherently, tilting her head back, sliding her hands up to clasp his head so that she could bend it down and kiss those smiling lips.

His hands drew hers gently over his head and a large palm clasped both of her wrists together, pulling them until her arms were stretched to almost full extent, only a slight bend in her elbows, while she was lost in the kiss.

Then Mac lifted his head as his other hand dropped to play with her aching breasts and nipples, holding her back against his achingly aroused form as he continued to bump and grind his heavy erection against her back, still humming softly.

"Oh I intend to please," he promised softly.

Gemma moaned, the shimmer running through her while his fingers brushed over her and she strained against the clasp around her wrists. She was panting heavily, squirming; her breasts were growing so tight under that light touch they felt like they would burst, the heavy, pulling ache painful, rich. Liquid arousal was coating her thighs and her belly was tightening, tightening in desperate want, making her grind back against him, trying to tempt him, tease him.

"Oh god Mac, please!" she gasped, tears lighting in her eyes at the tight, aching need in her skin, the surging need in her belly growing. "I'm sorry if you didn't like that dance I led you; that you were miserable with my juices on your lips because I escaped you."

Mac laughed softly, and lifted her off the ground by the grip on her wrists, pulling her gently back against him to rub his straining erection teasingly in the cleft of her buttocks, his naked, hard pole brushing lightly through her soft pubic curls from behind, agonisingly close to her begging, melting entrance . "I don't call this escaped, picchu. And you'll have to say sorry better than that," her mate teased, his breath gently gliding over the tingling skin of her neck.

Gemma moaned softly, feeling a flash of excitement and heated trepidation as she was held suspended, struggling to press closer to that hard throbbing flesh , but she managed to gulp, "You wish."

Then she yelped a groan as his cock slid gently over the entrance to her wet pussy from behind, gliding over her labia, tormenting her.

Her mate nipped her ear, and through the fog of lust she heard his voice soft with amusement, but with a note of challenge. "OK, I will now accept your apology when you say:" the tone dropped into a breathless, panting falsetto, ""Oh my most beloved Alpha, please accept my most wanton, worshipful apologies, and pray enjoy my body howsoever you desire, to atone for my fault"," he whispered. She could feel him smile against her ear as he finished the sentence.

Hah.

"Oh my most smug Alpha," cooed Gemma on a breathless, sarcastic warble, and then her breath left her entirely on a choke of feeling as his cock slid gently over her labia again, heat bursting in her head.

She whined.

God, no. She tried, she honestly tried to hold on to some semblance of reason, but his aroused scent was melting her defences, her body surrendering to the gentle brushes of his fingertips on her aroused, painful nipples. His fingers were tweaking the little peaks, she heard a long groan in the air, and felt the soft brush of that hard length between her thighs, surging against her, but not inside her. Torture. Squirming from her position suspended by that grip around her wrists, she hooked her feet on his knees to give herself some leverage, desperately trying to bend forwards, pushing her buttocks hard against his throbbing, huge length, bending further. But just as she almost hit the right angle he laughed softly and released the grip on her wrists, his hands dropping to grip her hips while the cool air rushed by her falling torso and her palms landed on the grass, head spinning.

Mac hitched her slightly higher, her legs were opening pleadingly, and he rubbed the moist tip of his hard, racing cock against the rigid, tingling bundle of nerves at the head of her cleft. Gemma yelped, almost unable to gasp in a breath against the choked feeling of need, "Please, Mac."

"Oh my most beloved Alpha," he prompted teasingly, lifting her legs wide to that he could see the head of his cock rubbing gently against her clit, his breath rasping harshly. Gemma groaned and collapsed, her arms giving way, welcoming the clean, moist scent of the grass in her nostrils as she nose-dived to the ground. Anything to dilute the haunting scent of his core-deep, heavenly enjoyment, the damn scent of aroused Alpha trembling through her, clouding her mind, obliterating her control.

She was not going to say that.

Want a bet?

"Licking your arousal off my lips - my cock was so hard that I hurt, picchu," he murmured gently, continuing to torment her with little nudges of his hard length against the erect, aching bud. "No-one has made me that painfully hard and left me; have you ever tried to run in that state?"

"Yes," she groaned the mumble, little pants of lust escaping as wriggling shocks of tight, painful lust rocked over her skin. She was going to come. She was going to come now. Ow, such a huge, tense explosion was building. Unimaginably vast, uncontainable. Any second now.

She screamed, "Oh!" in frustration as he dropped her legs and straightened to just walk away. Panting harshly, her eyes fastened greedily on the huge, swaying tower of taut, throbbing flesh standing between his legs. God, she needed him. Needed him now. Now.

Damn the wolf.

He stopped three paces away, smiling down at her, and she growled, but the urgent need in her belly was so tight, sucking away all her strength, all her will, focussing her solely on the desperate, throbbing ache between her thighs.

"Well, that was the first word," he smiled.

Grr.

Her fingers almost reached, almost managed to brush against the aching, slippery nub of her clit when he grabbed them and pulled them behind her, twisting both hands into a grip in one of his palms as he chuckled softly.

"Oh no, little mate," he said, "You are the one who badgered me into teaching you sexual control. So you have to accept my teaching methods. Only I get to give you release. And I'll give it when you beg properly."

She didn't want training NOW!

Damn him. Damn him. Damn him.

But a little wisp of admiration nudged at the back of her furious mind; her mate knew exactly what phrase she was going to struggle against for longest, hold out until she could barely see.

She was never going to say that.

Oh yes you are.

His free hand dipped between her thighs and he began to tease her aching flesh with subtle strokes of his fingers, pulling gently on her labia, tweaking her bud, intent on bringing her back to the brink.

Her legs parted wider, involuntarily, and she heard him take a deep, appreciative breath, inhaling her melting scent, his own simmering harshly through the air in response.

Dammit, her mind wisped as another surge of pleasure trembled through her aching flesh, he was so damn aroused too: why couldn't he lose control?

Her hips were lifting to the dance of his fingers, her voice panting hoarse begging noises as he dipped one inside and began to stroke her inner walls, then began to probe deeply, curving the digit to rub against her sweet spot from inside.

A plaintive, whimpered gargle from her tight, tight throat.

Her hips were desperately humping his fingers, the feeling building again, higher, even tighter coiled than before. Beautiful; just out of reach; one step closer; nearly.

And he snatched his fingers back out.

Gemma gave a hoarse, yelping snarl, wrenching her hands from his slackened grip and twisting in the air to snap at her tormentor while the rage flashed across her skin and mind, but she ended face down across his knees, wrists pressed together against the back of her neck, holding her head turned sideways on the grass, bared teeth and claws immobilised. His other hand was resting on her squirming buttocks, stroking gently.

"Oh no, my little wereem," he told her gently, "You cannot bite me either: not now. Maybe later I will allow you to."

Then he bent closer, hand caressing over her soft buttock cheeks and his chest pressing against her back while he whispered directly into her ear, "Oh picchu, you are going to be so hot and tight and wet when I mount you."

A tingle roared along her skin and the wolf in her simply melted at the heated words of her mate, flopping into surrender, whining with the need to present to him. Now. Damn.

A vague echo of despair: she was on her own in this. Help!

Another smile against her shoulder, and a finger tingled down between her thighs, teasing light caresses millimetres from her aching, throbbing empty core.

"Oh my most beloved Alpha," he purred, kissing her shoulder blade.

No no no no.

Oh my god.

His finger just grazed the edge of her slick labia, and Gemma jumped in his hands, a hoarse, harsh sound of need escaping.

"I surrender. I surrender," she gasped, opening her legs wide to him, balanced on her knees across his partially bent legs.

He kissed her skin softly again, and repeated, "Oh my most beloved Alpha."

That damn finger was now tapping and swirling lightly on the painfully erect bud, in time with the demanding surges of his rock-hard erection against her belly and the crease of her hip. Her blood seemed to be raging behind her eyes, blotting out the gathering dusk while her body shuddered as though in a fever, legs pulling wider, wider, silently begging. Her voice choked, hoarse sounds of pleading, and she thought dammit, before managing to gasp out, "Oh my most beloved Alpha, I surrender. Please."

"Please accept my most wanton, worshipful apologies," he reminded her.

Gemma flung back her head and howled, writhing in his grip, trying to get away, away from those damn, skilful fingers that were teasing her closer, closer to abject, pitiful surrender.

I won't tell anyone else you said it, he promised gently in her head. This surrender is just to me.

Dammit, she knew that! And he so wasn't getting it.

No no no. Oooh, those fingers expertly teasing her. The hard, delicious cock pressed promisingly against her stomach, the touch of it throbbing through her.

Oh god - now it sounded like there was an escaped wookie in the forest. Pleading, pleading with herself not to give in - but no, no, but she couldn't bear - he was going to stop again before he let her come, so close, so close. So huge, magnificent, the approaching explosion. Unbearable. Unmissable.

"Please, please accept my most wanton, worshipful apologies and enjoy my body however you wish: PLEASE," a little, desperate voice groaned in the air.

An incredible, beautiful melting feeling rushed along Gemma's skin with the scent he exuded when she finally gasped the words, heat flowing through every pore, a warm, delicious bubble of surrender relaxing her into total, burning pleasurable anticipation.

Thank-you, my picchu.

Mac was pressing soft kisses along her shoulders, breathing harshly against her skin as he gently folded her onto her knees on the grass in front of him and knelt between her legs, edging them wider apart to give him entry.

"I haven't had this painful an arousal in years," he murmured, his voice tight with control, "You are one deliciously stubborn little mate."

His throbbing erection was pressed tantalisingly at the entrance to her pussy, and arousal coursed higher through Mac at the sight of his wereem's wide open legs and trembling taut buttocks, the scent of her shining wet, fragrant pussy begging him silently. "I can't wait until you're on heat again," he growled softly, and began to coat the hard, swollen head of his organ in her slick juices, a little smile lifting his lips as he watched her sway and moan while he brushed against her swollen, aching lips.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 13



Then he held her still, tilting her buttocks up slightly so that he could enjoy the sight of his thick, swollen cock slowly forcing its way into her slick passage. Finally. His skin tightened in pleasure when she moaned, a long sigh of wordless satisfaction and mingled pleading while he slowly impaled her. He halted briefly, closing his eyes as her walls clamped hard then released around him, the beginning of her orgasm trembling through her, massaging bewitchingly at his rock-hard length. So, so good.

"I was so right," he groaned, holding still, trying to hold out. "You are so hot, and tight, and wet. Soft. Indescribably perfect." Her passage contracted again to his words, the scent of her arousal pulsing into the night, increasing the burning tremble along his skin as he struggled against the need raging in him. He nudged his cock a little deeper, felt the flash of her igniting, almost there, and began to pump soft short thrusts into her, pushing her higher, higher, his. His rhythm.

His wereem yowled her need plaintively, rearing up and back against him as she tried to push faster, harder, deeper. Mac growled and ploughed deep into her, grabbing her hips and slamming her buttocks back against his thighs as he thrust home. Mine. He stilled, enjoying her squirming, gasping, soundless pleas, fighting for more. Then he held her still as he slowly, steadily withdrew to the very tip. She was trembling on the brink, struggling against his grip, begging, growling with need, and her scent was glorious. So close. He thrust hard to slam home again. Her passage clamped as his thick cock penetrated, the ripple of her pleasure quivering at the edge of explosion, halting as he reached full depth and pressed hard against her inner walls. He looked down at her, his breath hoarse as he strained to hold back. Then he melted, a surge of delight trembling through him, pulsing along his straining cock.

His mate's head was down, drooping, parted thighs trembling in want, and she was just waiting, waiting for him to withdraw and thrust again. Awaiting his pleasure. Mac sighed and bent to kiss her shoulder gently, his cock swelling in painful arousal. His picchu had relaxed into the wolf: surrendering completely now, accepting that the fight was done.

Mine, he told her.

Her scent in response.

Mac felt his eyes glaze over, his own wolf beginning to engulf him, and he began to withdraw and thrust slowly, fully, enjoying the glide of her sweet slick flesh over his aching length. The walls were tightening, tightening to his slow, relentless rhythm. Delicious. Then pleasure flashed along his skin when he felt her explode into exquisite release, her skin flaring heat and colour, slick liquid gushing around his buried organ while the walls of her pussy shuddered in sweet, tight surrender.

Too much.

Mac groaned, lifted back onto his knees and grabbed her hips so that he could pull her off and slam into her properly, forcing the rhythm fast, faster, aching to drive as deep as he could. Then abruptly he rolled her onto her side, lifting her upper leg to press it back against her shoulder, thrusting hard into her with a groan for the new angle. He bent down and sucked the nearer breast hard into his mouth, tonging the nipple, and heard her aching cry as she arched suddenly and a second rush of liquid bathed his rampaging cock, muscles sweetly milking around him. The tingling rush shot down his spine but he jerked out before it hit, breathing harshly, trembling.

Gemma groaned out a pleading sound.

He rolled her over onto her back, growling in need, swiftly parted her legs and pressed both thighs back hard against her chest where she held them while he slid his hands under her knees to close around the beautiful, soft breasts while he mounted her again, panting hoarsely. The tingle was back on the second thrust deep into her wet softness, and, straight-backed, he squeezed her breasts hard, pulling on them for purchase while he thrust desperately deep while the release rushed at him. More.

He growled and began to stab hard, short thrusts down into her melting passage, the angle perfect, the yielding softness sucking at his control, the sweet moans as he roughly gripped her bounteous mounds heightening his pleasure to furious need. A third scream of release leapt from his little wereem's throat as she arched her back and burst into bucking ripples of mindless pleasure; his eyes blanked over and the fire flashed down his spine, the rippling massage of her passage sucking the amassed seed in a long, exquisite series of jolts of pleasure from his aching balls. His thumb and forefinger were clamped hard across nipples while he melting under the shuddering bursts of release swamping through him, his buried cock swelling hard to pulse spurt after spurt into her rippling pussy.

Panting, panting, hoarse, rasping breaths as he slowly released her breasts and leaned forward on his arms to lift his weight off her. Her eyes were glazed, glittering black, unseeing as she continued to shudder in endless little ripples of delight under him. Lost.

God he never got enough of her.

Gemma snuggled up inside Mac's arm and flicked a pebble into the glistening dark waters of the lake, leaning dreamily against her mate's shoulder as they sat together on the rock on the shoreline, their bare feet sticking out over the edge above the water. His back was resting against a tree, and she was, as usual, resting against him. Her clothes, such as Mac had managed to retrieve, were skimpy and torn after their chasing through the forest, not much protection against the cool night, but she had a big furry blanket handy. OK, so the bearer was a bit hard and muscular but there were compensations.

You weren't complaining about me being hard and muscular earlier, taunted Mac.

The bearer is also quite useless when it comes to respecting private thoughts.

My deliciously wanton mate is useless at holding her shields together under sensual assault, replied Mac cheerfully.

"Need more practice," whispered Gemma, and felt him smile as he cuddled her closer.

"I'll - um- enrol you in an intensive training session soon," promised Mac huskily, his voice giving new meaning to the verb. Gemma groaned at the atrocious pun. "You're a wereem; you'll heat to the rut within the next month at the latest." Her mate's voice was a deep, joyful breath directly into her ear, his words whispering along her sensitive, sated skin.

Gemma's blood pulsed in delight, skin tingling with an almost unbearable shimmer of feeling, although her aching, exhausted pussy throbbed protestingly: Not right now.

Her mate was exuding happiness, relaxation, and she could feel the shimmer of delighted anticipation rising off him. No. But soon, he replied.

In the middle of a war? she queried doubtfully. He had no time for this. They had no time for this.

We're not at war currently - and we'll just have to take time out. That's why I'm training up Hakan as my second with the Whites; Karl is used to leading the Mackelds when necessary.

Then Mac continued aloud, changing the subject: "So, picchu. Anything happen today while I was out? Apart from lots of delightful scheming." He turned his head again, nuzzling and kissing her ear, and whispered, "Thank-you."

Gemma sighed and tried to drag her unwilling mind away from her tingling ear, the feel of his breath on her neck, the muscular, warm chest rising and falling behind her where she sat perched on his right thigh, and turn it back to science. When she finally managed, she felt a surge of familiar irritation.

"I've been looking back over all our results - what we have found out doesn't make sense," she grumbled, feeling the I-am-so-sick-of-this frustration surging in her. At least she'd get a break from this everlasting frustration when she came into heat. Then she would do nothing but laze around in her rug and let Mac feed her. Oh, and other things. The antithesis of frustration. Gemma smiled. Despite the exhausted, sated lethargy plastering her lazily against her mate, her blood was beginning to smoulder again in response to her thoughts.

"How doesn't it?" asked her mate softly.

Gemma blinked, and tried to remember what he was talking about. Then she remembered and another flash of irritation shot through her. She hauled her thoughts together again, reeling in the errant fingers which were sneaking south through his fur, and settling back against him, blinking her eyes to clear her mind.

Think.

She drew a long breath and rattled off the gist of the mismatching results of the myriad of skin and hair tests she'd evaluated, a habit she had fallen into with her mate every evening they could. It cleared her thoughts and he often put forward helpful comments.

They had found a variety of pieces of the puzzle, but couldn't fit them together. Mac, her current control until she received another packet from the fort, was carrying some of the elements she thought were attaching the scent-masking to the ex-Grey adults, but his scent wasn't affected. The cubs weren't carrying them, but their scent was still fainter than it should be. The mismatching pieces were driving her up the wall.

Mac sighed a long, deep breath, and his arm tightened around her waist.

"Maybe we're looking at this wrong, picchu," he grunted, his voice soft. "Maybe it's not the drug we think it is."

"Grey is desperate to get it back, we are definitely on the right track," protested his mate. Her mind flashed with rage at the worry over Bethan and Kate; what was happening to them. She had to work this out.

Mac soothed a gentle palm across her skin. "We definitely have something he will kill to stop us getting," he agreed.

"That masks scent," added Gemma.

"For a few seconds," interposed Mac calmly. "We always knew that silver masked scent, but you say that it's the barbiturates and other compounds which have that effect. Well, silver isn't a binding agent, but it's present in all - which makes no sense at all, if you already have a mask to scent."

"I'm the chemist around here!" she growled sitting angrily upright on his thigh and twisting to scowl at him.

"I'm quoting the chemist," her Alpha returned, unperturbed. "What if the reason you can't work out how to get from A to B is because the map you've got only covers A to C?"

"Oh, quit with the map metaphors," grumbled Gemma, turning and leaning back against him again while she thought. "I did not get us lost."

"No, because I was here with my infallible nose," replied Mac.

"Infallibly smug nose," muttered Gemma.

"You seem to confuse the words 'smug' and 'right', picchu," he murmured teasingly.

"You seem to have no concept of the term, 'modest'," she retorted, the corners of her mouth turning up in a faint smile as she rubbed her head against his shoulder, telling her brain to think. It was hard after the night they had shared. She just wanted to melt back against her mate and purr.

"Mo-dest," he enunciated quietly, slowly tasting the word, as though an alien concept. Gemma treadled her claws into the arm snuggled around her waist and her wolf bit her earlobe gently in retaliation, his lips smiling.

"Let me think," she grumbled, and her teasing mate stilled underneath her.

Gemma stared out across the dark waters of the lake, distractedly admiring the gleam of the stars on the gentle swell. Mac sat silent, chest rising and falling peacefully at her back, his cradling arm warm around her waist, and he turned his head to rest his cheek against her hair.

So if it wasn't a scent-masking drug she was testing for, what was it?

Having exhaustively discussed the range of ways of concealing scent with Valerie, Gemma had been a little blinkered to any other possibility.

"You said that there is a clear pattern of the contaminants in the hair of the adults, and a different set, faint, but visible, in the cubs," mused Mac.

"Yeah, but some of the adult ones, you also carry," murmured Gemma. "Background pollution that obviously any wolf picks up leading a normal wolf life, so it can't be those."

Mac tensed violently. His skin shuddered and his arm was a vice, clamping her to his side convulsively.

Gemma felt the wild feeling inside her explode to its feet: quivering, alert, poised. But instead of fighting it automatically, she listened - the black anger wasn't bound with the wildness, her mind was instead smothered in a reaching, calming, settled feeling that rolled through her from nowhere. A desire to calm. She felt her fingers stroking gently over his, where they were clenched around her left hip, her fingertips tracing the faint hairs dusting the backs of the tense fingers.

Mac?

His mind was barricaded behind an impenetrable, fierce shield-wall, separated from the world. The lonely echo of distance sank into her senses, the shield of distance within him, the distance which he had always held around himself. Or which he had used to hold around himself, before they started this.

The scent rising off him told her of his internal revulsion.

Gemma was smothering under an internal keening, the fierce pull of the wildness within her, the dragging sense that she needed to comfort her mate submerging all sense of self. A different kind of blankness, but just as frightening until she let go and allowed it to just turn her to wrap her arms around him and settle under his chin, her senses smothered under the blanket of calm. She cuddled close, cradling him, to wait with more patience than she had thought her internal wolf had.

Several long, silent minutes passed. Mac stayed deathly still, something inside him raging.

Eventually she heard him swallow, and another deep sigh. His arms tightened, and he curled around her, burying his nose in her hair, breathing deeply, quivering lightly in tension as he released the iron control he'd clamped down on himself. Gemma had a sudden, vivid memory of Marsh scenting his daughter's hair to help him retain control, and felt a shiver of pride as Mac did the same, with her. Love and trust. She gently drew her mate's hand up until it was cupped inside hers, nestled between her body and his, and kissed the palm.

As her lips explored, a memory drifted idly to the surface of her mind, a memory of the sheer pleasure of loving his lips joyfully when they had finally rolled together in a sated heap earlier, of pressing a light, gentle flurry of kisses over every inch of his face to reward her mate for catching her oh so satisfyingly.

The lips against her hair quirked, and Mac took another deep sigh.

"Maybe," he said, and then stopped. He cleared his throat, sighing for a third time, and she felt him relaxing his control further, settling back into himself. He pulled away, sliding around in front of her and rolling onto his back to rest his head in her lap. Gemma sat up, cross-legged, and began to run her fingers through his tawny mop of hair, massaging his scalp gently, caressing, tracing the beloved features.

"I thought I would have healed completely by now, regenerated the hair and skin," he said softly, his clear, star-deep eyes meeting hers staunchly. "But maybe we had better ask Valerie's volunteers, or more Fealden wolves, to be your control, Gem."

Mac added a last, barely audible phrase, his eyes now distant, looking past her shoulder, "I was experimented on by Grey many years ago."

His mind was calm, but the door to his emotions was tight closed, holding back she knew not what explosion of feeling, memories. Gemma shuddered, then looked down into his still face, her fingertips sliding over the bones and the soft skin. She bent and kissed his nose softly. Cheek. Chin. Along the line of his jaw. He didn't need her anger just now.

Light, gentle brushes of love. She could hear the lapping of the waves against their rock, the light rustle of the wind in the trees. The water scent was clean, clear, this far from the city, and the pine-fragrance was strong. The only other scents were herself and her mate, and she could feel and sense him relaxing , enjoying the warm tingle of deep feeling that welled through her with each touch of her lips on his warm skin, her mind adrift, holding apart the burning anger.

"Well, we were going to kill Grey anyway," murmured Gemma eventually, almost as an aside. Mac pulled her head down to kiss her lips.

"It was a long time ago," he said. "I'd pretty much forgotten it, it wouldn't have occurred to me - I didn't realise it might make a difference in your tests."

"But you have no loss of scent."

"No, that wasn't what they were trying to do. They were trying -," Mac stopped. He slowly curled to sit upright, stomach muscles rippling effortlessly, thinking furiously.

Gemma moved to sit cross-legged beside him, staring, waiting. Crossly she twitched her thoughts away from the molten flash of bewitchment woven by watching the smooth, easy strength of that hard, flat stomach pulling him upright, and distracted her internal wolf by focussing on the bleak, barricaded look in her songmate's eyes as he sifted through vile memories. Then she responded to the much stronger urge to slide closer and hug him again.

"They?" she breathed quietly, leaning against him.

"Nicolas and his father," Mac murmured absently, his arm slipping around her waist. Gemma felt an ache growing behind her eyes, the fiery wish to kill trembling through her, but she breathed deeply of her mate's scent, concentrating on what he needed - her, sane, listening, and the feeling subsided.

Blazing green eyes stared off into the night for a long time, and then turned to look down into hers, the scorching feeling humming across the short distance between them. Her heart jolted at the fully alert, intense scent exuding from her Alpha, the power raising the hairs on her skin.

Looking back, and knowing what I now know, I think," her mate breathed, "That they were trying to control me."

They stared at each other, breathing hard.

Gemma opened her mouth. Closed it again. Opened it, and whispered, "The cubs don't carry what you have. Only the adults."

"I - yes, that makes sense," replied her mate quietly as he thought. "It also explains why the Grey cubs were only isolated until just pre-pubescent. Before its shiele develops, a young cub is as vulnerable to control as you, picchu; predominantly protected and controlled by the parents, but any strong adult can prevent a whelp from doing anything stupid. He would have no reason to drug the cubs."

Then Mac blew out a sudden long, harsh sound, "No wonder Grey's taking such risks to retrieve the drug; before, you had no idea what it did. Now, with both cause and effect clear in front of you..."

"I might be able to map out the route from A to C," Gemma finished, and unwound to her feet, quivering with excitement. A vague gem of knowledge flashed through her and she added, "Humans use barbiturates to control fits too - they affect the mind."

"My beautiful little genius," responded her mate, eyes gleaming with burning, fiery pride into hers as he rose beside her. Burning his pride in her. His hands suddenly slid up her back to clasp her head firmly, urgently, and he bent over her to crush her lips under a passionate kiss, bending her back over his arm.

"C'mon," said the Alpha when he finally lifted his head. He steadied her breathless sway on suddenly wobbly feet, a hand sliding down to engulf hers and tug her off the rock.

"I take it controlling you was a non-starter," laughed Gemma as she stumbled along through the heather, trying to keep up with him on her still shaky legs, feeling the delicious, sated ache between her legs throbbing to the urgent power shimmering off him.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 13



"Well, if that is what they were trying to do, I can't say I noticed. I remember being a bit surprised at the time at all the things they thought they could somehow get me to do."

The Whites brought the post with them as usual when they arrived at the house the following morning; there was an official-looking letter from Gemma's faculty, which someone had somehow brought from her flat, and Penny took it down to where the werewolf was intently journal-surfing on the computer in the lab, reading up on the use of barbiturates for mental disorders. After a brief halt to read her letter, Gemma tried to go back to work, discussing possible new tests to try with Ada and Valerie, but after a short, restless half-hour, she gave up and went to find Mac up in his studio on the top floor.

The wide expanse of the A-frame ceiling was lined with tongue-and grooved boards, the warm pine striping up to the high peak of the roof. The wooden floorboards were dappled with the moody, cloudy sunlight which was flirting through the eastern of the huge windows embedded in each slanting roof, with more rays just peeking through the southern of the additional large picture windows under the eaves. The scent of old sap rising from the floorboards tingled soothingly into her spine; she knew why her mate liked to spend time up here. He and his hunter Whites had turned it into their planning room, and a group of them were crouched with the Alpha on the far side around a huge trestle table, murmuring tactics over some Monopoly pieces they were moving around over a map when she stepped in. There was a huge blue expanse on the paper, with a black blotch staining one corner, but it was miles from where they were moving the pieces over the dark green forest.

Gemma jerked her eyes away.

They all rose to their feet: Mac, because he came striding across to her, face creased in concern; the others, she thought, out of courtesy. She found being an Alfamme a bit unnerving. I mean, she didn't feel like she should be in charge of anybody. Or worthy of respect. From wolves, any of whom could stand her on her head effortlessly.

Mac reached out a hand to her as she stepped up to him, "What is it, picchu?"

She glanced at the others, and her lips turned up in a slight smile. The warriors were already loping past her out of the room, nodding acknowledgement as they passed, no doubt having sensed something in her scent. She waited until the last had left, then held out the letter, her brown eyes troubled.

"I'm about to be sacked," she said succinctly. "Unless I can provide evidence of my medical condition."

Mac glanced at her, eyes unreadable, and then began to carefully read the letter.

"I could ask Will or Amy to provide you with a medical report," he murmured slowly as he read. "Probably Amy, because she's registered here, with a human medical degree and training, but -." The deep green eyes lifted back to hers. "Do you want to go back to work at the university?" he asked.

"I don't know," Gemma murmured, head tilted slightly defiantly. She didn't know why there were tears lurking in her eyes, why she felt so wobbly on getting this letter. An arm slid around her shoulders. "I don't know what's going on," she whispered. "I don't know - what future to plan for."

Her voice began to rise, reflecting the feeling of helpless panic bubbling up inside her as staccato phrases began to jump out of her: "I don't know. Don't know where I belong. What to do. Should I let go of a job I worked so hard to get? Will it be a black mark on my record?" She paused to heave a breath, dropping her head as a tremor of unease shook her. "How will I earn my living? Where does all this come from?" she added, flinging an arm out in a staccato gesture at the room, while Mac lifted her off her feet, strode over to the leather-cushioned flat bench underneath the western skylight, and sat down with her sitting half-sideways on one of his knees, both arms around her.

"Why am I even worried about this?" Gemma added, her voice breaking on the last sentence. Mac hugged her to him.

"Because your whole life has been turned upside down," he answered softly.

Gemma cracked a broken little laugh, and turned her head into his shoulder. Breathed deeply. Mac smelt nice: clean, musky, male, with a slight tang, a wild undertone. A little smile wobbled on her lips as she breathed in his scent, soothing herself.

This aromatherapy seemed to work both ways.

After a few moments, she muttered, "I do know where I belong," into his skin quietly, her voice still wavering through tears. "With you. But I don't know, physically, where that is. Will be. How to live. What will I do?"

She lifted back and looked at him, blinking the moisture from her eyes.

"Make me peanut butter chicken?" replied Mac hopefully, but instantly sighed and continued seriously, "I'm sorry, picchu. I - if you want to keep your job at the university waiting for you, I'll arrange an official sick note."

Gemma smiled shakily at him, but shook her head, "I - would feel bad, doing that. I would like a sick note so that they will sign me off honourably, so that I can prove I'm leaving them in the lurch for a good reason - chronic medical incapacity," she bit back a half-gulp and grimaced expressively, continuing, " but I couldn't keep the job hanging open for me, they can't afford - will need to replace -." Her voice cracked, and she rested her forehead down against his shoulder again, then laughed and added tearfully, "At least I won't have to work with Craig any more."

Mac sighed, and kissed her above her ear, tightening his arms. "My brave picchu," he murmured.

Brave picchu began to cry in earnest into his shirt.

After long, comforting minutes huddled in his arms with her face pressed into his chest, leaking emotion, allowing herself to just cry, the sobs began to subside. Gemma hiccupped a few times, sniffing, feeling just - mellow. His. And then she began to feel a little melodramatic, stupid, emotionally naked. Of all the things to cry about! Embarrassing. Cheeks flushed with self-consciousness, Gemma took a deep, shaky breath, sat up and began to wipe her eyes, smiling shyly up into soft green eyes through her tears. Her heart melted and lip wobbled again.

Her mate murmured such nice things into her ear while she was crying on him.

"Sorry," Gemma gulped. Mac rolled his eyes at the unnecessary apology, and lifted her wet face with a gentle hand under her chin.

"If you write back to the faculty," he suggested, carefully wiping her cheeks himself with a corner of his brushed cotton shirt. "Tell them that Dr Amy Waring is the specialist dealing with your condition, and will be sending them a supporting letter, separately." He paused.

"You're sure she'll be OK writing it? For an outlaw?" Gemma asked doubtfully, her voice still a little wobbly.

Mac snorted. "You saved her life, picchu," he replied dryly, smiling as his mate lifted startled eyes to his. "I'm sure."

Who -?

Mac interrupted her thoughts, sounding thoughtful, "A better idea would be to get one of the troops to write your reply for you, and just sign it. It will sound more official, and you've got plenty of more important things to do. All they do is sit around all day drinking our coffee and messing up the kitchen with toys."

"Besides cooking," Gemma reminded him, then paused to release a watery little hiccup. "Shopping, cleaning, gardening, guard duty, and helping you up here and me in the lab," she rattled off, more calmly.

"You're an Alfamme now, picchu, get used to it," Mac shrugged. He grinned at her, green eyes sparkling softly. "Nowadays the only letters you should bother to write yourself are love letters to me."

Gemma shot him a smiling look from the corner of her tear-sparkling eyes, filing that advice away for future notice, then took in a faintly wobbly breath, turned slightly so she was fully sideways on to him, and sank to rest against his shoulder, sliding her left hand around the back of his waist and the fingers of her right into his open shirt collar to tease light fingers over his collar bone.

"I still feel a bit - unsettled. Where does all this come from? Are you really rich?" she asked, gesturing around the room again. "I don't like just living off you. Indefinitely."

Mac sighed deeply. She could hear him thinking, just couldn't catch the words. He took another deep breath.

"Damn," he muttered.

Gemma's fingers stilled. His scent was - she didn't know, hadn't caught that fragrance before, it wasn't threatening, just - unusual.

"What?" she asked.

"You would ask that, wouldn't you picchu?" he asked in return, his tone slightly sheepish.

Gemma lifted herself upright again on his thigh, and just looked at him, eyebrows raised.

Mac rolled his eyes again, and ended up looking at the ceiling, avoiding hers. "No, I'm not rich. Comfortable, with the proceeds from my photography, but not rich," he told the mellow pine boards.

"Mac?" she asked softly, tone slightly dangerous. She knew when her mate was teasing her.

His eyes dropped back to hers and there was an amused yet challenging look in his face as he told her, "The Wolflord is paying for this - the house, the conversions, the rent for the troops' dens, and - well, he provided a salary, so our alchemist could live comfortably while working for him, for us."

Gemma stared at her Alpha while it sank in, amusement beginning to creep into her eyes. He looked away quickly.

"I provided the touch screen in your panic room!" Mac insisted, slanting another look at her.

"Thanks," murmured Gemma, her face perfectly straight. Then it split into a grin when her mate twitched his eyes away again to stare intently into the distance, his jaw set.

"You mean, you're living off me?" she concluded quietly. She was trying to remember the exact words of a discussion they'd once had back on Kate and Bethan's sofa bed.

"It was for both of us!" Mac returned, the amusement creeping back into his eyes as he looked at her, "Provision was made for both of us - you needed a guard and an assistant. It's you who always refers to our research."

"That was before!" she protested. "Now you just spend all your days running around in the woods pretending to hunt for ex-Greys. I'm the one providing for us, here."

"You're the one who insisted I hunt ex-Greys," Mac retorted. "And so the bulk of the earnings must be mine - I risk my limbs to provide you with valuable assistants, so I should get danger money in my share!"

Gemma's heart lurched in faint worry, and she sank back against him, sliding her arms back around his waist and hugging him tightly, kissing his jawline, chuckling. His head turned and he caught her lips with his.

When his head lifted again, her eyes were clear.

"Why didn't you tell me this earlier?" Gemma asked quietly, reaching up a hand to stroke along the strong line of his jaw.

He shrugged, and his voice was quiet as he replied, "It didn't come up - and then I didn't want to influence your decision about your human job. But now you've decided to give it up - Gemma, the Whites will start to come to you with their problems too. Things they find it difficult to approach me with, or sometimes matters too personal, especially in the case of the females. Also to argue about orders I have given which they disagree on - you are the second voice. And we need to work together to rebuild this pack - they are such a mess, they will require a lot of training, and help - counselling - there is no wolf counselling, I have no real idea how to go about this, I need your help. And - what you are doing right now, downstairs, too few wolves understand. Once your sentence is lifted - there is no wolf chemistry training, it has been illegal for centuries, which is ridiculous when you consider how vulnerable we are. If you wanted to start your own school, in the future -."

He left the sentence trailing, and Gemma smiled at him. Her heart was beating slightly faster at the phrase, "Once your sentence is lifted." Her songmate was always so sure that they could sort things out, that he could sort things out. She loved that incorrigible facet of him.

"Not short of possibilities, then?" she said cheerfully. "Sorry I got so upset."

He smiled back, his green eyes shining with deep feeling, and leaned in to kiss her nose gently.

"Picchu, I'm always in slight awe of how well you're dealing with this."

"That's because I've got you," she replied, hopping blithely down from his knee.

He caught her hand as she turned away and drew her back for a last, lingering kiss. Then he sighed as he lifted his head, "Send the troops back in on your way out, would you, love?"

Gemma blew him a kiss as she left.

*

Late one evening five days later, Gemma was in her and Mac's bedroom sitting between two of the other girls, concentrating hard as she stared at herself in the mirror of the huge mahogany dressing table.

The soft electric lights surrounding the glass lit the reflection of the muddle of clothing strewn around the large, square room on the moss green carpet; various dresses, socks, and pieces of underwear tumbled haphazardly across the floor. Some had even landed on the pristine white coverlet stretched over the huge bed while she'd danced, trying to distract herself as instructed. But none of the damn garments were on Gemma. She checked again in the mirror that the long, heavy grey-green curtains on the opposite wall, across the other side of the bed, were tightly closed: this was not something she wanted to explain to the neighbours.

A crease appeared between her brown eyes, and Gemma's delicate, furry features began to scrunch together in a frown, the pelt across her shoulders lifting as she tensed.

"Steady," murmured Soledad. "Calmly."

She never could do this calmly.

A jolt shot through the wereem as she shifted abruptly, and she growled at her human features, exasperated. She could shift easily, instinctively, bare naked, but the only way to build in clothes was to think about it, to think of them as fur, so she was told. But if she thought of how she looked, it was like someone was watching her driving, and she crashed from one form to the other.

She couldn't do it.

"Heey!" cheered Penny, and lifted her Alfamme's left wrist. A small gold bangle gleamed in the light of the lamp, winking up at Gemma.

"That - was it there when I was wolf?" she questioned softly, heart jumping in hope.

"Nope," the older woman assured her. "You were totally bare naked. You furred it."

Great. Not completely naked then. If she could just hide behind a thin gold bracelet.

"It's a start," Penny informed her, tossing the slinky cream dress across from the bed. "So that'll do for tonight. Time to dress for dinner. Again."

Gemma smiled as she scrabbled under her chair for her underwear. Her pack were really insistent that she dress for the A's return, and the girls had spent quite a bit of money - her money! - replacing the old clothes she'd ripped through in her weeks of raging.

Only one rage this week! her heart sang.

Gemma was fastening the last of the large circular brown buttons which ran between her breasts up the front of the dress when they all sensed the alert frisson which ran through the guard at the front door, the tension which meant he'd caught the scent of the Alpha approaching up the street.

The Alfamme dashed into their en-suite bathroom, a lurch of excitement and faint trepidation in her stomach, ears twitching to the quiet rustle of hasty activity breaking out all over the house. When she sped back into the bedroom a moment later, a small smile on her lips, the other two sjeste had already disappeared. She swung through the doorway and bounded three at a time down the thickly carpeted steps before skipping joyously down the corridor to join the hive of activity in the kitchen. The blinds had been closed over the wide window above the sink, to her left, and the sink, draining board and solid wooden work surfaces surrounding the large, square room were scrubbed spotless, as was the mellow wooden floor. The pine table in the centre of the room had been waxed again by someone recently, and was gleaming in the soft lighting from the wall-lights, the warm tones blending with the wooden doors of the cupboards and contrasting with the brightly gleaming cooker against the opposite wall. Gemma sighed as she glanced around. Nothing for her to do, as usual.

Gustav was already sliding the steaming shepherd's pie onto a mat in the middle of the large wooden table while Ada straightened the two place settings, pushing into line one of the colourful leaf-woven place mats that was lying slightly askew on the scrubbed pine surface and realigning the already opened bottle of wine. Fabian was pouring water into tall glasses, holding the jug as high as possible to see how many bubbles he could create while his older sister, her sad face shadowed, silently arranged the tall pepper and salt grinders to flank the oven dish, opposite a fragrant bowl of sliced tomatoes and avocado and mozzarella. Erik hummed from the corner softly as he mixed his leader's favourite aperitif in a squat tumbler.

The wereem almost tripped over Lucy as the puppy lolloped across the floorboards to her mother, whining with tiredness. The little yip knew it was time to go home. Gemma halted to wait for the tired shadow of Alexandra also wobbling across to Ada, in the wake of her natali. Mac was very late tonight; the cubs were exhausted.

"Wait," whispered Erik suddenly, lifting his head, his eyes alert. They heard the click of the front door closing, and then a harsh, scraping sound approaching slowly down the hallway. Startled, puzzled by the noise, Gemma's wide eyes met Ada's across the room, both silently wondering.

Then the scent hit them all.

For a moment, everyone froze instinctively, a startled, shocked tableau shuddering in the stillness, skin prickling. Oh my god, not again, cried Gemma's heart. Parents stooped swiftly to scoop up abruptly silent cubs, the wolves stepping back out of line of sight, lining the walls while Gemma slid into her seat and turned worried brown eyes toward the door.

Mac was seething over something; bitter, angry and emanating a feeling of intense aggression.

The door opened, and Gemma bit her lip at the sight of his exhausted, lined face.

Still. He needed a break!

The Alpha barely seemed to see past the blind, distant raging in his eyes, one hand pressed against his forehead to push back the spiking pain inside his head, while he dragged himself across the floor, weaving slightly, and dropped into the chair that Hakan had silently pulled back.

He was melded with the Mackelds. Something was badly wrong. Again.

Eyes frowning with worry, Gemma swiftly served him a huge portion of the hot, fragrant dish, not even trying to distract him with a question, and pushed it across under his nose.

Mac barely seemed to see it, but the scent caught him, and a slightly shaking, blood-and-mud grimed hand peeled back the crisp potato layer with two claws so that he could absently scoop the hot meat up into his mouth with his fingers. His head was propped on his other palm, elbow on the table, the fingers clenched around his skull as though to hold the bone together while the barrage of thoughts ricocheted back and forth inside his skull.

Gemma's soft brown eyes puzzled worriedly over the white caking under the fingernails pressing into his skull, and then as the door was swinging to behind the last of the silently departing Whites, she caught a glimpse of coarse, deep scratches scored along the wall of the hallway, and absorbed a flicker of scent under the rich swirl of meat, gravy, carrot and potato he was swiftly scooping into his mouth. Plaster dust.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 13



Well, if all he's going to do is vandalise the house a little, good, she thought to herself. He has to ease a little of the tension somehow.

Gemma's heart ached with worry as her hot, dry eyes traced over her exhausted mate. She sat silent, watching, her own plate forgotten.

He had changed so much in such a short time. Just five days: the morning after the chase was the last moment of peace he had had, and the relaxation from that short break had long since dissipated.

His cheekbones looked sharp under his grey skin, and his beautiful hair was a lank, lifeless mop. The bloodshot eyes glaring unseeing at the tabletop were pained, dull black, she hadn't seen the green sparkle in days. He tried, but he was so tired, tense, the calls were unrelenting. And he barely got any sleep. His pale skin was trembling lightly, the shiver of intense weariness, but each night, soon after he closed his eyes, either his over-tired brain started shocking pulses through his limbs, or his betrothed cried out under torture.

It was a raw cycle: the sun rose on the Whites, bombarding him with their cries for help, for Mac to help rescue mates, cubs, natal and natali and friends; the demands had spiralled exponentially as the circle of the new pack expanded. Moreover, Grey had recently increased his collection schedule also, as his enslaved workforce expanded, so there were dozens more despairing ex-Grey wolves who needed to be intercepted.

As the day wore on and her mate tore around trying to free more and more of the wolves being recalled, the Mackelds awoke. Often under attack, at dawn. Someone was sneaking into Mackeld range using guerrilla warfare, vicious stealth attacks on small groups of travellers or the outlying homesteads. The Tzo were ostensibly withdrawing from the borders. But the attacks were increasing.

And at night, invariably, Natasha was tortured by Grey.

Mac's strained face was testimony to the relentless, painful circle of burdens. Gemma's eyes clenched closed. If only she could do something.

You've done enough, she told herself bitterly. You're the one who made him go and start rescuing the Whites in the first place.

Her depressed thoughts were spiralling, and she ached as her eyes traced the harsh lines of sad exhaustion scoring deeper day by day into her mate's face.

You're the one who separated him from the Mackelds, she berated herself further, so that he has to burn himself out, guiding them at this distance.

Bizarrely, Mac had found that the strength built from the new ties with the Whites gave him enough reach to be able to battle meld with the Mackelds, even half-way across the continent. It was more exhausting, but possible.

It would have helped further if, as a true Alfamme would, Gemma was able to bind with him to lend him her own strength also. Mates apparently shared strength, as well as burdens. But, useless mate that she was, she looped into insanity at even a hint of the cloying pack meld. And that he could do without.

Gemma drooped as she watched the flickers of strain wrenching the drawn, gaunt face of her mate, her eyes burning with dry tears. She carefully scooped out a spoonful of extra meat sauce to add to his plate.

Wow, such a help you are.

His focus miles away, Mac picked up the crispy potato crust and bit into it, tearing off a large piece to chew down on autopilot. Gemma sat silent, heart echoing in the ache, shuddering at the look of him. He looked worse every day. Worse than she had ever seen him - even poisoned; even shot and blood-mottled and torn to shreds by Grey. He was withering with exhaustion, being sucked dry by the different calls from them all.

Mac's head lifted; his blazing eyes focussed, meeting hers for an instant, an unreadable message flickering through the black depths before the blank distance swamped over his vision again.

Just before someone rang the doorbell.

Gemma lifted her head, startled. All the Whites would have left by now. She looked doubtfully at her mate.

He was back in the battle inside his head, whatever it was. But he had evidently noted the arrival. And left it to her. He was back to staring into the distance, wincing occasionally in twitches, claws drawing blood as they bit into his scalp.

The bell rang again, insistently.

No reaction from her mate.

Silently, Gemma rose and drifted past him to open the door to the corridor, then padded swiftly down toward the large, white-painted front door.

She rose on tiptoe to peer through the spy-eye, heart thundering. After a second or two, confused by the smart grey suit jacket over a smart cream shirt, she gasped in recognition and dropped back onto her heels while she clicked back the lock.

"Will!" she cried as she swung the door wide.

The Mackeld wolf physician stood unmoving on the doorstep, looking down at her, eyes cold.

"May I come in?" he asked.

She stepped back in shock, a little chill running through her, dumbfounded, his harsh scent blasting at her. Will had always been so nice to her. The tall, lean wolf took that as permission and stepped into the hallway, striding swiftly past her down to the kitchen doorway and turning in, unerringly sure of where he was going.

Gemma was running along in his wake, and she caught the burst of fury in Mac's eyes as he looked up and semi-focussed on his brother, wild-eyed, snarling a deep furious roll as he flashed to lycan and surged from his chair.

What?

Will leapt blurringly fast across the space, also changing form mid-air, and slammed his hands down on Mac's shoulders, shoving him unceremoniously back into his seat, an equal, answering snarl echoing above Mac's.

The pair struggled, power battering against each other, flashing through the air to burn every hair on Gemma's skin and scalp alert as she gaped from the doorway, open-mouthed. Her mind wavered. She should help. But the wolf within her was cringing at the idea - this was an Alpha face-off. Stay out of it.

"You're too tired to win, cunyanido," the doctor barked harshly, words rasped between heaving breaths in the fierce struggle to hold the tawny lycan in his seat. "Let it go." Mac wrenched again at Will's grip, eyes aflame, but couldn't twist free of the fingers clenched to his shoulders, and suddenly his eyes cleared, rushing back to fully here-and-now, and he howled in anguish and slumped suddenly face-down to the table in exhaustion. The tawny Alpha trembled in his seat, almost fainting under a sudden rush to his head, then his head snapped back up to his opponent's, black eyes flashing.

"He can have it for now. But he can't deal with it all," Mac growled angrily at his brother, propping his elbows on the table and picking up his tumbler to gulp some of the golden liquid.

"Nor can you," bit back the wolf physician sharply, and pulled out Gemma's seat for himself. "You have no choice in this."

"You want it?" Mac said viciously. "After all this time?"

"You know what I want," Will snapped back. Then he sighed, and added on a softer, pained note, "What Rebecca wants. We all want."

There was a short, pungent silence. Then Mac sighed slowly in release and pushed his half-empty glass along the table-top to his brother. Will took a deep swallow, relaxing in turn with a sigh. The two Alphas sat together in an echoing, seething silence for a moment.

Then Mac's sighed for a second time, sounding very tired, and his eyes were dull, opaque pools again when they lifted and landed on the shocked, uncomprehending face of his mate, standing wavering in the doorway.

"Could you give us a bit of privacy, Gemma?" he asked softly, rubbing a tired palm across his forehead.

William Bancroft had unearthed a small glass tube from one of the pockets of the once smart jacket, now split across his broad, furry shoulders and hanging askew around his torso. He unscrewed the small cap and deftly tilted the open end against the tip of one index finger, then the other, so that a round, golden drop of glutinous liquid quivered on each. He carefully lifted them to massage the ointment gently into his Alpha's temples.

Eyes closed tight and shoulders shuddering with jolts of releasing tension, Mac sighed a third long, deep sigh of release.

"Sure," whispered Gemma, heart aching in fiery pain. "Whatever you need."

And she stepped back and paced quietly off toward the stairs down to her basement, heart sinking, and also surging in anger.

Will could help him.

Her lips twitched, the anger smothered briefly under the rich irony. Typical.

A wereem finally manages to synthesize a very complex drug, keyed to her mate, so that he can hopefully order her to do whatever he wishes without her going insane (temporarily at least), and what does he say? Go away.

HAH!

Her lips were smiling, humour rising over the tingle of anger humming through her. And triumph.

She had no choice about walking out of earshot, it was like an order, but less irritating. The control drug was working.

Gemma tripped tiredly down to the lab, and turned on the radio, looking up at the clock to work out how much longer the drug was likely to have an effect. It must be about at the limit of its duration by this time anyway, her head was already clearing of the stuffy fuzziness, the bonds with her pack reaffirming in her mind. That had been unnerving, when she'd nervously injected herself in the bathroom while he approached up the road. By the time he had made it to the kitchen, it had felt as though she was wearing a weird, muffling set of earplugs, blocking out the sense of the Whites who had sworn to her. But intensifying the sense of Mac.

He could have ordered her to do anything.

Bit of an anti-climax.

Her stomach was doing little somersaults, however.

It had worked.

Gemma sat chewing her lip as she pondered how to get it to work properly, long term. Upping the dose didn't make it last longer, or become more intense, it just made her vomit - she'd tried the muffling drug without the key of Mac's pheromones many times before combining the two.

In some ways she was glad it was wearing off now, before Mac noticed. Telling Mr Overprotective that she'd been testing drugs on herself - well, that might have become a bit of a tricky conversation. Which is why she hadn't told anyone else either, you couldn't trust the Whites to keep a secret from their Alpha. They were all such sycophantic Mac worshipers around here. Including herself.

A little smile was playing over her lips.

Her brain twitched to a new thought.

More important than finding how to synthesise it properly, she should now just concentrate on working out a way of switching it off, so that he wouldn't have to exhaust himself quite so much intercepting and fighting to a standstill all of the ex-Greys. One small injection and they'd be able to think freely for themselves again, at least for a little while.

Despite the internal grump, and the worry about what Will had come for, the wereem had a bubble of suffocating pride lodged in her chest. But dammit, she couldn't tell Mac without also incriminating herself. It would have been so nice to have had her turn being smug.

*

Gemma's thoughts were still making her turn restlessly in the wide bed that night, half-awake. She always found it hard to sleep without her mate beside her, although with her guards in the house she was safe enough. Mac had left on retrieval somewhere straight after Will had departed; one of the White koiru had picked up a trail of a former packmate. Her mate hadn't mentioned what Will had come for.

Drowsy with sleep, her ears twitched to a low buzzing noise close beside her. Gemma's skin shocked tight with fear and she twisted over frantically, claws extended, pouncing before the sleep fully left her. She speared the bedside cabinet with her claws, one a millimetre from her mate's vibrating phone, and smothered an embarrassed laugh. Good job he hadn't seen that one.

Her heart twisted in sadness. He must've been exhausted to have forgotten it.

The light of the screen flashed again with an incoming call, and the phone buzzed as it tried to vibrate out of the cage of her fingers. Gemma was just about to sleepily switch it off when the name caught her eye and a flash of electricity shot through her, jolting her fully awake, sitting upright. She yanked her claws out of the wood, and stared at the handset, heart thundering.

This could be a trap too. She felt her hackles rise slightly, wolf quivering closer to the surface.

Hakan, she called silently, while she picked up the phone.

The door was already silently swinging open, frame silhouetting the bulk of the large wolf, when she pressed the answer button and hissed out angrily, quietly, "Nicolas Grey?"

"Gem? No, it's me - oh my god, thank god," Bethan's voice sobbed down the line.

Gemma felt her eyes flash lycan, the fur lengthening along her limbs. Bastard Grey - what the hell was he planning now, tormenting her with his hostages? Her voice was rasping hoarse with anger as she asked her human friend sharply, heart thundering, "Where are you?"

Bethan drew a shuddering breath, choked, and said, "I don't know." Gemma drooped, she hadn't really expected anything else, but the fire in her head grew. Then it was swamped in a feeling of astonished hope as her friend continued breathlessly, "Kate's driving - like a maniac. Away from that maniac. We have no idea where we are." Bethan choked on a second sob, drawing another deep, shaky breath, while Gemma demanded incredulously, "What happened?"

Had they escaped Grey?

"I don't know!" Bethan almost shouted at her, then drew another uneven breath and half-sobbed words began to tumble from her rapidly, "He - he said his name was Nicholas Grey, and you had something of his, that he wants back. He just - took us. From home. Drove endlessly around in this huge silent car of his, with us packed in the trunk, stopping only in the middle of nowhere - no-one ever heard us, and he would - torment us, if we made a sound, shut in." Bethan paused, the silence only broken by her hoarse, tearful breaths, then she added quietly, ashamed, "We stopped trying. Too afraid to."

"Oh, Bethan," Gemma murmured, her heart clenching in guilt and sorrow. Yes. She knew how scary Grey could be. Wished that Bethan and Kate had never found out. Her hackles rose further, anger heating along her skin.

"We were locked in that damn trunk nearly all the time, treated like cattle - sometimes he'd give us some water and bread, exercise us, sometimes he'd stop in some woods and let us pee. Once Kate tried to fight him, hit him with a branch, but it just broke, and he laughed, and slapped her so hard she fell over."

Bethan was crying. "He liked it, made her get up so that he could do it again. And again." She heaved another breath, before her hysterical gasps quietened.

Gemma bit her lip viciously to keep back the growl which rolled through her body, urging her furious internal wolf to just listen.

"Today he made us get out - stand on a bridge; a narrow old bridge over a big river. We were standing there for hours, freezing, not daring to say anything, call his attention because - he likes hurting people, Gemma, he - well, we knew. Sometimes he would just - examine us. Like we were cattle. Sexual cattle. Terrifying. He got off on our fear."

Gemma's skin was crawling, remembering her own terrified stasis while Nick had examined her, slowly undressing her beside her bed, and she fought to keep her simmering blood from boiling over.

Listen, she snarled the reminder at her internal wolf. They need us to work out a plan, to help. Not just fight. Wait.

Bethan gulped, and her voice began to rise again, terror deepening. The fear in her friend's voice cut through the muffling anger growing in the wereem's head and the simmering wolf within her subsided, quivering in tension.

"He was making hundreds of calls by the bridge, tracking something, ignoring us, ignoring us like we were nothing - and he'd got in and turned the engine back on to charge his phone when suddenly a man appeared, out for a run down toward the crossing. A big man. When he got closer, he slowed down, but Grey got out of the car and straightened up. The runner had started to turn away when Grey dragged us forward by the hair, stalking like he was some jungle cat and shouted, "I'll give you an exchange.""

Bethan was sobbing now, deeply, her voice a pained whine, "It was Gus. He - he recognised us just before we recognised him, and something seeming to flash in his eyes. He just came sprinting: unbelievable; so, so fast and -." She gulped on a sob, "The bastard waited then - just drew a gun and shot him." A shaky, gasped inhalation. "Four times." Another. "Point blank."

Gemma's skin ran cold, mind burning with fire, blood a sharp tang in her mouth when her teeth ground together through her bottom lip. Rage flooded her brain, but if Gus was gone - she knew how much Bethan needed her support, and she fired the reminder through the raging wolf within, forcing it to subside so that she could catch the soft, continuing words of her friend.

"Shot him dead," the choked voice gasped. "Gus sort of - bounced in the air, crumpled. I couldn't believe it - I just, it was so fast. I was just - choked up, staring."

"But not Kate," she added.

Through the bitter sobs, Bethan managed to whisper, "The bastard had let us go to fire, and he then stalked carefully towards the body, keeping the gun on it; I think he'd forgotten we were even there, we were so insignificant to him. He bent over and pulled some damn package from Gus's pocket - your packet that used to sit in our fridge, still sealed."

Bethan's voice had a little tinge of awed glee when she added, "And Kate rammed him with his own damn car." She giggled hysterically. "He'd left the motor running. Probably the kind of chauvinistic idiot who believes women can't drive. I wouldn't have dared."

Gemma couldn't help but choke her own broken gulp of laughter at the pride in Bethan's voice, glee rising above the fear and strain and sorrow, while she licked sealed her bottom lip.

"Yup, the bastard was knocked flying and dropped the damn package he'd killed Gus for, whatever he'd kidnapped us for, is after you for. Kate threw open the door for me and I grabbed the packet as I jumped in. She hit him a second time while we drove past him, he clung on to my door for a while, it was terrifying, looked like he was going to rip the car in two but Kate was awesome - she scraped him against a tree and we shook him off and now -."

Bethan giggled in desperate mirth again, then added on a frantic shriek, "What the hell is going on, Gem?"

Gemma became aware of the alert Alpha in her head as he pushed her silently to ask a damn insensitive question; she snapped back that she wanted to know how they were, more than where, but he cut her short, insisting that unless they could get that car on a highway, and up the speed, Grey would catch up.

Her spine tingling in sudden dread, Gemma withdrew all objections and meekly relayed the staccato volley of questions as they appeared in her head:

"Which side of the bridge are you on? Gus's side or the other?"

Startled at the suddenly brisk tone, Bethan said, "Gus's."

"Have you passed a crossroads?" Gemma could feel the meld on the edge of her mind - Mac was linked with someone outside, possibly several someones, while he directed her questions.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 14



Gemma stopped driving quite so cautiously once they were out of the city limits and on the highway; she was by then more familiar with the response of the car: the delicious, eager response of the low-slung, purring power of the car.

Her pulse was jumping erratically; her internal wolf was exhilarated, that half of her trembling on full alert, watching for and reacting to the obstacles which appeared in the headlights faster than she could think. Which was necessary at this speed.

Her heart was beating hard, insistently against her ribs, urging Faster! Faster!

For Bethan and Kate, this speed was necessary.

She heard a muffled, frustrated grunt from behind her, and a waft of amusement pulsed anew from Hakan, hulking beside her in the deep leather passenger seat, while he glanced back again at her other two guards.

"You just wait until we pick up the A," Erik growled vengefully at her chief bodyguard, the words barely audible around the kneecaps that were jammed against his face.

Hakan grinned.

Mac was right that the wolves couldn't drive - and they didn't know much about cars either. Erik had simply requested the fastest car that the garage had had, so long as it could fit four people in it. The result was that Gemma was now driving the most sleek, responsive car that she'd ever been in, while trying to see past the thicket of wide knees wedged against the ceiling that were obscuring the view out of the back window. The hire car representative had initially looked relieved when Gemma had appeared at the desk to pick up the keys; later his eyes had widened incredulously and jaw dropped when the tiny woman had stood hopping about with impatience while two of the huge hulks accompanying her had tried to cram themselves into the tiny back space misleadingly advertised as twin seats.

"Uh - we have a larger model," he'd begun, blinking at the curvaceous little brunette now checking that she'd be able to reach the pedals if she adjusted the driver's seat as far forward as it would go. "Maybe -."

"No, no, this is great," the older, dark-haired powerful man on the passenger side had interrupted, shoving hard at a protruding leg to force it to bend into the back, ignoring the half-sworn yelp and slamming his own seat into place. "We need the speed, thanks."

That had been true, so Gemma had let Hakan get away with it. Her stomach was churning now as she repetitively gnawed and licked healed her bottom lip, worry seething through her while they streaked along the straight road North-West through the dark night. She overtook another car which barely seemed to be moving, distractedly thankful for her internal wolf, which found this speed as easy to deal with as her human self did her usual much gentler driving pace.

Naomi has lost his trail, Mac conveyed tersely. Grey's been picked up by a vehicle -a wolf vehicle - as I suspected.

Gemma floored the gas pedal, and the car leapt forwards like an eager racehorse.

Don't stop for me, her mate decided. The girls are driving so fast that I can probably intercept you where you're going to meet anyway, more-or-less.

Hakan kept flashing conveyance of any visible roadsigns to the Alpha, while he also held the handset to his Alfamme's ear. In the other car, Bethan was reading the roadsigns that she and Kate passed aloud to Gemma in a breathless voice, and the wereem conveyed them on. Luke was back at the house, keeping track on the map for them all, and apprising the wolves on their relative positions while Gemma kept a rolling update to her human friends of how close they were getting to each other.

Gemma's stomach was tightening in increasing hope as they got nearer.

Tightening muscles, black flecks jumping across her eyes: her internal wolf was also getting more jumpy, alert and angry, aching for a fight.

Luke began calculating which junction they would all have to exit at to meet up, but Bethan gasped when Gemma explained, and cried despairingly, "We haven't any money! We can't get off - we can't pay the toll!"

Gemma was swearing, claws clenching into the leather steering wheel while the wild, uncomprehending rage surged to overwhelm her reason. Words flickered through the black clouds in her head, a distant, indistinct murmur of Mac calmly suggesting that Gemma could pass the girls, come off and head back down after them, no trouble - her speed was so much faster, it would only add a moment to the journey. As the words sank in, her eyes slowly swam back into focus.

The wereem blinked away the last black blotches that were obscuring the red lights streaming past her vision, breathing deeply while she watched the black fingernails on the wheel slowly turning pink again. Well, except for those of Hakan's one hand, which were still human anyway. He had taken a light grip on the wheel and was casually dancing them around each pair of red lights which appeared ahead, uncaring whether under or overtaking, swooping from side to side of the road. It looked surreally like they were in the middle of one of her brother's PS3 games. It sounded like they were threading their way through a slow-moving, honking chorus of geese; the other drivers were loudly and indignantly expressing their opinion of his speed and steering.

The wereem took a harsh breath, and tapped the back of her bodyguard's beefy hand with a finger. "I'm OK," she said, "Let me steer - you're attracting too much attention."

Mac was murmuring something urgently in her head while she said it.

"What?" What?

"Next junction," repeated the wolf beside her tersely. "We will see them passing on the other side any minute and -."

"Eeeep!" a half-shriek, half-gasp, shrilled terrified from the phone directly into Gemma's ear, rasping painfully along her already vibrating nerves.

"THERE!" bellowed Erik simultaneously from the back seat. "That must be them! And right beside them - he's trying to get them! STOP!"

Twin sets of headlights, specks in the distance, were tearing down the opposite carriageway, locked much too closely together, swaying in unison in a deadly dance. Gemma's teeth clenched as the obliterating fury hit and she braked viciously, swerving straight towards the central reservation where a spray of grass rose as the front wheels hit the narrow strip separating the two carriageways.

Her head slammed painfully against the side door when they bounced off the crash barrier. Then the fury lifted abruptly as the pure clear mind of fighting for her life in a skid descended and she struggled instead to keep the wildly spinning vehicle from slewing back into the traffic. The four headlights on the opposite side flared closer at breakneck speed, appearing in patches in her spinning vision. Everything seemed to be happening in slow motion.

From the corner of her eye she noticed the blur of Xavi's elbow in the reversing mirror, heard the splintering noise as the back window disintegrated under the sharp blow and then there was a swirl around her of damp grass, pieces of glass and mud, whipping around inside in a sudden stream of fresh air and exhaust. Before she could blink, the two wolves on the back seat had exploded from the vehicle, landing momentarily silhouetted on the crash barrier in the centre of the road before recoiling to fling themselves onto the dark green limo shrieking past on the opposite side, the car locked in an elbowing fight with the black Lincoln glued to its side.

"Go! Go! Go!" yelled Hakan to her, just as their car finally slammed to a halt, back to the barrier, still half on the grass. Her remaining guard swivelled so fast that his neck almost snapped, looking over his shoulder at his two packmates fighting to break into the racing cars on the opposite side. "Over the bridge and after them!" Then his fiery black eyes focussed on her and he snapped out Human! in her head.

Back in control, flashing a look over her shoulder at the oncoming traffic as she shifted shape, Gemma pressed hard on the pedal, hearing the wheels spin in a scream before tearing off the grass, and she swerved hazardously back through the slow-moving obstacles across to the almost parallel exit.

"Ma'am, I don't like the way you drive," rebuked the tall, thin man in the tollbooth, mouth pursed in accustomed lines, eyes scowling at Gemma when the werewolf slapped a bill down on the counter with her ticket, breathing heavily.

Gemma just managed to swallow the ferocious snarl which rose in answer, her face creasing at the effort, and instead growled with as much restraint as she could muster, "I don't care for your opinion." Her heart was racing down the highway with her human friends and wolf guards.

The disapproving lines on the man's face deepened, and his lips pressed more closely together.

"I have a duty to -," he began, then stopped at the sound of shrieking metal, turning his eyes forward, aghast.

Hakan was already out in the lane ahead of the booth, and had wrenched the barrier off its hinges. Go! he conveyed urgently.

Her bodyguard leaped onto the car roof and slid across the smooth metal while Gemma accelerated away with a screech of tyres. Then he swung gracefully back through his open door and slammed it behind him while they picked up speed.

"Keep the change!" the werewolf yelled over her shoulder cheerfully, trying to stifle an insane set of giggles at the official's face, and tore around over the bridge back onto the carriageway heading south. Luckily the bored operator on this side wasn't awake enough to have noticed anything untoward, and did nothing more than hand them a ticket.

The laughter suddenly left her as she accelerated again, the darkness streaking past the windows matching her mood. Blue lights were flashing in the distant darkness behind the car, but she couldn't see anything ahead.

Where the hell were they?

An almighty whipcrack like a gunshot sounded above the racing purr of the engine, mixed with the splintering sound of shattered glass as shards splattered around the car, tiny pinpricks of pain sparking on her face.

Gemma's wide eyes flashed to a long, dark shape lying on the road ahead just seconds before the car ploughed sickeningly, bumpily over the yielding surface of the object, skidding out of control on two wheels. Simultaneously she shrieked in shock as a huge, furry grey body landed with a heavy thud on the windshield, and the car slammed back onto all four tyres on the roadway.

Hakan slumped against her heavily, unconscious, almost smothering her in her seat under the fierce G-force of the violently spinning car. Peering beyond his bulk, Gemma's eyes were caught by the black nails clamped to the frame of the passenger door, the hand of the stowaway clenched around the slight gap where the window was open at the top. Stunned, her eyes traced down from the nails of the wolf clinging on, the furry lycan figure plastered against the windscreen by the spin, over the gun clasped tight in his other hand, then were caught by the vicious grey eyes glaring at her through the glass.

Her heart lurched: Nicolas Grey.

The scent of Hakan's blood was burning in her nose.

Mac was swearing in her head, but the noise faded as her mind seemed to condense into the car, into now, while all Gemma's could do was cling to the wheel of the spinning vehicle. Then a wild flare of thought nudged her to spare a reckless hand for a second, and slam a finger down on the switch to close the electric window.

The glass hummed closed as the tyres screeched sideways on the asphalt. Grey dropped the gun clenched in his right hand, and speared his claws through the metal roof of the car just in time so that he could snatch his left fingers out of the closing gap. Their violent trajectory across the wide lanes was losing momentum, and the wereem watched through the glass, eyes caught by the aggressive glare, while in seeming slow motion Grey drew back his free hand, brought it up to flex those long, deadly claws at her, then raked a painfully screeching cacophony through the remaining glass of the windshield, so that it splintered into thousands of tiny squares, like a cobweb.

Through the broken lines, eyes huge, Gemma saw the fist raised again to smash the shattered glass out of his way.

She slammed her foot on the brake.

Her chest hit the steering wheel painfully, and violent cursing echoed distantly in her ears from the powerful body that flew off the windscreen, swinging in a wild circle around the fist clenched in the roof. Grey used his momentum to smash his arm through the passenger window instead and clench his free claws deep into the leather upholstered headrest just as the thin sheet of metal in his right hand ripped clear. He swung back on the new grip to smash heavily into the side door and panel. Damn him for clinging on.

The vehicle finally skidded to a halt. Their eyes met through the rear side window, the deep longing to inflict maximum pain clear in the Grey wolf's eyes, and Nick's other hand shot in through the passenger window to claw into the gleaming dashboard while his shoulders hunched to haul himself inside.

Gemma slammed the stick into first and floored the accelerator. Above the screeching of the tyres and the stench of the rubber, she could hear the Grey wolf cursing again while he tried to heave himself inside despite the drag of his calves on the ground. A harsh metallic screech, and his rear claws were stabbed into the body of the rear of the car to give him leverage to push harder, force himself inside the window. He swiped with a handful of open claws, swinging them wildly, trying to get hold of her, get her out.

Even in his coma, Hakan was helping; Gemma felt sickened when those vicious claws swiped just short of her and raked instead through the slumped blanket of her bleeding guard, lying half across her. Grey swiped for her a second time. Desperately the werewolf began slewing the car from side to side, trying to shake Nick off, trying to make him sicker, or just trying to make it more difficult for him to get his claws into her and hook her out of the vehicle. However, despite her best efforts, Nick's snarling face was getting closer to her, he was slowly, inexorably clawing his way in.

But even in her splintering terror, the analytical corner of Gemma's mind noted that Grey's face was looking a little clammy, pale.

Sick. Motion sick. From the movement and the stench of the fuel.

Gemma heart jumped in terror and fury as she met those bestial eyes again, too close, and she slammed on the brakes automatically, spinning the wheel to create another sickening counter-skid. The car screeched sideways on a stench of melting tyre, the force yanking Grey back to full arm stretch from his hands clamped in the dashboard and the headrest, his legs flying out behind the vehicle. The slow moving rear lights of a truck ahead were noted by Gemma's jumping brain, and she straightened the wheel towards it, flooring the gas pedal, burning with the angry, vengeful urge to scrape the car along the side of the monster vehicle they were rapidly closing on, crush the vile predator hanging out of the window between a rock and a hard place.

A pulse of anguished fear shattered through the otherwise silent, faint link with her mate, strangled words yanked back before they could manifest; terror smothered instantly. But the shot of stark, involuntary emotion reminded her: she couldn't kill Grey: Natasha would die too.

Shocked by the heart-crushing blink of sensation from her wolfmate, cold rushing through her, Gemma braked as hard as she could, instinctively, straightening the wheel and blinking tears through a rush of pain, suddenly unaware of her surroundings. Her heart was keening: he cared that much? She barely noticed as the car, skipping on the road surface as the tyres locked, screeched in behind the rumbling truck, just managing to slow down enough not to hit it. A cough of thick, nauseating diesel fumes spewed through the semi-shattered windshield from the rear of the metal monster inches ahead, the reek churning Gemma's stomach further, reflecting her bleak mood.

Then a second, even stronger raw pulse of emotion crashed into her from Mac: wordless, the feeling of his terror and boiling fury swamped her and she almost whimpered in guilt at the jangle of raw emotions. Love, exasperation, fear: Grey was two feet away from his mate and she wasn't bloody well paying attention to staying alive - will you just fucking trust me? Shuddering, mind zooming back into sharp here-and-now clarity, Gemma was already moving to whisk out from behind the truck.

Of course he cared that much: Tasha was his little sister, she rebuked herself fiercely.

Suddenly a thought occurred, why hadn't the damn malevolent wolf taken advantage? She jerked her head around and peered over at the limp figure hanging half out of the passenger window, arms straight, head just visible above the doorframe. Nick was hanging heavily, sweat standing out on his nose, mouth slightly agape. His face was also sagging, eyes dull and only half focussed on her.

Ah.

Stomach churning, mind on fire, shivering at the proximity of those clenched, blood-stained claws, Gemma drifted the car sideways carefully and settled down to mirror the pace of the juggernaut, purring along just where the exhaust pipe was level with her enemy's face. His features seemed to melt further, head sinking deeper between his slack shoulders.

The wereem smiled a little vicious half-smile, and hung on in the fume-rank wake of the truck, taking deep, long breaths of the foul air through her nose, swallowing rapidly, repeatedly, and staring out past the huge wheels to calm her roiling stomach. A little ironic gleam of pride lit her eyes: this was the benefit of being ex-human. She had learned to battle this nausea during her childhood, when she'd never been able to resist reading on the back seat, despite the consequences.

Her wolf senses were becoming sluggish, hard to hear while her stomach churned and a ringing sound was growing louder in her ears. The black spots were dancing in her head, the wolf within jumpy through fear, but somewhere in the distance she could hear the soothing ripple of pride from her mate: I love you I love you I love you. The calm anchor of Mac held a stable core within her growing, seething tension. Gemma clung to him, fighting the rising, desperate urge to just leap out and run, trying to keep an ear and nauseated nose out for any aggressive move from Nicolas.

The rage hovered.

Hovered closer.

Closer, the very brink.

Just one moment longer.

Soundlessly, smoothly, the claws clamped inside the dashboard and passenger headrest relaxed and slid loose. Gemma's dazed eyes jerked up to the reversing mirror and she saw the heap of grey fur rolling along in her wake, the pink mouth gasping as Grey dry retched into the roadway. Instantly she pulled out into the fresh air to the left of the truck and began to gulp, blinking hard to clear the black spots from her vision, senses reviving.

A brushing touch like a kiss nudged at her mind, almost unbearable relief swamping through the bond. In contrast, her mind snapped back into sharp alert, awareness of her wider surroundings, fear shooting through her.

Bethan and Kate? she conveyed the question urgently to Mac, Erik and Xavi. Then as her mind cleared from the tension of fighting Grey, she realised - that squashy lump she had driven over - Erik. Ugh. He was hurting.

He'll be OK, her mate replied, he wasn't hit by silver and you didn't crush anything that won't regenerate. Simultaneously, she received a flashed image from Xavi, as though seen through his eyes beneath a canopy of trees, from a distance. A scene of two mangled, entwined cars in the ditch at the roadside, lit by a surrounding mix of police headlights and blue flashing lights, which were also strobing on a small group of people huddled around the vehicles - she must have skidded past the crash without noticing while Grey had been trying to invade her car, because she could also see those lights in her reversing mirror.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 14



Through Xavi, she could make out Bethan and Kate sitting together on the hood of one of the cars, grey blankets around their shoulders, talking to the cops surrounding them, who were nodding seriously and taking notes, speaking into radios. Her friends looked shaken, pale, teary. They were shivering. But they were ok. They were OK. Gemma's heart was burning in relief. She needed to see them.

The wereem gulped and switched off all of her car lights, swerving in a cautious U-turn around right back on herself, sneaking the car in to the side of the currently empty road. She began to creep the wrong way up the carriageway, keeping to the very edge, purring back up towards those distant lights. She could dodge into the trees if necessary.

Grey is not dead, Gemma, Mac's mind blasted hers. Don't come back. Take Hakan home and get that bullet out so that he can stop bleeding. The girls are OK, and they will be safe with the cops - four of the officers here are of Johnson Pack, they're not going to let anything happen to them.

Damn you, I want to see them, she swore back at him, heart burning, fiery senses fighting the order; she needed to see them. But a renewed flutter of fear was also churning through her and her hands were slightly clammy on the wheel she was already obediently turning, despite the fury echoing in her head at the order. Out of the corner of her eye she saw a blur of movement and terror clawed into her skin, breaking her out of the rising rage, just as her Alpha's voice added, I've sent Xavi back with the package; he should reach you any minute; then get going back home. Bethan and Kate are safe.

It was Xavi, she could see it was him now that she thought about it, and Gemma trembled in relief as the dark wolf shot down the slight bank at the roadside and leapt back through the shattered rear window, turning human in mid-air so that his teeth flashed white in the darkness with his wide grin while he landed with a bounce on the sprinkling of grass and glass on the back seat.

"Nice driving," he commended, eyes sparkling.

She managed a half a smile back at him, and pressed the gas pedal tentatively to pick up speed, the thought of Grey recovering somewhere in the darkness here crawling up her spine. But still.

I want to see them, talk to them, she hissed at her mate, the anger burning higher inside her. Rational anger: he was her mate, not her keeper. She tried to bury the fear and the tiny, private admission that what he said made sense. This wasn't about being rational. She needed to see Kate and Bethan. And Grey wasn't such a big deal. Really.

Pick up the phone, responded her wolf tiredly. They are OK. But Hakan is reacting badly to the silver, and you may get attacked again or at least arrested for dangerous driving if you come back - the cops the other drivers called are human. I promise you will see Bethan and Kate tomorrow. But please, Gemma, take Hakan home.

Hmmm. Her Alpha at least appeared to have learned to say please.

Her heart also softened in sadness. Mac's exhaustion had leaked through in that last sentence; she could probably win if she pushed, he was so tired.

While she had argued, on the back seat Xavi had yanked his shirt off, ripped it in two and was now leaning forward in the almost non-existent gap to slide his hand down and press the makeshift pad hard against the still seeping wound on Hakan's lower torso.

"C'mon, Mr. B," he murmured softly. "Hold it together now, we're taking you home to Penny and the cubs." Her sole remaining guard also silently lifted the phone from the floor and pressed redial then loudspeaker, holding the handset a short distance from his Alfamme's head while the calling tone buzzed loudly. He did so distractedly; Xavi's focus was on stopping the sluggish flow of blood from the hole in Hakan's stomach, and he was also angling his head to try to lick sealed the deep, scored scratches raked through his packmate's chest and arm.

Damn you for always being right, Gemma snarled at her Alpha, pressing on the pedal lightly to pick up speed. Heart aching. She so wanted to see her friends.

Lights, suggested Mac, his mind lightening in relief. I'm sorry, picchu, but you need to stay away for now, stay ahead of the other cops - the Johnsons will remain here at the incident, so they can watch over the girls and take Erik somewhere safe to get their phys to reset his bones. But the human cops might not be quite so understanding. Hakan is fading, you need to get him back quickly and get that silver bullet out, not spend time explaining your driving.

I can get the bullet out here! exclaimed Gemma, snapping the lights back on. Bossyboots.

No, neither of you can touch it - and you have no probes or tweezers, Mac replied. Much better to get back to the lab and not cut him up any further with field surgery. Some wolves find it nearly impossible to heal anything with even a trace of silver in the system.

Unlike him.

A teeny corner of her brain noted that one separate blue flashing light behind her was now getting closer. Fast. Headlights were blaring towards her, rapidly overhauling her slow purr.

Her pulse jumped. Maybe she was going to get arrested. Maybe she already had a record. Stealing motorbikes. Speeding. Seriously dangerous driving, breaking toll barriers and now evading arrest. These wolves were a bad influence.

Gemma pushed her foot down on the gas pedal again, and the eager car sprinted off, wind whistling through holes in the cobweb windshield pulling tears from her eyes.

Tell them I love them; that was so inadequate. The tears weren't only from the wind.

He replied softly: They know you love them, picchu. I told them that we brought Xavi and Erik and Hakan as backup, but Hakan's been shot and you have to -."

Mac was interrupted as the phone clicked in, and Kate's incredulous words suddenly echoed around the car: "Well damn, girl: how many hot macho new friends have you got?"

Bethan's voice could be heard calling urgently in the background: "I want an invite!"

Gemma dissolved into tearful laughter.

*

Three hours later, Mac swayed slowly up the street towards home, his shoulders hunched, defeated weariness seeping through him. He had no idea whether the nauseous Grey had suspected that he was being tailed; maybe the damn cunning wolf habitually left a guard on that bridge to delay any pursuit.

Tonight's guard had been powerful, cunning, and desperate.

So desperate.

The Mackeld shuddered as he remembered the shock of the realisation when his adversary had tumbled over the parapet. He had suspected on previous attempted pursuits that the ex-Greys he or his Whites had been sight-tailing had been ordered to die once their tracker was detected - probably detected by another damn invisible, scentless Grey wolf lurking en route. However, tonight he had had clear proof that the strong Grey wolf he had been fighting his way past had preferred - welcomed the splintering freedom of falling in front of a truck on the highway, instead of returning to his hated leader. It had been his choice.

In his last moment, the falling wolf had sent a wild pulse of thanks to the Alpha for fighting him to this freedom, conveying during that split second of free thought when Grey released him before the truck cannoned sickeningly into his falling body and then churned over him. Wild relief at the freedom of death.

Poor human drivers - it had even been in their news, the rash of deaths of timber wolves on the roads upstate over the beginning of the fall.

Mac's heart was dull, drained. He should have fought the burly wolf to a standstill and made him circle, not wasted more time trying to pass him to follow Grey, who had once more disappeared. Another wasted life. He let out a rough hiss of anger as he put his foot on the bottom doorstep, guilt twisting inside him.

Then suddenly his nose twitched, the fine hairs along his skin raised and he lifted his head, eyes alert.

Luke and Xavi stepped out of the front door to greet him, and he could sense the buried amusement in both koiru. Hakan was back at his home, with Penny and their cubs, sleeping into health. Erik, Bethan and Kate were up in Redfield with the Johnsons; the humans held overnight for medical observation.

But Gemma was home.

Mac's skin shuddered, a tremor easing his tension. His eyes began to gleam, and a light tingle stroked along his spine while he absorbed the faint scent of his favourite food wafting from the house with his mate's guards. Luke closed the door and made the all clear sign. The lean young warrior was trying to keep a straight face.

What was his little picchu up to? The Alpha's frown lightened as his mind reached out, diverted.

Both his warriors jumped down the steps past him to head to their own dens, laughing together and shooting him pleased little glances from the corners of their eyes. Mac nodded acknowledgement to them, soothed by the relaxed approval, the companionship in their scent. He could feel the weary wolf inside him shaking out the sadness, the stiffness, limbering up and stretching, pleased.

His mate had set up a special welcome for him.

He was exhausted; his mind was reeling with the need to eat and collapse and grab what little sleep he could. But the wolf was rising in excitement. This might be just what he needed to relax.

The green sparkles began to dance in his eyes.

Mac stepped into the hallway, and closed the front door behind him, eyes sweeping around while his mood lightened further.

The food scent was much stronger here. And there was also the soft scent of wax - the house was lit only by candles, multitudes of little flickering tea-lights dancing shadows against the walls, teasing at the darkness, warming the air.

Best of all was the scent of his mate. He could taste the tentative playfulness perfuming the air.

The brightening green eyes zoomed in on the lightly steaming cube of marinated roast chicken sitting on a folded piece of kitchen paper on the wide oak bannister post at the foot of the stairs, beside a little saucer of satay sauce. Mac's lips twitched, mouth watering, and he relaxed into the wolf.

His nose quivered as he absorbed the scent of hundreds of the succulent cubes, scattered around this floor, the fragrance of meat and sauce pervading every room, every corner. Disguising other scents. Muffling her scent.

Hah. He had had a lot of practice in hunting wolves with indistinct scent recently. His fur ruffled to alertness, pleasure stroking down his spine and his limbs shuddered lightly in releasing tension.

Silently, Mac prowled forwards, his blood beginning to purr, keeping ears, eyes and nose out for an ambush. Not that he would mind.

He pronged the cube with a claw, twirled it in the sauce and savoured it melting on his tongue. Delicious. He tried to pinpoint where her latest trail led, underneath the pervasive peanut fragrance, but she'd obviously sprinted repeatedly all over the house just before he returned. Cunning little mate.

His nose twitched again.

There was another piece of his starter upstairs, sitting on the post where the bannister curved around the corner.

And one downstairs, on the bottom step.

Cautiously, he sent out a brief thought to see if he could glimpse where she was, but she was solidly shielded. Hiding from him. He could feel the instinctive call to find his mate beginning to stir his blood.

A feral little smile lit his lips, and Mac bounded silently up the stairs to his second piece of chicken, enjoying the rich taste on his tongue as he breathed in deeply, assessing, trying to get a hint of her whereabouts. His whole body was quivering in anticipation, arousal tingling through him, feeling the wolf's pleasure in the little hunt.

He would have to remember to thank her for this properly.

In his own way.

A whispering click of a small object bouncing down the steps to the basement made his ears twitch and he smiled, but he was too old a hand to be caught by a trick like that; he had heard the faint whisper of the pebble rolling along something else above his head, some chute channelling it to reach the centre of the stairwell before it fell.

Quietly, quietly, he began to ghost the rest of his way upstairs, avoiding the three steps which creaked.

Stepping over one of the weak steps, underneath the pervasive scent of meat, peanut and spices, his nose caught a whiff of balloon just as his descending foot touched something soft, inflated; he held his breath as he froze. Gently, trembling, straining to hold his weight steady across the gap, Mac extended the claws of his suspended foot into the wooden stair rise, and just managed to adjust his weight and remove his limb without allowing any weight to press on the object. It was too large and flat to be a balloon - must be one of those human trick things that farted when you sat on it. He laughed silently. He would really have to trail-train his picchu; she would enjoy it, and she was inventive.

This also probably meant he was on the right track.

There were a lot of other dishes perfuming the first floor; at least one in every room. Mac felt his stomach tighten in recognition, his mouth moistening further.

All of his favourites; mmm. His heart melted beating slightly faster as he absorbed the scents, and he felt a rush of feeling aching through him, lifting the fur across his shoulders, pounding through his blood.

He loved her too.

Silently, carefully, he stole out onto the landing, lifting up the spring roll perched next to a different sauce on the bannister rail up to the attic, savouring the rich taste. There were a lot of mouth-watering scents emanating from upstairs also.

In fact, she'd filled the house with them.

Good girl.

Lying curled on top of the wardrobe in their bedroom, Gemma watched in glee, breathing as quietly as she could while Mac, after a brief glance around the door, turned and prowled silently on up the stairs.

Her Mac. His eyes had been clear, and glowing, alight with pleasure shining through the tiredness. Her internal wolf had been right, however ridiculous she had thought the wild urge: even after the day he'd had, maybe because of the day he'd had, her wolfmate needed to play, to relax before bed.

She waited, barely breathing, until he turned at the bend in the steps, then silently reached to heave herself up by his pull-up bar above the door and lower herself until her toes touched the stool she'd left just to the side inside the doorway. Her arms ached. Dammit. Better add pull-ups to her daily routine if she was so feeble.

Trying to keep her breathing steady, the excited wereem slid onto her back on the white bedcover, easily visible from the door, and reached for the wrapped present she'd left on the bedside table, resting it gently on her taut, naked stomach.

She flipped over the large cardboard label so that the message would be visible to anyone approaching, a little smile playing on her lips. Then, heart jumping in excitement, she inserted her feet into the soft slip-knot scarves she'd tied to the lower bedposts, and pulled them tight, securing her ankles.

She got to play too.

Her breath was short little pants of excitement as she carefully fed her wrists into the second set of loops above her head, and she felt a rush of lust moisten her tight inner passage. She was finally going to do this, Mr Wolf. All he needed was the right encouragement.

She pulled the slip knots tight, a smug little smile on her face.

Then she tugged at the bonds about her wrists, checking their security. The wash of smug lust was suddenly overwhelmed by a crash of splintering claustrophobia, and she gasped open her mouth, a choked whimper of a gulp escaping from a throat suddenly taut with terror, the inner wolf scrambling for control and yanking, hauling at the bonds in desperation, feeling the panic rocketing out of control.

The black fog swept over just as a terrified yelp escaped and she silently shouted a frantic Mac!, eyes turned piteously toward the doorway, begging him to appear. Simultaneously, she felt a breath of air on her naked skin, the bonds at her wrists parted with a flash of claws in the dancing candlelight, and she almost screamed in fear and relief, crashing back into herself realising that her wolf had landed beside her through the open window opposite the doorway. He had known where she was all along. His outline blurred with the speed at which he folded himself around her on the bed, slashing apart the scarves binding her ankles with his feet while he pulled her violently trembling form into a warm hug on top of him.

Don't do that again.

The order was blistering. Gemma shook her head in frantic agreement, fingers clutching at him, pressing her face hard into his chest, shivering uncontrollably, the dread still draining through her limbs.

He rolled them over and twisted her straight underneath him, hands clasped either side of her face as he plastered her to the mattress with his hard, quivering frame and tilted her head to make her look up into those scorching black eyes, angry scent burning her throat.

Do you hear me? Mac demanded caustically.

"I'm sorry," whispered Gemma, still trembling in the aftermath of the terror, rocked by how deep, unstoppable it had been. "I won't."

"That was such a stupid thing to do," he cursed.

"I'm sorry," she murmured again.

Mac grimaced, angry black eyes shooting sparks. "Did you not believe what I told you?" he snapped.

Gemma felt her already pounding blood lifting in a light shimmer of irritation. She had said sorry; he didn't need to belabour the point. Trying to hang on to a thread of diplomacy, she licked her lips. "I have known me a lot longer than you have," she rumbled back.

Mac wasn't bothering with his wording, "I've known wolves a hell of a lot longer than you have, Gemma. That was just plain idiocy. I told you."

Her eyes narrowed up at him. "Yeah, well, maybe I get tired of being told what to do all the time," she growled.

Her mate just glared down at her, swirling eyes unreadable, but she could feel, smell the heat of anger beating higher off him. And then she recognised the fear underneath it.

Oops.

"I fantasise all the time about you tying me up," Gemma's voice softened, becoming a little faint, hoarse, as she tried to explain. "Being at your mercy." Then she growled exasperatedly into the seething silence, "And I love it when you hold me down - why don't I panic when you do that?"

A little green swirl shot through the black, and Mac's expression became slightly less forbidding.

"Because the wolf side trusts me," he replied brusquely.

Then he rolled away and pulled himself wearily to his feet beside the bed, standing with his back to her as he stared out into the night, shoulders drooping tiredly; he massaged his fingers across his scalp, down his forehead, pinching the bridge of his nose. Mac looked so tired.

Gemma's heart melted, sorrow rushing through her, dissolving the burgeoning anger. She'd wanted to lift that bone-deep weariness, lift the burdens for a while. Instead she'd added to them.

Tears sprang into her eyes. "I'm so sorry, Mac. I promise I won't do that again," she said sadly, and sighed, closing her eyes on more tears. "Talk about killing a mood."




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 14



Silence.

But - a moment later, bewildered, pulled by the tang of pleasure which had shot into his scent, Gemma's eyelids lifted and she stared questioningly up at her mate. He had turned and was looking back down at her on the bed, standing over her, fierce eyes roving over her scantily clad form. The light green sparkles were back, swirling in the black. Mac rested his gaze appreciatively, speculatively on the soft purple-and-crimson flowered bra framing and accentuating her lush, heaving breasts. She was wearing the new set of underwear that Jasmine had sent, tucked in with his present in the package she'd received today. Gemma's breath quickened, and Mac's smile grew, eyes hooding over as he stood over his mate and watched her breasts heave.

Her skin was gleaming, warm and dusky in the candlelight, and the fierce green-black eyes dropped, gaze gliding over the soft curve of her hip, admiring the decoration of the line of stitched flowers crossing the smooth skin, the flower chain waist of the matching briefs holding up a scrap of patterned lace that was cupping and almost concealing the trim mound of her pussy. Shorn to a neat little landing strip. For him. Gentle fingers reached to smooth along the delicate, opaque band of the third piece: the semi-transparent suspender belt girdling her waist, and he tucked a fingertip under one strap and followed it down to trace along the lacy top of her black stockings. Mac's smile was predatory, but there was also a tingle of anger still heating the depths.

Maybe he could come up with something to reinforce the message to listen to him. He remembered Jon complaining about this once, when Shilpa had still been alive - every other wolf at least considered that the Alpha might have some idea what he was talking about, but never his mate.

Mac's lips twisted, and he listened silently to his heart thumping in joy, feeling his blood simmering with content. His mate had been jumping between anger and fear for so long, but over the last week or so she had begun to smell more like herself all the time, not just in occasional splashes. Argumentative. Rational. More certain, and no longer so scared of getting angry. Now that his fear had been allayed by her promise not to repeat tonight's idiocy, Mac was secretly delighted that his little picchu was getting confident enough to start pushing the boundaries and arguing with him more; to be fully his mate.

But he wasn't going to tell her that. Yet. She had wanted to play.

"Your guards had better not have seen you like this, Gemma," he warned softly, gazing down at the dusky shadow of her cleft just visible through the lace front of her briefs. Mac felt a surge of excitement, wolf rising in glee.

Gemma sighed and shook her head from side to side against the mattress, a little warmth fluttering in her stomach as the anger in his scent sank beneath happiness. And lust. She melted in the reminder that her wolf did not share. At all.

"Only for you," she promised on a whisper, looking up into those dark, sparkling eyes.

Mac smiled.

"I know," he grunted in return, sounding slightly mollified.

The wolf was looking out at her, possessively. Her own wolf was quivering in pleasure, shivering lightly. Mac was looking decidedly predatory.

He stretched out full length on the bed beside her, lying on one side, looking down at her semi-naked form lying flat on her back beside him. She shivered lightly. His head was propped on his bent arm, that hooded, smiling look of anticipation on his face

"As your correction, for disobeying your Alpha and putting his mate at risk," the Alpha began.

"You never said I couldn't tie myself up," Gemma objected automatically, then she broke off at the flash in his eyes, and blinked her own gaze closed, startled, heart thudding in sudden edginess at the scent in the air.

Talk about side-blasted by power. But OK, he did understand the wolf better than she did; it had been a stupid thing to do. She could admit it. Just. She re-opened her eyes.

"I'm sorry," she murmured yet again, grudgingly, sighing. "OK, you're right, I knew what I was doing - what you'd think of such an idea."

"So will you accept your punishment?" her Alpha demanded softly.

"What is it?" she countered.

Silence.

"Do you trust me to administer a fitting punishment? Something from which you will learn?" Mac amended his question, voice dropping, silky with danger.

Gemma stared up at him. He looked straight back at her, black eyes unreadable.

Her heart was in her mouth. Something about that look was daunting.

But.

"Yes," she whispered. He was right: she did trust him. But she was quivering.

"And will you accept your punishment, and learn from it?" he pressed softly.

She was not sure she agreed about the Alpha's right to punish the Alfamme. They were equals. But her lips parted, excitement curling in her stomach. What would he do? This was what she wanted, wasn't it?

Mac enjoyed the wild edge of almost fear in his mate's eyes. She had scared him.

"Yes," she breathed.

He enjoyed her answer too, for a different reason, and smiled slowly, watching her tremble grow as she absorbed his expression.

"I'll teach you," he promised. Unnervingly quietly. "But you are the one who has to make the effort to learn. So: will you promise me, Gemma, that from now until midnight tomorrow you will do exactly as I say?"

Her eyes widened and she stared at him.

She suppressed the large bubble of laughter which almost choked her as she thought of the secret drug downstairs in the lab. The seething want she had had to suppress, as soon as she'd scented him coming up the street, to test it out again just for fun.

This was what he called punishment?

"Yes," breathed Gemma. Then instantly she felt a tingle of doubt.

"This is not a light promise, Gem: you don't argue, you don't hesitate," warned her wolf. "It doesn't matter whether you like the order or not. What it boils down to is trusting me not to mess you around. Can I trust you to trust me?"

Ouch.

But.

"Do you trust me?" she murmured hoarsely in reply. "I know you can't tell me more about your link with Tasha in case Grey's son gets close enough to read me, but what about Will? Can't you tell me what he came for?" she challenged edgily.

Mac blinked. The gleam grew in his eyes as he met the straight look in hers.

"I will tell you if you manage to keep your promise, OK?"

Gemma's heart bounded.

She wanted to promise. But.

"Mac," she whispered uncertainly, looking up into those swirling black eyes, feeling the burn of the power along her skin, lifting the small hairs. "I'm not sure I could obey you against my better judgement." The happy smile of Rowan was dancing in her head. He was not always right. Except he had been right too: it had been a trap. And having two packs was tearing him apart; maybe that had been part of the plan, if the trap failed? She sighed. Why was life never black and white?

For some reason the smile in his eyes deepened.

"Thank-you, picchu," he replied softly. "For taking this seriously. But I wouldn't expect you to obey me in a crisis - I doubt that one will arise over the next day, but if it does, you must do as you feel fit, rather than as I say. I trust you to judge whether the situation warrants breaking your promise."

Pointed.

She looked up steadily into his deep, loving eyes. He was right. This was about whether she would trust him, "I promise," she whispered, voice low. She would: to banish that last lingering smidgeon of angry fear at the back of his scent.

Mac blinked at her, considering her soberly.

Then a beautiful smile warmed his face, and his frame relaxed completely.

"Good," her mate murmured, sitting up and hauling himself back to rest against the headboard, propping pillows behind his back and sinking back with a sigh, closing his eyes. "Go and collect all the food and bring it back here; get me something to drink as well, would you love?"

Was that all? Gemma was pouting a little as she began to scramble off the bed.

"But kiss me before you go," he added.

She turned back with a smile.

*

Later, she felt a bit guilty, adding to his already indefatigable smugness.

But this was so much fun. Decadent. She could feel her mate sinking in growing relaxation, steeping himself deeper and deeper in enjoyment.

Gemma was kneeling on the bed beside Mac as he lounged back against the stacked pillows, leaning towards him in the slave-girl pose he liked, shoulders back, hands behind her back, delicately offering him another piece of the pear she'd peeled and cut up for his desert.

The remains of their midnight feast were scattered around them, crumbs and sauce covering small dishes and plates on the thick coverlet and bedside cabinets, the fragrance of spices and flavours and rich meats perfuming the air. Also perfuming her; her mate had enjoyed licking her skin clean, after use.

In addition, the tastes teased at the corners of her mouth, lingering from the pieces he had fed to her by hand, and from the many she had offered to him, lip to lip, morsel by morsel, under his softly murmured instruction.

Mac turned his head lazily now, eyes gleaming through the narrow slit of his lids as they focussed on her breasts again, lingering on the peaks as they tingled in hard want, the lust pulsing between her thighs.

"Closer," he said softly, and then turned his head when she leaned carefully forwards, stretching her hands back for balance, accentuating the curve of her breasts. Mac brushed his lips against her cheekbone before closing his teeth over the slippery piece of pear held carefully in hers, sucking it from her as she released it.

One of his hands came up to fondle gently over the swinging globes while he chewed and swallowed, licking his lips, then running his tongue carefully over hers. His fingers were gliding inside the pretty stitched lace flowers, brushing over her skin, pulling one cup gently down until her nipple was exposed, poking hard forwards, aching with erect tension. Mac sighed in gentle pleasure at the sight, and pulled the material further down, back, pushing it under the mound to hold it upright and poking forwards.

Gemma's belly was fluttering in anticipation.

"I think I'm done eating, picchu," he said softly, concentrating on the fingertip he was circling, circling oh-so-featherlight over that straining peak. A bud of moisture shot down her passage. "Why don't you clear up before we get crumbs on the covers, mmm?"

Her blood jumped in excitement.

*

It was so strange, walking around with one breast exposed, lifted, poking out, and the other still cupped snuggly within her bra. It made her so conscious of the bared, stretching peak while she lightly waltzed around, smiling, moving the dishes to the top of the chest of drawers beside the door. Little wriggles of excitement and anticipation were dancing up and down her spine, knowing those gleaming eyes were watching her, and moisture was beginning to coat her panties.

As she piled the last set of finger bowls on the surface and lifted her index finger to suck a small drop of satay from the tip, she heard the sharp, steady sound of scissors snipping through paper behind her. Spun.

Not scissors.

Mac, lounging on the bed, had a little smile on his face as he slowly continued to slice the colourful paper off the small, wrapped box with a claw. His present from her. His nostrils were flaring. Her stomach twisted, then clenched, tightening in want. No doubt he could smell what was inside, what it was made of at least. He was speculating. No, he knew.

She was salivating.

The cardboard box underneath the paper revealed, her mate looked up at her out of the top of his eyes, smiling, and said softly, "Come here." His eyes flicked sideways, to the space among the pillows to the left of him.

Gemma swallowed nipples hardening, then put her hands behind her head before she sauntered around the foot of the mattress under his lustful gaze, sashaying her hips, lifting her chin and her chest proudly as she had been told.

Oh, she liked this.

She paused at the edge opposite the windows, blew him an air kiss, and crawled sensuously onto the bed beside him, tilting her head down to press her lips briefly to his shoulder.

"On your knees."

She so liked this. Knelt, knees slightly apart, facing him.

"Hands behind your head."

She obeyed. The nipple that was still inside the cloth tingled as it brushed against the fabric while her breasts poked forward. The twin ached, the bud fiercely hard in the slightly cooler air, wanting, and she could feel the tremble inside herself growing at the scent of him.

"Open your mouth, Gem."

She blinked, surprised. Then remembered: no hesitation. She opened her mouth. What was he going to do?

A thick, blunt finger traced over her lower lip then pressed inside, drew lightly over the tip of one tooth, and lifted clear. Mac looked at the small drop of blood on his finger, then smiled into her eyes as he lifted it up to his own mouth, licking it healed.

He did know.

Her heart was jumping; blood swirling, pussy tightening in lust, breath beginning to come faster. Her lips were closer together with the pants, and he reminded her gently, "Keep your mouth open, picchu," while he lifted the cardboard box in his other hand to her lips.

Bewildered, she did so.

The cardboard of the top corner of one short side of the box was speared on her lower incisors, and he pulled it smoothly sideways, slicing cleanly through the top of the box.

Her breath started coming faster, saliva pooling in her mouth as her stomach tightened further.

He turned the box ninety degrees, and carefully drew the second side across her teeth, shearing a second neat line a few millimetres from the top.

Ow, her heart was pounding so hard against her ribcage, and she could feel a bud of moisture pulse out onto the sheer material between her legs.

His nostrils flared, and gleaming eyes met hers, a shot of his enjoyment thickening the ait. He smiled, glancing down at the little box.

Would he hurry up already? Gemma was panting hard now.

Mac watched her chest heaving, the smile on his face growing, and a finger stroked down to pull her second bra cup below her nipple, gently, casually putting the box aside to that he could use both hands to exposing her full breast to his sight. Then he cupped one palm underneath the weight and with the other delicately teased the nipple to full erection, twisting the tip, smiling as her shuddering grew, and Gemma swallowed hard again against the lust.

Eventually pleased with his work, Mac lifted the box again, and his sparkling eyes burned into hers while he pulled the third side slowly, casually along her razor teeth also.

The scent of the synthetic rubber inside was strong in her nostrils, making her skin shudder in anticipation.

He lifted the gift box clear, setting it on her folded knees, and traced his finger delicately over her soft lips again.

"Do you like keeping your mouth open, Gem?"

His eyes were laughing, warm. Lustful, and his aroused scent was melting through her limbs.

Her heart jumped. She breathed swiftly: two short, quick gulps of air.

A little flush of colour was rising in her cheeks. "For you, yes," she smiled against her blush as she whispered her reply.

He knew. His eyes were flaring with lust at her thickening scent in the air.

"Go and wash this then," he said quietly, tapping a finger on the box.

Gemma let out a soft sigh of disappointment. Why wait? It didn't matter what it tasted like!

Her heart jolted differently as she caught the slightly ironic gleam in the depths of his eyes: disobedient already?

With a second sigh she lifted the box and turned to slide off the bed again.

"But kiss me before you go," Mac said.

Her smile was impish as she turned back.

Tease.

*

Three minutes later she danced back out of the bathroom with the double string of damp tooth-caps dangling from one finger, slightly flushed, and her blood throbbing in anticipation.

Sparkling, naughty eyes landed on her wolf, and she halted suddenly.

Mac was stretched out on his back upon the bed, the long, sculpted limbs relaxed, totally still, one arm flung across his face. His breathing was deep, slow.

Her heart jumped and began to hammer, a rush of mingled disappointment and amusement flooding through her veins.

Yeah, right.

He was faking it.

She could smell his arousal.

She prowled silently around to his side of the bed to look down at him, watching the slow, rhythmic breathing. As her scent curled around him, telling him of her proximity, a low, contented wuffle escaped his lips, and Mac rolled slightly towards her onto his side, a lazy hand sliding off the edge of the mattress towards her.

Her lustful, simmering blood boiled, a flash of frustrated temper shooting through her as she realised.

He wasn't faking it.

One of her hands had lifted automatically to cup lightly around one muscular shoulder and halt his movement, prevent him rolling onto the floor, and a different flush of warmth washed through her at the contented hum of the power emanating gently off him, even in sleep. Her mate was relaxed.

It slowly sank in, melting through her. Not just asleep: relaxed.

Totally, utterly at peace. No shimmer under the skin, none of the strain of the overtired muscles, the coil of buried tension he had been carrying for days. Even his face had lost the stiff, aching look; instead a little smile was curving the corners of his lips, even in sleep.

Looking down into his contented features, Gemma felt her heart swelling, scorching blood through her veins so fiercely that her limbs melted and she simply sank cross-legged onto the carpet where she was. She kept a light touch on his shoulder, tears aching behind her eyes up as she just looked at him. Eyes drinking in the beautiful, softened features. So close. So peaceful. She thought her heart would burst.

A similar smile to his was wavering on her own lips, and her tears glistened in the soft light of the bedside lamp.

Despite the deep, aching frustration churning in her blood, between her thighs, she had never been so happy in her whole life.

After a few minutes she got up and padded around the foot of the bed, draping her last clothes over the back of a chair. She stood for a moment, breathing lightly, looking down at her sole remaining adornment, the simple circle of smooth gold on her left wrist. The little smile was still glowing in her eyes.

She'd thought that she'd concealed her secret despondency about not being able to wear her engagement ring from Mac. After all she understood intellectually why she couldn't.

Although she was much more controlled now, she still couldn't guarantee anything, and she would still have to remove it before she could shift lycan, or it would cut off the blood-flow to her brawnier finger, possibly shearing the digit if it was stressed sideways. That was unless she could fur it. And she wasn't exactly reliable at that yet. At all.

A lesser worry to her mate, although not to her, was that every time she shifted loup it would fall off, until it would eventually get lost.

However, lycan and human wrists were much the same size, and the fit of the bracelet loose enough to accommodate both. "A larger ring," her mate had told her softly when he had threaded it carefully over her left hand, gently kissing her. "But with the same meaning."




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 14



She stood twisting it on her wrist now, stroking the gleaming, seamless band with a fingertip. The inner glow of happiness welled inside her as she re-read the simple engraving.

'To my Gemma, with my love: endless'

Then with her own contented sigh, she slid gently across the sheets to snuggle up to his back.

As she relaxed, Gemma's mind suddenly tensed against a melee of disturbing flashes of imagery from today. However, before they could fully surface the wolf within her surged up and pushed them back, hard, slamming a lid down on them: they needed to sleep first. Her mate needed to sleep.

His peaceful scent curled into her, melting through her.

Mac.

*

It was still dark when the cosy peace suddenly exploded. A peppering of conflicting sensations and images wrenched Gemma out of her dreams and she found herself springing to her feet in loup form before she was even awake, instinct pulling her in rage to leap across above the sluggishly stirring form of her mate, blood exploding to the boil before he surfaced.

Three unknown wolves, the leading edge of a much larger group, were diving silently from the open window to ambush her exhausted, sleeping wolfmate unawares. The first of his attackers swerved to avoid her, startled by the werewolf's sudden appearance from behind the bulk of the Mackeld, but the second merely twitched and altered course straight for her throat, clashing violently with her in mid-air, while a third swerved past the pair of them, teeth bared and angling for Mac's jugular.

The wolf within took control, and Gemma made no attempt to intervene. It seemed as though a fire was in her veins, guiding her with eerie fluency to feint, dodge and block her deadly attacker for much longer than she thought possible. However, she was bewilderingly aware of what she was doing; what the wolf within her was doing with her limbs. Their limbs. It hadn't blanked her out.

She felt oddly detached, as though she was just watching the wereem spinning desperately around the room, dancing again and again out of reach of the deadly claws and teeth, watching an actor in a fascinating film. She didn't know she could do this. Her attacker was far more skilled, she was slowly losing blood from the heavy tears he made in her limbs, losing speed. She could feel the fire of the wounds distantly through a cloud of detachment while again and again she managed to evade or deflect that killing strike. But it was a distant pain.

She knew she couldn't keep this up much longer; her breath was heaving in pants, limbs slowing in pain and bloodloss.

However, her heart was beating calmly to the orchestra of snarls resounding from the bed, warmed by the faint speck of awareness of Mac in her mind. Despite being pounced on while down, despite the never-ending stream of wolves cascading in through the window, her mate was not out.

No great surprise.

She swerved too late backwards, feeling pain explode in her head as claws speared into her neck, holding her, lifting her. She saw the vicious teeth descending lightening fast to tear out her throat, then blinked as her attacker suddenly wrenched his gaze downward on a furious growl, slashing his other claw below her vision, and ripping up into her sight a small brown mongrel, before he drop-kicked the dog vindictively across the room.

Her enemy then spun back to Gemma, still held suspended in the air by the throttling, searing grip in her throat. She raked her back claws at him just as Hakan burst through the door. Her bodyguard crashed into her attacker while the lycan spun to meet him, flinging the wereem clear, and the warriors rolled together in a deadly, unchecked battle across the carpet, slamming into the wardrobe.

Gemma blinked at the two wolves engaging, a momentary lifting of her concentration bringing a flash of awareness of the flurry of snarls around the house, recognition of the newly arriving Whites leaping on further enemy wolves both in and outside, down and upstairs. The deluge of attackers through the window had stopped.

Meanwhile her own internal wolf twisted without thought and clamped her jaws around the ankle of one of the flurry of attackers piling against the bed, surrounding and trying to overwhelm her mate.

The enemy wolf spun impossibly fast, and he clamped his left claw deeply into her already painful neck and shoulder to twist her grip loose effortlessly. He lifted one leg to rake his sharp claws across her torso and she fell onto her back, trying desperately to pull him down with her slight weight, arms protectively around her head but refusing to release the grip of her jaws on his ankle while his teeth ripped agonisingly through her arm in a painful counterattack.

Suddenly the limb in her mouth flopped as a dead weight, and the bulk of her opponent crashed to the carpet beside her. Blinking the blood out of her eyes, licking it off her nose, Gemma lay still against the body, breath heaving, watching her mate through the fur of the lycan he had just killed for her. She coughed the hairs out of her mouth disgustedly, the deep bites and claw-marks in her limbs flaming into searing pain as that eerie detachment subsided again.

Mac didn't need any assistance. Gemma felt a little shimmer of awe warming her, despite the pain of her wounds, as she watched the tawny figure cutting a deadly swathe through the score of lycans who were desperately trying to down him. He was so graceful.

Well, when she had first looked there had been about twenty enemies left around him. There were less than ten, no, seven or so still moving now. No, five. Four.

Then Mac winced above her, panting harshly, eyes seeming to briefly lose focus. A split second later the black gaze flared and he spun and tore down another opponent, flinging the body across the room even as he shuddered to a halt a second time. Gemma lay panting, watching his flaming, distant eyes as he twisted again on a jerk to face his last three attackers.

She winced herself, hearing a distant howl resonating inside her mate's head, hearing the sounds of battle throughout the house, seeing him hesitate, his mind pulsing with a searing pain as he halted again. The three leapt on him, and Gemma was back on her feet, the wolf within firing back to the front of her mind.

But Mac, even on autopilot, was unstoppable. His mind was a burst of searing pain, she could feel the Mackelds pulling at him - why now? -hauling from the opposite direction to the White meld he was already locked in. He had braced himself, holding himself back and just communicating with his distant pack when suddenly that second, all-out call had slammed through him and he was now being torn apart by the seething, opposing forces of both melds. The Mackelds were under full attack.

She had never felt this edge of pain, desperation almost raging through him as thoughts pulled from all directions and he swayed, fighting to keep his mind clear enough to also defend himself while still maintaining the links with both packs enough to sustain his wolves.

Mac' eyes snapped back to dull semi-focus as the three enemy fighters descended on him and he raked a clawed fist across the throat of one of his attackers, killing her instantly while he spun to dodge the two others, without thought.

His mind was swiftly reburied under an avalanche of desperate calls from all directions, even as he spun. Gemma was shaking just in the edge of the torrent of conveyance bombarding her mate. She tried to field some, tried to answer the cries from the beleaguered, battling Whites but half the time their thoughts flickered past faster than she could catch, and those she did catch were sickening, bewildering mid-attack alerts and awarenesses she didn't understand, or couldn't react to fast enough. She hesitated, and Mac pushed her urgently out of the way with his mind, snapping at her to stay out of it.

Blood in her mouth. Her teeth were clenched into the shoulder of the wolf who was diving past her to kill her beleaguered mate, slowing his trajectory, and the next second the attacker was lying dead across her while Mac wrenched his teeth back out of his neck. Gemma shrugged the body aside and crouched at her mate's feet, chest heaving, lungs panting for breath after that mad, unthinking leap while her Alpha trembled above her, eyes again unfocused. Her wolf within had reacted again without thought, engaging her mate's attacker while he was focused elsewhere, giving him that split second he needed to return to himself.

She could do this.

Gemma kept a steady eye on the final, huge opponent. His proud face was unreadable, but she thought that she could read in his stance, in his hesitation, wary reluctance to approach closer, despite the glazed look in the eyes of the shuddering Alpha.

Then suddenly another, different scream wracked Mac's mind, the cry rebounding on her also just as the attacker pounced, succeeding in clamping his jaws around the neck of the Mackeld from the side while Mac faltered in the shattering pain, and Gemma leapt too late to intercept.

Natasha. She could feel the agony tearing at her mate, leaching him with unbearable loss, sucking him dry, but it was internal pain, and she impatiently speared through his connection with her own mind, driven by rocketing fury and indignation that this was so unfair, grabbed, yanked it off him and wrapped it tightly inside her own thoughts, slamming down a resolute, rock-solid barrier to block it off from her overstressed mate. Taking it on herself.

Her mind seemed to explode in pain. Searing, swelling, unbearable.

It was hauling at her, hauling her slowly, inexorably toward the end. To let go. Let go of this unbearable, unstoppable excruciating drag. Dragging her to the end of feeling. The edge of life. Blessed oblivion. This was too much. Let it end. Let it end. The pleading to just let go echoed strangely, pleading from the tortured wolf she was distantly, desperately clinging to, pleading bloated by the pain.

But the searing pain was punctured briefly with a faint, fiery echo ricocheting past the anguish to spear her with an adamant, burning spark of defiance, also from the tortured wolf. Don't let him win. If she let go, he had won. The pain could not win. Gemma braced with all her might, agony redoubling at the effort, straining to prevent the drag but she was dissolving in the pain, losing way, losing strength, resolve.

And then Mac lifted it off her, nipping the connection out of her reach with a power she had no hope of counteracting, slamming an echo of fierce strength from the pack meld back along the line of pain. Trembling, almost retching sobs, Gemma collapsed against his shuddering form and felt it all stop as a soft shield cradled her mind.

Mac's limbs heaved as he shoved the last of the bodies off the bed, and he folded down to lie beside her, around her, lifting her off the sticky mattress, cuddling her against his chest, panting harsh breaths in time with her sobs.

The night was still.

Mac was still, his mind calm. No Mackelds; no Whites; no Natasha. What had happened?

"Don't do that again, picchu," he said softly. She knew he meant the last, helping his adopted little sister. Unceasing tears swam from Gemma's eyes at the rawness of his betrothed's pain, it was burned into her mind. Together with the indomitability of the exhausted, embattled sjeste's enduring defiance of Grey. Still. After all this time. More tears flowed as she recognised the long, solidary fight, respect steeping through her reluctant heart.

"It is too much for you yet," her mate added, his tongue licking gently over the deep, sore bite on her muzzle, healing her, and she felt him snuffle a little kiss on the tip of her nose when she shifted human to a nudge of his mind.

He rolled over to sit up cross-legged, pulling her onto his lap to allow him access to her other wounds, tongue brushing lightly, lovingly.

Gemma drooped in a huddle across his folded legs, the tears still running silently down her cheeks, her throat choked. Natasha Vanilchov - it was too much for her either. Too much for anyone, solo. So much pain. Her heart was keening inside her. Natasha needed Mac.

Mackeld, she heard the Wolflord call her mate peremptorily, voice harsh with power, and Mac stiffened, lifting his head, his eyes abruptly losing focus again.

Gemma opened her own wet eyes and sat up to keep guard over him. But her brain caught up with her nose just as she did so. It was unnecessary.

They were surrounded by the rest of the Whites, wolves packed densely around the room, more stretching out of sight in the corridor, on the stairs, the other floors. Her heart skipped a beat as her mind pulsed with the awareness - there were so many of them. She never saw them all together, but now that they were here, they barely fitted into the house. This was not a small pack any longer.

The Alpha had been busy.

Her eyes travelled over the senior wolves, the ones who she knew best, who were ringing the bed. Their flanks were still heaving from their mad sprint back through the city to aid their Alpha and Alfamme, and the subsequent brief, vicious fight in and around the house. The ring of eyes were shining back at her, staring in disbelieving awe at the mounded heaps of torn wolf bodies strewn around the bed. Gleaming eyes were flickering back and forth between the dead and their Alphas, counting the numbers in increasing, amazed pride.

Don't blame me, thought Gemma faintly, incredulously, as she avoided meeting the stunned looks from around the room. She looked down instead and scratched at the itching patch on her human wrist. All I did was to distract a couple of them to give Mac a few extra seconds.

A smile warmed Hakan's face, and he shook his head, pausing in licking clean a new, healing tear on his forearm. His only other visible wound was the small, round hole on his abdomen where Grey's silver bullet had burned an entry into him last night.

"Idiot," he snorted. "You can't take on a fully trained koiru yet." But his fingers flickered, heart to lips, in the fleeting, reverent salute of wolf to Alpha as his eyes met hers, while Soledad handed her Mac's discarded shirt.

What a surprise - she was naked.

"I can take one on," retorted Gemma, her face hidden in the brushed cotton she had pulled over her head. Her stomach was squirming at the undeserved sign of respect, and her cheeks a little red. "Just so long as someone else takes him off me again, quickly."

She wrinkled her nose at her chief bodyguard as she emerged, smiling, and added, "Thanks."

A chuckled rolled around the watching pack.

Mac was shuddering, head down, and Gemma could feel him communicating with several others at a distance, a kind of council. She looked up at him, the little bubble of contentment purring despite her burning, healing limbs. Her mate looked - refreshed. Alert, angry, covered in blood and sweat, but fully energized. The burn off his skin was exhilarating.

Then she paused as her eyes travelled around the room again and lighted on the brown fur of the small dead dog lying in an ungainly heap hanging half-off the chest-of-drawers, sprawled amid a shattered mash of small dishes. A puzzled, distressed expression creased between her eyebrows.

"The dogs defended the house as best they could, until we arrived," Hakan explained softly, following her gaze past his packmates to the small brown scrap. "This one must have been small enough to hitch a ride in through the window with one of the attackers." His fingers flickered, tapping his heart and then holding his palm out to the small, deflated scrap of fur.

"Bravely done," he added softly, "They are as loyal as we - more loyal than some. She died defending her Alfamme." A respectful murmur rang through the ring of powerful wolves.

Gemma's head sank, and she stared at the carpet, eyes burning. But the crumpled body by the door was etched into her mind, and the tears welled. Whenever she tried to help, whenever she interfered, she made things worse.

After a long, silent pause Mac raised his head, eyes on fire and lip lifting to the words in his head. The ring of Whites now waited silently, some still licking or wiping an astringent liquid over wounds, while Hakan took a silent poll of injuries, and enemies killed. Eyebrows climbed around the room with the increasing tally: whoever the attackers were, they had been determined not to underestimate the deadly skill of the Mackeld.

Yet they had. The fierce pride in the room was almost tangible.

Finally the Alpha drew in a long breath, eyes refocusing, and he straightened where he sat, surveying his wolves. His audience stilled completely, facing him in alert silence.

"This was a coordinated assault," Mac began abruptly, softly. "I was not the only Alpha attacked by scentless wolves tonight." His eyes flickered towards Gemma, there was something in them that she couldn't interpret. "We have lost three."

The ring of listeners held their breath.

"O'Connell was overwhelmed while hunting his own range." An unsteady breath was drawn in, but the stance of the watchers remained alert, quivering as they waited for the rest.

Mac's voice grew softer, "Johnson, Silback, Evans, Kohn and Vanilchov were all attacked but fought off their aggressors." He drew a breath and continued steadily, "And the Wolflord was set upon by overwhelming numbers within Fort Amicable." An almost inaudible gasp rang through the small pack, Gemma could feel the sudden increase in tension as her own heart bounded. What?

But the Wolflord had called him just now, hadn't he?

Mac's body was trembling lightly as he continued, his voice harsh, but even, "Fealden was ambushed by guests within his own stronghold. They had masked their scent, and attacked him while he was grieving for his grandson." His voice wavered slightly as he continued softly, "Marsh and N'gula were killed defending him, before the majority of the attackers were torn to pieces."

Marsh? Gemma shuddered, feeling the pain in her mate. Marsh and Nigel. His old tutors.

"Who were they?" snarled one grizzled wolf, while Ada called, "And Fealden Wolflord?"

"The Wolflord lives," Mac answered, his voice ringing with a soft, implacable note. "Despite this cowardly, unprovoked, unlawful attack by Warlord Tzo and the Senshal Kiang-Lu with their retinues; despite his age, and his grief, the Fealden has once again confounded his attackers." His voice hardened, rising above the collective murmur of relief, outrage and shock, a ringing challenge to his next words, "While Lu was killed, Tzo escaped."

The Alpha paused, and his voice was grim: "This is no longer a territory dispute: we are at war. The Wolflord has dismissed the senshal, lifted the unjust DeadWolf from my mate, and he now calls all his wolves: Aster, Green and Southern."

Gemma was stunned. Can he do that?

We are now under military law. He can do as he wishes, on this continent.

The Alpha held up a hand, palm out, to quiet the discordant, howling note that circled the room from the pack.

His voice had softened again, slowed, and the wolves stilled to catch his explanation.

"A number of oddities are beginning to add up. The Mackeld and the Marsh packs have been reporting the thinning of numbers of Tzo's troops outside the Aster front line over the last month; we thought they had leave to return home while Tzo was under investigation," he explained, a finger from his left hand coming to point at the tip of the little finger of his right palm, which he held open, facing the pack.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 14



His eyes swept over the intent, quivering circle of wolves. Listening together. The beginnings of a true pack, they had melded for the first time tonight, instinctively, to protect their Alpha and Alfamme. Mac felt a pulse of pride in the Whites while he continued evenly.

"Now, Silback reports that two of his scouts have been killed recently on their western borders, without challenge, and without time to convey," he said. His fingertip slid down the little finger of his right hand, tracing a path to the centre-right of the palm. The surrounding wolves' eyes were beginning to burn. "And Vanilchov tells us that the game from his northwestern region has been migrating unusually early, and unusually briskly south."

The third movement of that fingertip followed the curving line mapped out on his hand, ending at the base, just above his wrist.

You could have heard a pin drop in the house.

Mac sat perfectly straight, looking around at the crowd of the waiting wolves. "Tonight we pulled the pieces together, and realised: Tzo is moving the bulk of his forces toward Medway." He gently tapped the vein close to the surface on his wrist. "For attack or rendezvous with Grey, his intent is not clear, but we know his overriding wish for he has stated it many times: that wolves would stop arguing with him and band together to attack the humans."

Gemma's head shot upright to his last words, startled, while the powerful voice dropped, silky and growling, continuing, "What if we could not argue? Fealden says that Senshal Lu seemed to be fighting within himself, even while attacking him."

The Whites half-growled, half-gasped, while Mac continued, hands dropping to flex and clench next to his thighs, leaning forwards in urgency as he bit out precise words: "We are all aware that somewhere near Medway - in Marsh or Grey range, Tzo's former ally Grey lurks."

He paused, then added, "And you, my Whites, are sadly well aware that Grey possesses a drug which can bind a wolf to his will."

A shudder rang through the collective circle.

"It would appear that Tzo knows of this also."

A harsh sigh.

"The Wolflord believes that Tzo is going for the drug," Mac stated darkly, the power pounding off him.

Snarls erupted around the room, fury raging from many wolf throats.

Under the echoing noise, the rising feeling of ferocity in the air, Mac conveyed privately to Gemma as he gently lifted her off his knee while hauling the duvet up from the floor, folding it on the mattress beside him so that he had a blood-free patch to put her on, Do you have enough travel drug to get the whole adult pack on the train to Medway?

No, she responded silently, startled. In a few days I could -.

No, you need to work on the other one as fast as you can, he interrupted. Very well: a war run. No-one can fly right now; there have been several explosions in the planes they tried to take to pursue Tzo, the fuel has been sabotaged. All fuel, at many different airfields; Tzo knew we would mobilise after him from everywhere, no matter what the outcome. This was a very well planned, co-ordinated assault.

Mac drew another breath, sliding off the bed and drawing himself up to stand at full height. The air seemed to thicken, tingling against the skin, and the Whites fell silent again abruptly. His voice when he spoke to his new pack was deep and slowly growing more emphatic. Gemma watched the wolves stirring ardently to the fire of his words, his eyes, the beating of power in the air: "Does Tzo know where Grey is hiding? Maybe not, but it is not a risk we are willing to chance. We must stop him. Yet the Marsh are divided: half at their Range, half at the front. And they are in disarray: their Alpha killed, his son too weak yet to hold a meld, and his daughter has never done so. The Wolflord is guiding them from afar, but the Marsh are at the moment alone, divided, distressed, and leaderless: they cannot do this by themselves. They cannot stop Tzo, cannot prevent him from uniting with Grey. From getting the drug."

He drew a long breath, looking around at the quivering readiness of the eyes burning around him, responding to his words, "We are the nearest pack. We have to get there first."

A collective, assenting snarl rang out from the quivering wolves, and Mac strode forward into the centre of the pack and was engulfed as they closed in around him. Gemma could hear him giving soft orders to groups of two or three wolves at a time, examining healing bites, sharing a soft touch, a gesture, a commendation, turning from one set to another, each group of them eagerly awaiting their instructions before exiting swiftly. Each departing pair also hoisted a body up between them as they left. The wereem realised as she watched her Alpha in pride - the wolves had to run in smaller groups. The humans would notice a pack this size if they streamed cross-country together.

So many basic facts about being a wolf which she'd never have thought of.

When all had dispersed, Mac turned back towards his mate, a strange, churning fire in his eyes. They were almost too fierce to read as he stopped in front of her, and he looked down silently into her face for a long moment. His voice was unsettled, dry when he eventually commented, "This is a strange situation."

Gemma waited, eyeing him doubtfully.

"You scented them; you defended me." He lifted her small, bewildered frame off the bed, crushing her in an intense hug as he growled, "You saved my life."

Of course I defended you. She was burning with indignation.

Mac bent and kissed her fiercely, bending her back over his arm in a painful arch, lips burning into hers, mouth greedy.

Then suddenly when she thought she would burst from the rising feeling of exultation, he lifted upright again, heaving a deep breath, and continued softly, "Yet you still have until midnight for your penance to run."

His eyes were troubled, frowning down into hers in doubt at the justice of maintaining her 'punishment'. Gemma smiled and relaxed, hugging him hard in return. She had accepted her penalty for her stupidity in tying herself up. She didn't want him to go easy on her. She wanted him to trust her to keep her word.

Besides, she liked it. Proving that she trusted him.

"I think the saving life thing was mutual. I might not have won if I'd been on my own," she replied tongue-in-cheek, eyes drifting over the remaining scattering of dead wolves strewn around the bed.

"I will continue to obey you today," she whispered, smiling up at her mate, touching his cheek gently. "I promised. Trust me."

A strange look crossed his face, then it settled back to amusement, and a little gleam of anticipation.

"All the better for me," he replied. "Then, picchu, what do you need to do with the drug Bethan and Kate salvaged for us yesterday?"

"I just need to run my samples through the spectrometer this morning," she replied, distractedly deciphering the numbers on the face of the bedside clock lying upside-down on the floor, half covered by the fur of one of the remaining dead. Too early to call her friends yet. She also couldn't spot her bracelet, and was unsettled by the empty space on her wrist, eyes darting around the floor.

"I bisected it as far as I knew last night and the tests I prepared of the remaining links should be ready by now," she added absently. Then her eyes began sparkling in anticipation. An answer.

"Good," he replied, releasing her and turning away to scratch at a patch of drying blood on his thigh while he walked around the foot of the bed, glancing out of the window at the four 'men' in the back garden , just visible behind the juniper hedge, vigorously spading up a large area of the vegetable patch. Several other White koiru paced back into the room to begin lifting out more furry bodies. "But can't Ada do that?"

"Yes, but -," she began. She wanted to do it. Gemma didn't lift her eyes from the carpet, scanning it for a gleam of gold.

"Then please ask her to. I'd like you to come and wash my hair in the shower," her mate said over his shoulder as he walked into the en suite. I'm phrasing it as a request because the Whites need to trust you to stand up to me if necessary; it's not one really, picchu: not today.

Her head jerked up at the sudden pulse to his scent. The wolves hefting bodies toward the door tried to hide smirks as Gemma rolled her eyes and walked past them, blushing faintly while she followed her mate. That was the trouble with mating scent. His burning musk made it blatantly obvious to all the wolves in the room what Mac really intended to do in the shower.

Oh you can wash my hair too. After.

*

Less than ten minutes later Gemma was panting harshly, leaning her forehead against the side of the shower cubicle, hands plastered flat against the glass beside her shoulders. She was trembling, trying to recover her breath and force some stability back into her wobbling legs. Strong fingers were massaging shampoo into her human hair while the warm water showered over the tingling alert skin of her back and buttocks, and a separate, slow glide of her mate's cum began to trace its way down the sensitive surface of her inner thigh. She felt his fingers drop to run gently along the pattern of squares on her buttocks, fingertips following the raised lines standing out on her taut skin. A smile hovered on her lips. Well, if he would pound her into the tiled wall that hard, what did he expect?

Don't think I should relax you that often, she thought vaguely, legs almost folding, still waiting for her head to stop spinning in time with her pounding blood. Kind of obliterates my ability to stand.

The half-awake cock brushing against her thigh rose to stiff attention.

Mm mm mmm.

Mac sighed.

"I love you," he murmured in answer, and nipped her ear lightly. "And I am well rested, thank-you, and my blood is up but -"

"I'll say," she interjected, grinning into the glass.

He swatted her arse gently, amusement in his voice despite the mock-reproving tone, "-but you'll just have to wait for tonight for me to play with my slave properly - we have a busy day ahead."

Gemma pussy clenched in delight and she half-twisted and looked down at the engorged cock waving in the air just above her buttocks. She pulled a disappointed face.

Mac pulled her left hand off the wall and slapped the bottle of shower gel into it.

"Stop drooling at my cock and wash my hair, woman," he growled. Suddenly the small cubicle seemed even more cramped when he shifted, and the looming lycan towered beside her. Gemma's eyes widened as she stared. He really was larger everywhere, in wolf form.

"That was an order, Gemma," her mate reminded her silkily. Her head jerked up, and she looked into the gleam in his eyes, startled.

I told you you wouldn't like them all, he added silently.

No drooling at his cock? But couldn't she just look? she protested.

You are incapable of looking without drooling, he grinned as he replied.

Gemma pouted and squeezed some soap onto her palm. Damn it was hard not to look down. The scent was driving her crazy.

"Johnson says Kate and Bethan are still asleep at the hospital," her mate announced, clearing the lust clouds abruptly from Gemma's mind. "The doctor will see them between ten and eleven, and we're assuming he'll pronounce them good to go - there was nothing really wrong with them last night but they wanted to keep them under observation."

"Go where?" Gemma asked.

"I have a couple of safe places in mind, but we'll need to ask them what they -."

Safe?

Mac stopped abruptly, looking down, a sombre light in his eyes, nose twitching. The gel bottle landed with a soft thud on the floor, sliding from Gemma's suddenly numb fingers. Mac took in the glazed, distant, pained look in his mate's soft eyes, the shudder starting to shake her frozen frame. Her fingers were digging into his skin. Gently Mac eased her desperate clutch from his fur, and Gemma felt herself lifted, cuddled against his frame while her mate sank smoothly onto his haunches, leaning back against the shower wall.

The water beat down upon her drooping head.

Gus was dead. It had just seemed to hit her, crushingly. Bright, teasing eyes empty. Gone.

The shudder was deep, cold in her core.

Images of all those other dead, tossed in undignified heaps around their bedroom, danced behind her glazed eyes. Vicious teeth descending. The thick blood soaked deep into the mattress. The reek of it. That tiny scrap of the brown fur sprawled over the cabinet, neck at an impossible angle. Gemma's eyes were glazed as the sickening images flashed repeatedly through her head, her blurred gaze caught by the rivulets of dark red water running across the floor and down the drain, running from her mate's fur.

Grey eyes glaring hatred at her through the windscreen as he drew back those long, vicious claws. The tearing sound of those claws raking deep through the flesh of Hakan, jerking the heavy body lying over her. Blood oozing around her fingers, pooling on his stomach while she cut into her bodyguard herself, deeper, deeper, tears falling as she couldn't close the tweezers around the damn slick bullet.

The shaking was growing stronger. So cold.

In lycan form, Mac stank of blood.

Death.

A nudge of his mind, and she was also lycan, the water plastering her dark brown fur to her shuddering skin. Caressing hands began to massage the gel along her limbs, and she just watched, trembling as the foaming bubbles rinsed down through her fur and snaked across the floor under the sluicing water. Her limbs lifted as directed by his touch, turned, or held themselves steady in the warm, cleansing shower. His touch slid soothingly along every inch of her body, massaging heat back into her. Love.

Her eyes focussed on the smooth gold band dangling around her furry left wrist. A wisp of warmth curled around her heart. Where had that come from?

Eventually, the shaking subsided.

Settled on the floor with a soft kiss on her lips, Gemma pressed her back against the side and curved her arms around her naked legs, watching as Mac rose back to his feet and began to briskly soap his torso and powerful arms. His hands were scrubbing hard over the muscles in his thighs when she rose on her own shaky legs and took the bottle off him, sliding around behind him and squeezing gel onto her palm to massage it into his back.

"I love you too," she murmured, and felt the taut muscles under her fingers relax a little.

Mac sighed deeply, leaning against the wall as she worked on his shoulders.

"I'm sorry, picchu. I would have kept you clear of this if I could."

"I know. You'd have left me a lonely, ignorant human." Heart lifting, she swatted a pleasingly loud slap on his furry buttock. "Bad wolf."

Her eyes blurred at the speed with which he spun, then a second later she was plastered against the wall in front of him, lifted by a firm grip around her upper arms so that her playful eyes were level with the green fire of his.

"Some things I don't accept, even from you, Gemma," Mac growled, only half-amused. Then his mouth twisted in a grimace as they both sensed Hakan sprinting up the stairs in a panic, conveying something about police and a news crew. Her Alpha dropped her on her feet, promising, "You'll pay for that tonight."

Yippee!

She leaned in and kissed him on the chest. Not very contritely.

*

Fierce blue eyes met brown through the weblink. It was late morning, and Gemma was sitting at her desk in the lab in the basement, discussing the morning's findings with Valerie. Mac was at the top of the house making final plans for the clean-up and the war-run with his senior wolves. She had thought that the Whites had already left, but not all. There had been a great deal of organisation to plan, besides having to deal with the police and the press - apparently this morning's local newspaper headline was "Dogfight at Old Kentucky St Corner".

She was astonished again at how much Mac got arranged, and how swiftly his wolves carried out his orders. She had gotten out of the shower to find the bedroom teeming with wolves. Half had been carefully staying out of sight from the street window while holding furniture off the floor, and jumping lightly over sections of the blood-stained carpet which the other wolves had been swiftly crawling over, shredding and bagging. The mattress on the bed-frame which two of them had been holding aloft had by then already smelt of Hakan and Penny - they had obviously disposed of the old one and grabbed a replacement.

While Mac had been out in the road taking to the police, and Gemma had watched astonished while she swiftly dressed, all scraps of fur and stains of blood had been wiped up with the same woody-scented concoction they used on wounds, the large rug from the attic rolled across the centre of the floor, the furniture replaced, and the saved window glass shards artfully scattered across the clean floor by the broken window, together with a couple of bricks.

The same metamorphosis had already occurred throughout the rest of the house, by the time she'd been called downstairs by her fiancé to speak to the cops. And there hadn't been a single sign of a wolf body, just a crowd of panting, sweating Whites silently gulping down water in the kitchen before slinking back out through the smashed-in back door and disappearing to the human eye in a blur of speed.

Gemma was still red-eyed now. She felt so guilty, the fresh mound of the grave in the back garden praying on her mind. Her tears had fallen ceaselessly while she had watched the police examine and photograph the mongrel pile of the dog corpses, some tiny, scruffy scraps smaller than Rowan, which had been strewn along the roadway in front of the house.

Mac had somewhat forcefully dissuaded one nervous policeman from shooting the three limping survivors who had clustered slightly hesitantly around his legs as soon as he'd emerged from the house. The dogs showed no signs of disease, and the local vet he had already called to come and attend them before the cops had arrived had confirmed that none of the corpses or the living dogs showed signs of rabies or anything else dangerous. Mac had lied convincingly that they had just been guarding the house of the couple who'd taken to giving them some food and a bit of affection, especially since the gang who'd attacked had brought some dogs with them too.

The officers could see that he and his fiancée had suffered from a break-in; more than that, a smash-your-way in. He had had a turn-up when they'd first arrived with a guy called Samuel, who ever since then had hung about at the end of their road, watching. Perhaps they could ask him if he'd seen anything - although he seemed to be notably absent this morning.

The police hadn't commented, but their silence had been quite eloquent: apparently Samuel was well known to them as a suspected member of a gang, and this was a standard intimidation/payback form, although not usually in this area of town or with any dogs involved. Gemma had been horrified at the suggestion that Samuel might have had anything to do with this, but Mac had shot her a sad look as he had turned away to speak to the vet again.

Someone betrayed our whereabouts, picchu.

Gemma had retreated back to her lab. She had been sorting out her samples with Ada when the humans had eventually left. The Alpha had then called them both out to witness the dogs being lain gently together in the earth by the senior Whites, to show respect to the strays who had been ripped to pieces trying desperately, hopelessly to defend their Alpha's home until his wolves could arrive.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 15



Mac was trembling under his pelt, the fire burning through him shaking him to his core, colouring his sight with a faint grey filter: he gritted his teeth hard and refused to let it take him. It wouldn't help her if he succumbed to the wolf also. 

The pines were whipping past at speed, he was steering more on scent than sight, desperately sprinting along his mate's trail through the short grass. His mind was partially occupied trying to guide the fighting Omar to survive this damn ambush. He could tell the White warrior was panicking, losing focus, not least because of the silver knife embedded in his side, but also chilled by the sudden death of his packmates. Luke, Fay, Omar: the three Whites on guard over each of the other three compass points around the hillside had been attacked simultaneously, at precisely the moment when Adam had first sprung for Gemma. 

Please, picchu. Answer me. Please. 

The tang of fury in his head snapped Mac into driving his koiru harder than he deserved, but Omar used the fire to spin on a yelp, and managed to bury his teeth in the throat of one more opponent before he was finally knocked off his feet by two more. Yet the warrior still wouldn't let go. Wouldn't. He would at least take this one with him too for his Alpha. And his Alfamme. 

Cursing in his head, mourning and raging, teeth bared and eyes narrowed to angry slits, Mac leapt across the small stream, wincing at the pain that lashed through his head when he lost the last of the guards. His three koiru had been overwhelmed by hordes of scentless wolves, although this time the damn enemy hadn't attacked him, Mac. Oh, he wished they had; he was so furious with himself for judging this trip secure. His brain was keening inside his skull, echoing the dull, desperate fear in his heart, and he forced down the accompanying surge of nausea which was burning a track up his throat. 

Gemma? he called. 

Two forceful bounds took him around her brother. The shrinking werewolf was slinking into the trees on the opposite side of the narrow clearing beyond the stream, heading down the hill, the whites of his eyes rolling with an eerie mixture of feral savagery and despair. The Alpha barely noticed. Mac was speeding up, driven by the empty echo inside his skull, and he disappeared into the dense trees opposite at lightening speed, intent on the trail of his picchu. 

She had already been immobilised and lifted from the trap when he reached the spot. There was no scent of the other wolves, but then, he hadn't expected to scent them; there had been no scent to the wolves who had attacked the guards. 

No matter, Mac thought grimly. His vision narrowed as he angled his sprint along the trail of broken grass-stems, displaced pine-needles and occasional claw-points in the slightly moist, needle-covered earth under the trees. Scent was not the only sense worth having. 

Look after him. 

The words of Gemma's final conveyance slammed through Mac, an echo of the plea straight from his mate's heart, the memory jolting him. Coupled with the words surged an uneasy, unwanted recognition: the fear he had caught in her brother's scent when he had sprinted past him just now. And the glimpse of the werewolf's face, his eyes. Despair. Revulsion. 

Adam had been stealing off down the steep hill, toward their parents' house. And the boy had still been so ashamed. Terrified. Compelled. 

Mac's brain burst suddenly into flame to match his heart, melting him in pained realisation. Those fighting footfalls, the anguished eyes - those had been the footfalls of a werewolf trying to fight an order. He had watched his Gemma do so so often. 

What else had the young werewolf been ordered to do? 

No. 

Mac's teeth bared in a silent snarl, his pace faltering. 

Then he jolted back to utmost stretch, heart aching. 

He had to reach his picchu. 

Unbidden, a memory swam into his head: the warmth in the face of his mate, the contented, wordless happiness echoing between her father, mother, older brother and brother's mate as they had sat around the dinner table a mere hour earlier, joking and laughing, at ease. Family. 

If her little brother was forced to kill the rest of her family, while her mate chased after her? 

Mac shook his head angrily, and winced at the fight inside his head. He had to find Gemma. Had to. 

She wouldn't thank him. 

NO. The nausea was churning higher in him. He felt his wolf side beginning to bristle and flattened his belly to the ground while he tore around a corner where the trail meandered, snorting grimly. Far ahead, he could just detect a faint scent of her, the strength of it growing. He was homing in on them. 

Mac called to every nerve, and managed to increase his pace, getting closer and closer to her. 

Further and further from her brother, a voice in his head whispered. How close to the house would the boy have got by now? Look after him, she had begged him. 

The rational, pack-Alpha side of his brain sifted out the logical argument even while he sprinted intently along his mate's trail. She had been captured: they did not intend to kill her. 

God damn the fucking Alpha part of him. No. This was his mate. 

Mac's heart twisted, bursting into flame: he knew what Grey did to captives - if it was Grey. NO. He couldn't scent the wolves ahead, but Grey did not have the shiele to turn a human. Who the hell? Tzo? The Chinese Warlord also used scentless ambush. 

Almost on the thought, with no warning, the scent of his mate ahead snuffed out abruptly, leaving only the tingle of her memory, mixed with the distant, rapidly nearing smell of a road surface, the tang of petroleum residues staining his nostrils. Mac's fur ruffled in unease, and the jolt of fear propelled him into an impossible pace. 

He had to find her. 

Look after him, she had begged him. All her heart in the simple phrase. 

Adam's feral, fighting eyes seemed burned inside Mac's brain. Gemma was already losing one brother. If he didn't save the others, would she want to live? 

He knew his picchu. 

Mac's heart cracked, the pain splitting him as he wrenched himself around and sprinted hell-for-leather back along the track towards her home with the almost inaudibly soft purr of a car engine seeming to shatter in his ears, bursting from silence to melt away to the south. 

The fire of the nauseating shame burning through him was scorching at his insides, his chest aching with the burn, the fury, and he felt the cold rising to smother it. The old, bitter, familiar cold inching slowly higher, higher. Settling in to pollute him. 

Gemma? he couldn't help calling, knowing there would be no answer, calling desperately as the cold rose within him, calling for forgiveness. Hoping. 

Picchu? 

A wolf protects his mate. 

But he didn't. 

Mac was repulsed by himself. She was so betrayed by him. How could he have let this happen to her? His stomach was aching tight, a hard, solid lump. 

His eyes lit on a small white object lying on the coarse grass ahead, beside the path. No scent to it. A light stab of realisation sparked into Mac's chill, ice-burning mind as he ran toward the small patch of lighter grey in the dusky evening shadows. 

He had had no time up until now to reason out how this enemy had managed to get Adam past his sentinels without them recognising the unshielded mind or scent of a new werewolf. And his Whites had had orders not to let anyone else past. 

Damn, damn whoever had planned this. Viciously, fiendishly brilliant. They had outsmarted him. 

Mac snatched the white baseball cap up into his mouth as he charged back down the steep slope, his teeth aching painfully as they closed on the cold taint of the silver alloy woven in the brim. Argen. His mind hardened further, recognising that he was facing a new opponent: this twisted, delicate revenge did not have the stamp of the Tzo, and he doubted even Grey was this indirect in his attacks. Who? 

The chill pain of the cap between his teeth couldn't entirely smother the icy teeth in his heart. 

Mac was burning in the cold, the vileness drowning up his throat with each step further away. He was betraying her. Why hadn't he seen this coming? Protected her better? Her family? 

Why hadn't he just fucking left her alone, human, happy in the first place? 

Damn himself. 

*** 

At the foot of the hill, Adam was still struggling desperately. He had heard the request from his sister to the powerful wolf, her heartfelt entreaty echoing on the edge of his own trembling mind. He was fighting his hardest, internally, fighting the sickening new order in his head yet he still couldn't prevent himself from staggering towards his home. He couldn't even kill himself. His mind was reeling. What was happening to him? Was he insane? The memories that had blasted into his head when he had first seen Gem were unreal. Unbelievable. Impossible. All of this was impossible. 

And - why couldn't he stop himself? 

He could only hope, pray that the other wolf would come. The blast of the energy which had exuded from the white one as he'd sprinted past after Gemma had knocked him staggering on his feet. If the white wolf would just come and stop him, begged Adam silently. Kill him. Anything, please. 

His wolf eyes could see the dark outlines of his father and older brother standing together at the top of the long, gently sloping lawn, just outside the block of light filtering through the living room curtains. They were peering up at the darkening hillside opposite, obviously trying to work out what was going on. His heart began to pound painfully, the terror heavy on his skin. His hind foot scraped the wooden fence at the bottom of the garden as he squirmed in mid-air, trying to slow his staccato, uncoordinated rush toward the dark silhouettes. The revolting urge to obey surged at the sight of them. 

The densely packed fruit bushes to the left of the path tore at him; he tried in flashes of terrified misery to run headlong into each, get immobilised by the gooseberry briars in his fur, but each time, despite the ungainly stumbling of his movements, he tore through, despairing, saliva panting from his wretched jaws, mind echoing in the thunder of the repeated order to kill kill kill. 

His family were peering toward him, uncertain, trying to make out what was approaching through the darkness, making the noise, and he saw his father swing toward the garage and his rifle, his brother laying a hand on his arm to halt the older man a moment longer. 

No. No. Please. Go get it. Adam begged silently. 

Then he burst from the bushes, jaw agape, eyes aflame and awash with the pain in his heart. 

A heavy blow hit him squarely between the shoulders just as he did so, knocking him sprawling onto the smooth, clipped turf, and the thankful water streamed from his eyes when he felt a painful wrench in his skull and saw his naked, human hands clawing at the earth under him as he landed. 

With the heavy weight atop his back holding him down, the anger in his head spiked, the screaming voice cursing him to kill his family, and he obediently wrenched at the grip holding him, fighting against it with all his might, snapping at the air. 

Uselessly. 

The wild scent smothering him was accompanied by a heavy, charged feeling beating against his skin: the white wolf. A warm little light deep in Adam's chest glowed with bittersweet relief even while he struggled against the increasingly tight, painful grasp that was twisting his arms behind him. He yowled, and heard a deep voice snapping out a muddle of words over his head as his father and brother surged into movement toward them. 

There was a bitter edge to the harsh order barked, "Stay back! I suspect he is rabid - he attacked Gemma, tried for me and -," there was a brief pause in Adam's understanding as the voice in his head screamed a furious repeat of the order to kill, the fire of it seeming to ignite every particle of him, but Mac again forced the fighting young werewolf back to the ground, holding him in his human form. "- coming for you." 

The order screamed repeatedly through Adam, burning through him, jolting him fiercely again and again, tearing at his mind. 

Something flickered in the corner of his rapidly melting brain as he saw a pair of women's feet clothed in a light pair of sandals burst out into the block of light streaming from the patio doors. The twinkling sequins on the leather bands held his eyes as they darted forward toward where he was held raging to the turf, but then they jerked to a halt, slipping slightly on the grass. The werewolf's eyes travelled up to where the woman's slender wrist was trapped in that of the older man, held back from approaching closer. 

Kill them. 

Mr and Mrs Smith stood frozen in shock at the edge of the light, staring at the snarling, writhing figure on the ground , fighting madly to free himself from the unshakeable grip, snapping at the air, spittle flying from his jaws as he raged. 

Adam's heart was aching, but his brain felt fuzzy, melting between fury and pain. The pain was burning through his stomach, curdling at the look in their eyes. 

Dimly through the relentlessly drumming order he heard his father whisper, "Rabies?" his face white. 

The heavy figure holding him down slapped a white baseball cap down onto the werewolf's head, tugging the brim forward so that the rim of cold metal woven through the inside of the brim was pressed against his skin. 

"Light aversion," Mac growled the terse explanation, his own eyes bleak, lost. 

The human couple watched in painful silence as the boy relaxed slightly now that the voice in his head was abruptly cut off. He was still struggling to obey the order, but less violently now it wasn't being ruthlessly drilled into him. 

"Where's Gemma?" whispered her mother, swaying and white. 

*** 

"I'll go and find her," Jamie snapped, some minutes later, turning sharply toward the path down the garden. "She may be in shock, hurt." 

"She's my fiancée," Mac growled back, getting to his feet astride the prone werewolf. 

"Yes, both of you go and look for her. Now that Mac has tied-," Maureen Smith gulped on the word, and continued shakily, "Tied Adam up, you had both better go and help Gemma. And you, Dan." She turned worried, tear-streaked brown eyes on her husband, whilst advancing with the rug she had brought to wrap around their naked son. 

"No, we have to get Adam to hospital. Now," responded the older man, his face still pale, but stern. "And uh -Mac - you need to come too, since you've been wrestling with him. You had better hold him, keep the contamination confined to you. We have to go now." Dan Smith strode into the living room, calling over his shoulder, "Jamie can go get Gemma and bring her after us in their car - if Jess'll stay in the house in case she turns up at home before he finds her. Keep us posted." 

Mac grimaced, his inner wolf snarling as he realised yes, he would have to accompany her damn family to the hospital. He would have to be touching the werewolf to keep him from shifting if the writhing teenager dislodged the cap, and there was no way of knowing what new orders he would receive if that happened, either. 

Look after him. The anger, shame and nausea were writhing on his skin. But he promised her, silently, yes. 

The scent of the vehicle that had taken her would already be tangled, meeting others on the road surface. What would they do to her? What was happening to his mate? 

Mac's eyes were bleak, and his fingers tingled on the band inside the rim of the baseball cap as he carefully fitted it more snugly over Adam's hair. The boy had quietened, although he was still fighting the bonds at his wrists and ankles, sweat running off him as he strained. The Alpha just managed to keep his lip from lifting. 

The human scent to the boy remained constant, but was slowly being fused with a strong wolf-scent, the disquieting mixture growing sharper by the minute. Mac's eyes narrowed. Adam had obviously been scent-masked, but the scent-mask drug worked only on wolves, not humans. Ten minutes ago, he guessed the boy would have smelt wholly human, when he had walked past the guards, and attacked Gemma. It was just damn fortunate that the still-human part of Gemma could scent a wolf through the masking drug even now, or the ambush might have succeeded. 

Maybe they had meant to kill her. 

But if so, why the trap? No, he guessed they had known that a new werewolf would not defeat a seasoned month-old one. 

Damn them. Damn them. 

Mac clenched his fists slowly, shaking as he held in the fury, the pain, and turned brusquely away from the white, tear-streaked face of his mate's mother. The still-beautiful oval face was strained, staring at her son, and she was biting her lip in an achingly familiar way. His mouth twisting grimly, the Alpha hoisted the tall, slight werewolf up in his arms and strode to the garden gate at the side of the house as he heard the car approaching. 

Who? Who? Who? 

Mac's raging mind slammed into sharp focus as he caught a muddled image from the hound. 

While he had been sprinting back down the hill following Adam's erratic trail to the house, Mac had sensed the dog sniffing around peacefully in the neighbour's garden, and had conveyed for help. The old beagle, delighted to assist the visiting Alpha, had squirmed under the fence surrounding his home before bounding up the hill, passing Mac, and backtracking his trail through the forest. Now the hound was trying his eager best to communicate in patchy images, which was difficult enough dog-to-wolf, even over this distance. 

Wolf smell gone! 

Smelly smell now! 

Mac slid onto the rear seat of the car with the werewolf writhing in his arms, and heard another suppressed sob from the woman holding the door open. Not now. He tuned back to the dog standing at the roadside on top of the hill, while holding the werewolf down across his knees with one hand. Carefully, he also clicked one of the small glass phials out of the intricate wristlet circling his left wrist, twisting off the cap and coughing slightly as he swallowed the faintly bitter white powder inside the tiny tube. A travel case for the travel drug - a present from his mate. 

Smelly smell? he conveyed curtly, while he glanced down at the struggling boy: no way he'd get the werewolf to swallow a dose -Adam would just have to cope with the nausea. 

It was very hard to get scents through conveyance; the beagle had no idea what he was smelling and so there were no accompanying images as he fumbled to reply. Mac scowled as the vehicle he was in began to move. 

Car? He offered, trying to convey the smell of petrochemicals for the messenger, but the old scenthound snorted in reply. He knew what cars smelt like. 

The bloodtests will show rabies, the disease is a mutation of the change, a different voice broke into Mac's concentration. The humans will not suspect any more if you can just keep him from shifting. I'll meet you there. You say you have some Argen on you? 




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 15



Amy Waring, chief physician of the continent, had just flown within the range at which she could convey to him. Mac had called to her for advice too, while overhauling the raging werewolf, but had abruptly cut the connection when the old beagle had been let out for a last sniff before bed. 

The Senshal wasn't under Fealden's flying veto because her helicopter had been with her while she was working in the far south, making it almost impossible that it had been sabotaged, and she had plenty of spare fuel aboard. 

Now Dr Waring was on her way. Retrieving a werewolf before the humans realised what he was was vital; the only other method to prevent them finding out was to kill Adam while he was in human form. And Amy was almost as reluctant to resort to that as Mac. 

Thanks, he replied brusquely, then pulled his shields tighter, tuning her out. 

Smelly smell? Mac queried the beagle again urgently. He caught a vague impression of tyre rubber and asphalt and something chilling which unhinged the dog's spine while he stuck his nose into it in an attempt to show the Alpha. Mac smothered the growl which was choking him; no petrochemicals, but some kind of tyre: a wolf vehicle? And Argen-lined: no wonder he hadn't been able to scent Gemma even faintly, once she was inside. Someone from a very powerful pack. 

Mac felt a different shimmer run down his spine, lip lifting again in a silent challenge. 

He met the impotent, miserable fury in his mate's father's eyes in the reversing mirror with an equal, wretched glare of his own. Stronger. Because, unlike Dan Smith, he knew that this was deliberate. And aimed at him. But who? 

And how was he going to chase the fuckers down while he had to babysit her little brother? 

Mind flashing with a cold, sharp shot of an insane idea, Mac's eyes narrowed abruptly. He sat in silence as the car purred swiftly through a network of tree-lined country roads, deathly still. Then abruptly the Alpha leaned forward and began to whisper into the ear of the Argen-shielded werewolf lying across his lap. Adam grew quieter as fresh, cool words slowly penetrated his seething brain. 

*** 

Dr Waring sighed as she carefully lifted her air ambulance from the pad on the hospital roof into the clouded grey sky, a little guiltily saluting the human couple standing forlorn in the whipping wind, arms around each other. It had not taken a huge amount of time to persuade them to agree for Adam to be admitted to her hospital on the west coast, to join the experimental programme to combat late-stage rabies. Before she had arrived, the attending doctor had broken the news of their son's chance of survival without it, and she had explained that time was vital. 

She had hated having to lie to them. It was not that the rabies programme didn't exist, or that she wasn't a senior consultant attached to it. But their son didn't truly have rabies, just something very close. To which there was no cure. Adam had already turned. 

The physician glanced over her shoulder, the legs of the now quiet werewolf strapped into the stretcher just visible in the corner of her vision. He had quieted as soon as his parents were out of sight and scent, no longer tormented by the residue of the order to kill them. Amy scowled as she pondered where to take him. Picking up the poor kid had seriously delayed her already urgent schedule, packed with preparations for the escalating war. 

Dr Waring growled softly to herself as she straightened out the controls, keyed in the bearing and altitude, and flicked on the autopilot. Mackeld? she conveyed searchingly. She had seen the Alpha only for seconds at the hospital; he had delayed his departure until she had arrived by taking a completely needless anti-rabies shot, but had left to search for his mate as soon as he had handed the were over to her. 

"Yes?" she heard a soft voice answer inside her headset, and nearly had a heart attack. 

Her chest was still pounding painfully as she spun to face the tall, tawny figure approaching from the rear of the cabin. The Mackeld was carefully checking over a parachute held between his large, human hands. There was a spare set of headphones over his ears - the fifth set she hadn't been able to find while fitting a pair for the werewolf. 

"What the hell are you doing here?" she cursed him. Then, distracted, the physician asked curiously, "Is this the fabled scent-masking drug in action?" 

The Alpha's lips curled faintly, and he paced closer. For some reason, her spine tingled and blood began to seethe with tension. Pity he had chosen a lifemate. There was so much purpose in that lithe lope. 

"Yes," the Mackeld replied softly. "Gemma's. It only works for a short while, but long enough." So saying, he pulled the physician up out of her seat, spinning her so she was facing forwards, and slung the parachute around her shoulders. 

Amy laughed, her skin tingling where the simmering male touched her. "Thinking of stealing my chopper, Mackeld? Dream on. I am a senshal, and your pack is miles away. I need this vehicle to prepare the field hospitals for the war." 

She was twisting easily out of his grip as she spoke, then stilled abruptly in surprise as a second set of arms locked around her torso from behind, pinning her elbows to her sides. Her brain jolted as she caught a very faint, fragile whiff of wolf blended with the human scent of her new assailant, and the realisation that the werewolf was free and this close unhinged her spine briefly. Amy snarled, wrenching and twisting nimbly to free herself of the grip, but her distraction allowed the Mackeld to thread one of her arms into the parachute and spin her again to hold her immobilised with her back to him, when he murmured quietly, "The scent-mask works only partially on weres - but I was counting on you not registering a human as a threat; we rarely do." 

Then he added to Adam, "Put her other arm in. I will hold her, but watch the claws." 

Damn, Amy cursed to herself silently, struggling against the implacable grip of the Alpha holding her, battering against his unyielding mental shield. Where the hell did he get all this power? 

The pair of hijackers had managed to fasten the parachute when suddenly the Mackeld was driven to the floor with a grunt of pain, head roaring with the rebuke yelled at him. 

Fealden Wolflord. 

Amy began to rip open the parachute fastenings, backing up away from the pair, cheeks flushed furiously red. It had been damned embarrassing for a Senshal, backed by every damn phys on the continent, to have to call for help against a single, unmelded Alpha with only one measly werewolf to help him. The blood was pounding so hard in her ears that she barely heard the hoarse words that the wolf on the floor gasped. 

"Touch me with the rim of your cap: but hold onto it yourself too." 

Angrily trying to loosen the over-tight buckles, the Senshal recognised too late what the short phrase might mean and glanced up, startled, to see the Mackeld leaping back toward her with the werewolf in tow, clinging to his arm: Damn. 

Seconds later the physician was immobile again on her back on the floor behind the seats, glaring up at the Alpha as he carefully checked over her chute. Mac was holding her easily now that he didn't have to dress her as well, one hand imprisoning both of hers above her head, one leg hooked to hold her down while his face was frowning seriously down at the fastenings he was re-tightening. 

"Damn, I wish I was your mate," the female wolf snarled. And then she flinched, wincing away from the look in his eyes as he lifted them fleetingly to meet hers. She stilled. Oh. 

"Mackeld, the best thing we can do to find her is to pursue Tzo; it doesn't look like they're going to kill her. This is insane, you can't steal my chopper. What do you think you're doing?" 

The tawny wolf wasn't listening. Her voice sharpened. 

"We are at war, Mackeld! The Wolflord is furious, even if you've blocked him out for now. Three Alphas dead! We need this, our only safe air transport, to deal with the most important logistics for -." 

She broke off again as his eyes flashed up to hers, the look in them drying the words in her throat. 

"You can't do this," she whispered hoarsely, uncertain, feeling herself hauled to her feet and pulled toward the door, the werewolf keeping pace, keeping the cap clenched in his fist pressed against the side of the Alpha's cheek. "Fealden will straff you." 

Her heart ached for the look in the Mackeld's unnaturally still face, and she felt a shot of doubt flash through her. She had never met the little wereem. But - songmate? A werewolf? 

She sighed into the wind that side-blasted her when the Alpha wrenched the door open. He murmured, "Sorry," just before he pulled her headset off. 

"I hope you find her, you bastard," she growled in answer, knowing he wouldn't be able to hear above the noise. Then she pulled a vicious snarl at him, and jumped. 

*** 

Adam couldn't believe he was doing this. Life was insane. 

But at least he was able to do something. Some form of atonement. However dangerous. 

Thank-you, Mac. 

He squinted his aching, tired eyes into the faint glimmer of light signalling the advent of the sun, focus narrowed on the pale white blur sprinting along a short distance ahead of the chopper's nose, the white wolf streaking, nose-to-ground, along the small road curving between stubbly fields below. 

There had been three tracks branching off the road beyond the last small cluster of houses, and the Alpha had just reached the third of them. His nose was almost touching the battered asphalt as he slowed, and carefully checked the trail. Ten yards past the junction, he turned and Adam caught the blare of cold black eyes in the spotlight. Heart hammering, the uneasy novice pilot held a steady course, and felt the jerk as the wolf on the ground leapt to grab the trailing winch cable. The teenager waited a second to make sure that the weight was stable, then pressed the rewind button and breathed a heavy sigh of relief, the tension inside his skull lightening as he pulled back on the control to raise them gently higher, easing above the treetops before the road wound back into the forest. 

Adam was still sweating, though, his mind echoing incredulously, despite allowing himself to relax his death-grip. He was flying a real helicopter! This wasn't like his flight simulator, where if you went wrong you had another go. He had only had a brief half-hour of training before his first solo flight, and even now after a whole night of it, he was terrified. Exhilarated. 

But the terror was worth it. He wasn't skilled enough to sift out the slightly unusual scent of the specific car they were following from the others which criss-crossed at each junction, but he could follow with the chopper. He could help find Gemma. 

Hoarse, heavy breathing rasped to his left, and the sweating, tawny wolf slid into the pilot seat next to him and took over the controls, tipping them forward into speed to trace above the narrow grey strip below. Adam relaxed fully in a surge of relief. Made it once more. 

"How far to the next exit?" Mac's voice was barely audible, the words between the sharp, heaving breaths distorted by the piece of Argen from Adam's cap held within one cheek. The werewolf glanced over and watched, fascinated and tense while the wolf spat the fragment of wet metal-woven cloth into his palm and flashed human in the split second that the Argen was flying through the air, before settling back more comfortably into the small seat whose design could only just accommodate a large human, never mind a wolf. Pilot and co-pilot breathed out slightly harder in relief, because once again the Wolflord hadn't caught Mac unshielded, and the wolf casually inserted the Argen back beside his teeth, grimacing slightly at the tingling ache in his jaw. 

The werewolf reached down to pull the map back up onto his knees with a trembling hand, idly stroking a palm over the slumbering beagle who was slumped against his feet and snoring. Adam had no idea why the neighbours' dog had been running along a small road in the middle of nowhere, how Mac had found him, or why they had stopped to pick him up, but then, nothing made sense right now anyway. He just followed instructions and hoped. 

"About ten miles," Adam answered, walking his fingers across the paper, then he checked the bearing, adding, "Roughly South by East will cut quite a bit off." His hand was waving at the side window, then he bent down to stroke and soothe old Riley again as the helicopter banked sharply to veer off above the treetops. 

Nothing had made sense since his attention had been caught by those beautiful, lush curves, the flattering invitation in those amused, cynical eyes. Adam winced inwardly. 

He choked back a gulp. Damn the fucking orders echoing in his head; the jangling was quieter now that he was away from his family, and Mac had stopped demanding answers that he'd been forbidden to give. God, he hated her. His hand was on his own head, pressing the cap firmly down against his skull, fingers white with tension. 

Then he glanced sideways at the powerful, simmering figure in the pilot's seat and he felt a flash of hope, the first clear hope since he'd fallen like a drooling idiot into the damn bitch's bed. 

* 

Some time later, as the sun was just beginning to peep through the tops of the trees away to the left, the helicopter suddenly seemed to lurch in mid-air. Adam grabbed at his seat, white-faced while they plummeted toward the ground. 

A yelp escaped and he turned frightened, questioning eyes to the figure beside him, thinking they were crashing, then he blinked as he recognised the colossal new seethe of explosive tension barely contained within the coiled frame. He winced away involuntarily from the murderous expression on the wolf's face. Jet black, burning eyes were intently scanning the fields below, and the chopper levelled out just above the ground, swaying dangerously at the abrupt change in angle, then thumped down onto the stubbly earth, skidding haphazardly along on the blades through the slightly damp mud. 

Heart pounding in shock, the werewolf heard the screech of the metal door slamming back against the side of the cabin even before the craft stopped moving, and he gaped after the glimpse of white fur already disappearing at incredible speed into the trees at the edge of the field. 

Wait for me! he thought belatedly. 

Old Riley, whining, was already jumping in a cautious, half-awake stumble down to the ground when Adam lurched into movement after the pair of them. He was caught by his harness, fumbled with the belt buckle, and just managed to swing himself down from the vehicle before the beagle vanished into the trees in the wake of the Alpha, nose to Mac's trail. 

* 

Zaban's hackles suddenly yanked alert and he spun around, the thick scent of blood landing heavily in his nostrils. Even as he dropped automatically into fighting stance, his eyes widened and heart thudded in shameful fear at the incredible trail of torn bodies being scythed through the vast throng of his wolves waiting to fight among the sparse trees lining the narrow valley. A spray of blood sheeting through the air marked the passage of the intruder descending the small hill just across the gravel road; the path shorn through the warriors was powering straight toward the two cars he was standing beside. The white crest at the forefront was cutting ruthlessly, unstoppably through to the small group hastily transferring from one vehicle to a second, newly charged car. 

Zaban's eyes widened with realisation. 

"Hurry up!" he barked to the wolves carrying the unconscious wereem, fuming, startled and angry with himself at the struggle it was to pull himself together from starkly frightened awe. How the hell had the Mackeld followed the kidnappers so damn fast? Found them? He could hear and scent the rumble of similar fear running among the ranks stationed waiting in the trees, and the public shame centred him. The stocky, seasoned warrior snapped to full height and began to bark orders, striding forward, calling his koiru into battle-meld. 

A new command blasted in from his Warlord, words echoing around his skull, exultant. The Mackeld couldn't defeat a whole army. The Tzo general's blood tingled, his customary impassiveness overlaying the shame: he would have some other news to convey tonight, beyond the mere subjugation of this Alphaless pack. 

* 

Her scent in his nostrils was tearing at Mac, pulling him on, despite the faint awareness of the insanity of what he was doing. As the scent strengthened when he drew close, a shiver tingled down his spine, settling him back into himself, and he blinked back into sharp focus, awareness of the hordes of wolves teeming across his wider surroundings swamping through his burning brain. 

Oh well. 

He spun between the dense ranks of his enemies, shearing his way through toward her, brain seeking forward for a way to get them both back out, after he reached her. 

Then the scent purring through him cut off to the slam of a heavy door, only the echo lingering in the air. Mac let out a vicious sound of fury - not again, NO! - as he sprang forwards, simply barging the next line of wolves out of his way to burst through and spear his claws into the rear of the accelerating car. There was a frantic roar of the engine as the driver slammed his foot on the gas pedal in terror, an excruciating shriek of claw through metal, and five deep scores shredded across the trunk where he clung, just as seven heavy koiru pounced on the infuriated Alpha. 

Mac shifted human, twisting his smaller shape onto his back to escape the hands and arms grasping at his torso and limbs, keeping the fingers of his right hand clamped through the sharp grooves he had made in the body of the trunk. His arm was stretched back over his head while the vehicle began to drag him by his heels along the roadway. Without a moment's pause he flipped off the ground, springing off one leg, flashing back wolf to cut a z-shape through the air and shear a rear claw across two of his pouncing opponents' throats. He finished the twist with his knee clamped chokingly around the neck of a third wolf, cutting off the enemy's breath, then used the purchase from his already collapsing enemy to drive a forth warrior to his knees, breathless and coughing blood from a ruthless, puncturing punch of the Alpha's other foot. 

Meanwhile, enemy claws were carving deeply into the arm stretched above his head where he was clinging implacably to the torn truck of car carrying her. Mac head-butted viciously to his right, his head exploding in pain where he smashed his skull into the koiru's teeth. Almost simultaneously his free palm slammed hard onto the wolf's exposed ear, hearing the yelp as he burst the drum while with the rebound he back-struck a further wolf who was attacking from the other side. 

Yet still the seventh damn attacker had time to cut the small piece of car body that Mac was clinging to free, a claw screeching through the metal. 

The Mackeld and his enemy rolled together in the wake of the accelerating car, Mac howling full-throttle in fury as he downed the last damn idiot, leaping back after the vehicle taking her away just as a second torrent of warriors piled onto him, flattening him momentarily to the earth. 

The heap heaved, a tawny figure whirled free and was snatched at by a second ring of wolves that had now closed around the flashing golden-and-white centre. 




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 15



Zaban watched impassively from the hillside above the road as more dense rings of his koiru formed into close-packed ranks around the spinning Alpha. He felt a twinge of regret as he followed the swift, deadly skill of the centrepiece, pierced by the knowledge that the slow grinding of implacable numbers would eventually still even those flashing limbs. The quiet flick of his fingers before he turned away back to direct the main battle was respectful: honour to the formidable warrior that was the Mackeld. 

* 

Beyond the short line of hills hiding the road was a second, deep valley cut through by a steep, narrow stream. On the opposite flank of the second valley, Chris O'Connell faltered suddenly, his heart thudding in sudden recognition and eyes flashing as he leaped backwards, giving ground to the damned unending swathe of deadly invaders they were fighting. His ears echoed with the distant howl: the simplest, ancient form of communication. He recognised that voice, even though he had never heard that level of pure fury. 

What the hell was Mac doing here? 

Heart flooding with a sudden renewal of hope, Chris drew his small group of remaining warriors closer about him as he leapt into a small corner of space among the trees, flung his head back and howled an answer: a full, anguished howl for succour. 

Then he dove back into the fray, limbs sweeping with replenished fervour as he began to urge his friends and kin to break a halting path through the enemy across toward the valley of the road. Eve called a howling question from further beyond the hills, and Chris simultaneously conveyed and yowled a general call to regroup to all the surviving O'Connells within range, his packmates battling in scattered little bands around their central valleys and hills. Fighting without an Alpha - none of them had the skill to meld, the damn enemy were separating them and picking them off in small batches. 

But there was an Alpha here. Colouring his howl, Chris directed them all to try to get to Mac, meld. He had only seen Ulf a handful of times since they had both left the academy, but now the Alpha was here, far to the south of his own range, just when he was desperately needed. Miraculously. If they could just hold on long enough to reach him. 

* 

Twenty minutes later, Zaban's head snapped round where he fought to hold the hillside between the two valleys, a harsh sound chopping through the air penetrating his absorption despite the furious battle-meld he was holding. Luckily only one of the O'Connell wolves seemed to know the Mackeld, and the Tzo general was concentrating on deploying his well-trained troops to keep any of the O'Connell from breaking through. He was wary of letting them anywhere near the valley where the Mackeld was still fighting; although the Alpha had no pack within range to bolster his shiele, the Tzo general had heard stories about his personal strength, and was not sure at what range Mac would be able to form a meld with unfamiliar wolves. He wasn't going to risk underestimating him. 

Incredulous, he watched a lurching helicopter appear above the road and advance hazardously to where he had left almost half of his warriors surrounding the Mackeld. The chopper was swaying dangerously through the air, too close to the dense trees, a long winch cable extending as the craft advanced unsteadily above the mass of wolves still fighting to overwhelm the Alpha. 

The Tzo general was already spinning, howling a challenge and a warning, but even as he yelled he saw the red-matted, tawny figure at the centre of the fight in the valley below leap. Then the tiny figure was clinging to the trailing cable while Zaban was calling furiously to his wolves to pull them down. 

A swathe of his warriors leapt to snag the end of the line, but with one flash of the Mackeld's hind claw the metal sheared, and the group of Tzo still clinging on to the end plummeted to the earth while the chopper bounced on a mad rush into the air, swirling out of control. The flashing blades sheared through the branches of a tree as it teetered out of control. 

But the black speck clinging onto the trailing fragment of cable was already almost at the cabin. Zaban's heart shrank, and yet also pulsed in a strange, sad pride as he saw the helicopter suddenly stabilise, straighten and then streak past at full speed straight above him, aiming for the densely wooded hilltop where Sha-li's warriors were holding the majority of the O'Connell trapped in the opposite valley. Two dark specks dropped from the cabin moments before the craft exploded into the Tzo ranks packed on the hillside, the blazing flames of the wreckage hiding what happened to the pair of evacuees, but Zaban knew. There was no way the Mackeld couldn't fight his way through those last few yards. 

There was a wolf! his heart exulted silently, while he held his stoic demeanour. 

The Tzo Alpha spun back to his own warriors, mind whirling, calling in the final reserve, conveying orders urgently, consolidating his fighters. They still had the advantage of numbers, and a meld kinohth, especially with wolves the Alpha had never even met, was very difficult to sustain. The O'Connell would not meld with the unfamiliar Mackeld seamlessly, if at all. 

Zaban's heart was hollow, aching and electrified. He had always thought that the tales of the Mackeld were exaggerated. Until now. Now he had seen him fight. Silently he acknowledged the fierce, steady pride within him - joy that the Mackeld had escaped the death-pit in the valley. He had hated that order. Now they would now fight as equals. 

He was proud to face such a wolf. Win or lose, this was how a wolf should be. 

*** 

Light rain was drifting down through the darkness the following night, hissing where it hit a double line of large bonfires flaring in the darkness. The fires lined a smooth, grass airstrip centred in a wide break between the dense fir trees, and many fur-edged figures were visible moving tiredly around the edges of the flames, some murmuring to each other, sharing food and touch, others standing quietly or swaying in a dazed fashion, talking to the shadows huddled within a long line of tall, wide canvas shelters beside the fires. On the hillside beyond, the frame of a large, many-gabled wooden house was visible, glowing eerily as dying flames flickered along the blackened skeleton of the demolished O'Connell grange. 

Fealden Wolflord was standing beside the last bonfire, leaning heavily on his cane, his breath harsh as he held back his internal anger and steadily, calmly countered the snapped grievances of the Southern Warlord. The fierce 'discussion' that they were holding over the torn, unconscious heap of blood-matted fur, all that was left of the Mackeld, had been going on for over two hours. It was growing increasingly tedious. And ungrateful. 

The tall, heavy silhouette of the Warlord Gardner was quivering, he was sweeping one arm through the air in a gesture eloquent of anger and frustration while he snapped a repeated accusation, then he nudged a foot disparagingly towards the warrior lying at their feet. 

Fealden's French accent was stronger than usual when he replied. The irony of having to defend the damn insubordinate Mackeld to the southern Warlord was infuriating. 

"So what would you have had him do once he heard the howl?" growled the aged wolf pointedly. 

"Aster do not lead Southern," repeated the Gardner. It was infuriating - the Wolflord was not taking this matter seriously enough. But if Aster started trying to take over down here, then - there would be more than one war on this continent. The Southern would answer to the Wolflord, but no-one else. These were their lands. 

"He called you instantly," countered Fealden austerely. "Alerted the Marsh pack through me, so that Karim has been able to defend against a similar stealth attack at Marshmont. The Marsh are under siege, but safe within their fortress." 

"But what on earth was the Mackeld doing down here? How did he get here? Alpha to three packs, now? - the Aster Warlord cannot lead a Southern pack," iterated Gardner, his voice harsh with hostility. 

Fealden Wolflord decided that he was tired of this repetitive argument. Moreover, he definitely did not want to have to explain how the Mackeld had gotten here. He wasn't about to divulge publically that the damn Alpha had hijacked Amy's helicopter. And then crashed it. 

"Enough!" The Wolflord's shiele flashed as he growled challengingly at the Gardner, and the looming Warlord abruptly fell silent, reeling backward slightly in the burn of that glare. "Listen." 

The aged wolf pointed down at the barely-breathing, shredded Alpha lying comatose at their feet. 

"The Mackeld has not yet been elected as Aster Warlord," Fealden stated succinctly. 

The Southern Warlord snorted quietly, and the Wolflord decided to let that pass. All wolves knew who would take over from Jon Marsh leading the Aster, the other Aster Alphas were practically queuing up to beg him to now that he was no longer deadwolf. Official acceptance would only be a formality. 

"And the O'Connell haven't cloven to him: a meld kinohth for a single battle is not expansionism," the slight, aged wolf continued on a stronger note. 

The Gardner opened his mouth to argue - yes OK, none of the O'Connell had cloven to the Aster Alpha before the battle, but -. He snapped his jaw shut again without a sound, shuddering, when the Wolflord's glare scorched a warning into him through the damp night air. 

"Between them, the O'Connells, led by the Mackeld, managed to survive the Tzo surprise attack until you got here, and they captured one of the enemy's light aircraft intact," continued the Fealden. Which went partially toward mitigating stealing and crashing the damn helicopter. 

"He let Zaban go!" Gardner snarled the complaint, nudging his foot again at the unconscious heap of fur at their feet. "We could have obliterated these damn Tzo once I got here!" 

The Wolflord's reply was soft, yet steely: "Zaban gave safe passage to the O'Connell cubs and asage cornered in Ridal gap, before your wolves reached the battleground." He shut his mouth with a snap and glared probingly at the tall Warlord. 

Fealden was pleased to see a slight flicker in the burning eye of the Southern, and the faint nod to his head. Wolf principles - Tzo displayed few of them, and Grey none; they seemed to be dying out. Yet this Tzo general had given safe passage to the cubs and their mothers. And so the Mackeld had treated him with equal honour: if an invading wolf will admit defeat, and yield, withdraw - even an Alpha leading a whole pack - then it is dishonour to the victor to kill him. They were too small, fragile a race to risk escalation of inter-pack hatred by wanton killing. 

Moreover, all wolves understood the reason for this war. They all understood the need for a pack range; it was the principle reason why wolves fought, and had continued fighting, throughout the centuries as the humans had expanded. The need to find space enough for all. 

Yet Gardner still growled, "It was not the Mackeld's call - it was the O'Connell who were attacked." 

"They agreed," countered Fealden softly. 

"Of course they agreed! He's a fucking Alpha!" exclaimed Gardner. "And they don't have one of their own to argue with him - half of them want to cleave to him!" 

The Wolflord's voice was a growl as he answered, "But they cannot. The Mackeld will return North in the plane you sent for me. I will stay, briefly, to hold them together while the candidates are gathered and the succession fought. Who you choose as challengers is up to you. Up to them." 

Both sets of eyes flickered toward the shadows of the surviving wolves who were moving slowly and carefully around the other camp-fires, keeping at least three fires apart from the Fealden and the angry Gardner. Gleaming, worried eyes kept catching in the firelight whenever the O'Connells glanced over toward the huddled shape of the Mackeld Alpha on the turf. The worry then increased as the watchers shifted their gaze to the two powerful figures fuming on either side of him. Even over the distance, through the drizzle, the strength of the anger was colouring the air. 

"That decision should be your primary concern," the Fealden dismissed his companion softly, straightening to stand erect and stare hard into the Warlord's eyes. Gardner shivered at the gentle rebuke from the aged wolf half his size, and stepped backward slightly, blinking and dropping his gaze. He flicked his fingers in jerky respect before swiftly turning to stride over toward the firelight, back still stiff with outrage. 

Damn the Mackeld for putting him in this position, thought the Wolflord furiously to himself. 

But Fealden's anger began to sink under pity as he looked down again at the comatose Alpha at his feet. He watched while slowly, very slowly, one of the deep wounds on the blood-soaked back began to sluggishly stop seeping; the mutilated wolf was healing at human speed, even in his natural form. Mac was completely drained, and would be in shiatz for several days at this rate. 

Fealden glanced up at the scent of the young, tired physician who was approaching hesitantly with a small pot of charcoal grease, eyes wide from the shock of what he had seen today. As a result of this onslaught, there were only two physes remaining in the whole O'Connell pack; the new Alpha would have to send some more for training. If anyone survived this war. Fealden shook himself irritably, dismissing the pessimistic thought, and sighed as the youngster froze just outside of his reach. 

"I am not angry with you," the Wolflord told the young wolf dryly. 

His eyes gleamed with fire as he dropped his gaze back again to the barely breathing semi-carcass at his feet. The anger surged. Just because the Mackeld had stumbled inadvertently into being a damn hero, saving this pack and crippling the Tzo's stealth advance, such actions didn't absolve him from his mutinous theft and helicopter destruction. 

And now what was he going to do? Gardner was right, the Mackeld couldn't hold three packs. Two were already tearing him apart. So this damn insubordinate Alpha would have to be removed from the area before the O'Connells started to cleave to him. Yes, he, Fealden had shut the Gardner up for now, but both leaders were able to scent which way the O'Connells' allegiance was blowing. 

No Alpha could hold three packs. 

Unless -. 

A flicker of pain crossed the Wolflord's face, and the fire in eyes sank slowly. Poor Mac. 

He remembered. Oh yes, he remembered the belief he had had in his own mate. The belief that had slowly, reluctantly melted into hope after their one, beautiful year of perfection. And then the painful, relentless fragmentation of that hope. Yearning, stubbornly clinging to wisps of it, unable to accept that something so perfect could be ... so fragile. 

And he remembered welcoming the heavy, tearing pain of the multiple melds, the sharp pinions of the overwhelming thoughts scarring through his screaming mind being the only thing that had offered faint distraction from the smothering, leaching agony of her slow, bitter loss. The only breath of worth that had remained within him had seeped in from ruthlessly protecting his people. 

His Rosie had fought as hard as she could; she had experienced flickers of sanity even in those later years, briefly, and his primary drive had been just to keep her safe for those moments. The second invasion had just been a distraction. However, by the time she had died, just before the start of the third, there had been so, so many wolves depending desperately on him. Abandoning them to serve his own release would have just been a second, bitter betrayal of those who trusted him. 

Condemned to survive. 

Fealden's eyes were dry, burning with the ancient, stabbing ache as he watched the young physician at his feet carefully cleaning and coating each of the chaos of seeping wounds hacked through every limb of the stubborn Alpha. The phys was relaxed now that the acrid anger in the air had dissipated, and Fealden sighed as he squatted beside the desperately wounded Mackeld and reached out a finger to bolster the Alpha's shiele with his own. By rights he should kill the mutineer. But the Wolflord sadly suspected that the wolf at his feet would suffer beyond anything even he could inflict anyway. 

And they would need this warrior in this escalating war. 

There was a sombre shadow in the depths of the bleak old eyes while he watched the raw wounds begin to close and knit. 

* 

MAC! 

The desperate call burst into his head, slamming a rush of unstoppable feeling to swell through him while his mind pulsed instantly awake, hurtling back along the thread of the call, locking to her, barely conscious of the incredible force of shiele he was able to draw on. 

Fealden Wolflord flinched, his finger almost lifting from the Mackeld's shoulder when he was hit by the painful drain. Then he realised just whose call would pull the Alpha from shiatz, even as shattered as Mac was. Fealden's eyes narrowed, and he gritted his teeth as he settled in to hold the link for the Mackeld, trembling lightly. He should not be partisan among the Alphas, but this was a personal matter. He, the Wolflord, would donate his strength to bolster a wolf he was proud of. For this. 

Gemma: Mac was melded with her. Revulsion was fighting through the shame in her head, and deep, deep sane anger as she snapped from the rage into a bewildering pummelling of sensations. There was a sickening taste on her tongue, from a thick, solid object clenched between her teeth, forcing her jaws wide, and they realised together that her teeth had been filed as she swam further into reason. 

Simultaneously, instantaneously, Mac and Gemma recognised the repulsive scent of many aroused male wolves surrounding her: smothering, a stifling wall of bludgeoning lust. But it was the deepest musk, the reek of the closest, too-close, too-vile male pressed against her head, in her mouth, swamping her senses, which had her keening internally with a single, repulsed desire: the cool, collected, razor-sharp desire to kill. 

Nicholas Grey. 

Gemma, bewildered, found that she was human, naked, on all fours on a smooth, black-lacquered platform surrounded by cameras. In the distance, invisible beyond the bright lights searing her sight, was the oppressive, humid taint of human desire, male and female, blending with pain and sex and more wolves. 

Pain: there were searing stripes of fire crossing her naked back and thighs, burning under the fierce lights. Her buttocks were blazing pain, but she couldn't remember what had happened, how she had got here, where here was: anything. The blankness of the rage cut short her memory. 

Always, before, she had broken out of it to Mac; now her first thought seemed to have been seeking him. 

Move! Driven by her mate, Gemma twitched around on her hands and knees, jaw still clenched, dodging and partially blocking a half-sensed blow from above her. From Nick. Dizzily, she reached to shift and found that she couldn't. 

Lingering in her head was the burst of rational anger which had thrown her to the surface: anger at the aroused scent of him, Nicholas, on her skin, the vileness of his rampant, eager cock brushing moistness over her welted buttocks while he had pulled them apart with his hands, revealing the small, puckered entrance within. The disgusting intrusion of that reek had pierced her with a truth, even deep within the rage: there was only one wolf allowed to mark her with his musk. Gemma had spent every last ounce of her strength calling to Mac while she had surfaced, even as she had spun and lunged with her teeth at the intruder. 




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 15



Why couldn't she shift? Constant pain now throbbed at her nipples, a heavy weight pulling them downwards and the wereem was distracted, bewildered by the soft chime of twin bells ringing beneath her torso in time to the swing of those weights while her mate nudged her to twist again sharply sideways, dodging a second heavy blow to the head from the Grey wolf who was hunched half-disabled in increasing pain over her crouching form. 

His cock was in her mouth. Eugh. 

But Mac didn't allow her time for revulsion either, and her arm snapped up around the thigh to her right, clamping her head against Nicholas' upper thigh, twisting her neck slightly to angle the cold metal of the collar around it to press tightly against the naked skin of her enemy's groin. That collar was tingling like a mixture of ice and weak acid against her skin. 

Gemma almost vomited, drowning in the nauseating scent, the taste, as the movement drove his cock deeper. Then Nick's strong fingers clenched into either side of her jaw, trying to force her to let go and she clenched her blunt teeth tighter, refusing to release her bite. Beyond the revulsion, there was also a little, vicious smile in her thoughts. 

Yes, they had filed her teeth. And the collar burning around her neck was Argen, repressing her in her human form. But Nicolas Grey's main weak point had always been that he really didn't believe that a mere human could inflict any damage on a wolf. With her teeth filed, her bite was as blunt, as useless as any human's. Ineffectual. So he had thought. 

Depends what you bite, she thought vindictively. But the shamed misery rose at same time, while she continued to dodge blows coming from all sides, led by Mac in a swirling dance, jerking her assailant after her. She hated this.  

Tears were rolling down her face, but Gemma felt a bittersweet pride in herself. She was soothed by the calm touch of her mate in her head, the feel of him weaving order through her staccato mind. Fighting was fighting, Mac agreed calmly. She had gained an advantage in an impossible situation - she should be proud. 

His anticipation of the movements around her far outstripped hers, she was distracted again, fascinated. A faint flicker at the corner of her senses, and automatically, guided by her mate's impulse, she scuttled backwards to avoid a third, ineffectual blow from the human-form wolf jerking in frantic little hops after her. She was distantly enjoying the howls of pain echoing above her head - Nicholas couldn't shift either, so long as she kept her collar touching him. 

Clever Mac. 

In this strong, seamless mind-meld, she realised that could read her mate clearly. Deep inside, beyond his sharp battle focus, Mac was so - bereft. Appalled that he had lost her. Deeply ashamed, revolted by himself? That he had saved her brother and not herself? NO! It had been her fault that she had run, and she had begged him to look after Adam. 

Her own guilt at his pain was nauseating, causing her to falter. 

Concentrate! the calm admonition drew her back into absolute attention to the moment. 

Gemma felt herself spin swiftly away from the easily anticipated lunge of one of the other wolves on the stage, rolling her yowling would-be rapist after her, his blows toward her head growing weaker as his limbs began to shudder from the pain. She was no longer guiding her movements at all. 

Feinting, dodging, Gemma watched from inside her own head in awe, slightly envious. This was what it felt like; looked like, to be Mac. To be this attuned. Every move that the wolves surrounding her made seemed obvious to him, predictable, and they were stumbling around clumsily, so slowly. But- how did he notice so much? The faintest twitch to a shoulder, and he was rolling her out of the way before the following lunge came. Then seconds later he spun her to avoid a faint shadow that was blocking the heat of the lights falling on her naked back. 

I love you, she whispered to him, in wonderment. 

Not now, picchu, he replied distractedly, his concentration on her enemies absolute. 

Hovering around her periphery was a vague awareness of the ripple of titters and advice from the audience, sarcastic catcalls to the human-seeming wolves attempting to corner her. The derisive noise increased in volume and scorn as she rolled and scuttled away from each pounce, yanking increasing shrieks of pain from Grey at each evasion, until eventually he stumbled and fell to his knees in front of her. 

Suddenly, all the lights went out. The smothering, angry wolf scents closed in with inhuman speed, and although Mac continued to dodge several blows, using the whimpering, kneeling Nicholas as a shield, finally a heavy, metal object smashed into the side of her head and knocked her into oblivion. 

Back on the grass in the O'Connell valley, Mac lay still, flat on his back. They he rolled over and curled abruptly to sit up cross legged, his torso hunched over, trembling as he drew a long, shaking, breath. Tears sprang to his eyes, and he squeezed them shut, clenching his fists to them, barely aware of the stabbing pain of the violent piquant headache slashing through his head again and again. 

Found - and lost again? 

He HAD to get her out of there. Now. 

Where? 

A hand touched his quivering shoulder lightly, and he knew the scent, but couldn't speak, couldn't even move to physically acknowledge the Wolflord - if he opened his gritted teeth he would howl. 

Zaban didn't know where they were taking her? asked the Fealden. His head was also aching. 

Tzo didn't tell him. He doesn't entirely trust him. Zaban is too honourable. Mac's answer was disjointed, his mind reeling from what she had just gone through. Where she was. What was happening to her? 

Jian-Xi Tzo is besieging Marshmont, the Wolflord replied succinctly. 

Mac barely heard him. Then he recognised what Feladen had said. His eyes cracked open. His head jerked up , the burning ire in his gaze so scorching that even the Wolflord blinked. 

Jian-Xi Tzo would know where she was. 

The Marsh? They are holding? Mac asked. 

So far - but Karim is outnumbered and outmatched. They need a seasoned leader, replied Fealden. 

Mac unfolded painfully to his feet, hissing at the half-healed wounds on his back and limbs. How soon can you to get to Marshmont? he asked. 

The new Aster Warlord is going to Marshmont, replied the Wolflord gruffly, just before his hand shot out and collided with the side of Mac's head more swiftly than the Alpha could move, knocking him off-balance into a crashing roll across the grass. 

Mac lay for a second, and then uncurled carefully back to his feet, ear throbbing painfully, head slightly bowed in acknowledgement. His blood was on fire with a separate, distracted urgency. He knew that he had deserved that blow, deserved worse than that in fact. He was an Alpha. They were at war. He knew how tightly they had to hold discipline, knew what he deserved - but not yet. His heart was burning. He deserved death, but not yet. 

"Can you leave me alive until I get her out?" the Alpha croaked painfully, needing to verbalise such an important request. "I need to hunt - find her first." 

"I will defer your punishment - unless you again put your personal needs before those of your war-striken people," gritted the Wolflord. "For now you are needed at Marshmont." 

Mac suddenly realised what Fealden was implying. NO. He had to find her. 

Aster Warlord? he cursed. Me? Silback will never follow me! 

Silback does not doubt your prowess as a war leader. They are unanimous. You cannot hear them, this far south, but I can, retorted the Wolflord. 

Dammit, Mac cursed internally. He had other matters more important. 

Then he paused. Still, if it got him to Marshmont - he could overpower Jian-Xi himself - and he could divert the Whites and the Mackelds to meet him there. With both packs he could free her. 

All Aster packs will meet you there as soon as they can. You are to hold the fort until they get there, commanded the Wolflord. The rest of us will head to Medway. 

I'm going to do more than just bloody well hold the fort, thought Mac to himself, eyes hooded, body trembling in fury. 

Mac looked away sharply when the Fealden met his eyes. 

* 

* 

* 

Apologies that this is short and not real plot progress - I find I can't write the second half of this chapter without writing all the way to the end, so many bits intertwine and it's taking time as anything I change changes everything else. But this first half hasn't altered in about two months so I decided to post it alone as a place-holder and thanks for hanging in there. 

Mac took ages deciding right at the beginning whether to chase after Gemma or Adam, and he's still not sure he's made the right decision, although Gemma would tell him he did. Your opinion would be welcome! 

Thanks so much.



Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 15b



The night turned inky and the wind died, leaving an intense, echoing stillness. Barely discernable as a strip of deeper blackness between the dark trees, a straight road shone faintly, the hard surface reflecting the scarce starlight. The drone of a distant car had been getting steadily louder, and now a set of headlights topped a slight rise, blazing fire into the still night and highlighting a figure trotting slowly along the edge of the asphalt. The car roared swiftly closer and ruffled his fur as it zipped past. 

A heavy screech of tyres biting the hard surface made Riley's drooping ears wince, but he kept his nose close to the ground and limped doggedly on, barely noticing the subsequent heavy slam of a door, or footsteps approaching, until a soft drawl said, "Hello old fellah. You're out late. Looks like you're going somewhere, are you lost? Let me just take a look at your collar." 

The woman almost managed to get a hand on his ruff. He was so tired, his dodge was slow and awkward, and he winced as he landed hard on his cut paw when he swerved around her and trotted on, slightly faster. He could hear her panting as she tried to catch up, and increased his pace a bit more, tuning her out as he sunk back into his tired old lope. He had a job to do. 

The car screeched and roared past him again, slewing to a halt across his path as the woman jumped out for a second time. Riley huffed in frustration, and winced his way over the spikey stones at the road edge, lumbering across the ditch into the orchard of knotted old trees while soft, cajoling words followed him, calling him back. He felt awkward, slightly ashamed, ignoring the human, but he had to. And some of them were so insistent. 

The tired old hound swayed in the darkness under the fruit trees, wanting to fold and sleep. He was so hungry. A burning ache seared his joints, and his foot throbbed. He had been too tired to pay proper attention for a long time now, so the edge of his pad had been cut when it had landed on a sharp stone. He had licked it clean but was leaving a patchy trail behind him, a faint line of blood dots disappearing into the distance back down the road. Riley's brain was fuddled with pain and exhaustion and hunger, but he knew what he was doing. 

Following the trail. 

Guilt was partially what pulled him along. Riley wasn't a fighter, he never had been much of one and now he was too old, too stiff. Those wolves had been so big. So many. And while the old beagle had circled the horde of them savaging at the Alpha, trying to see an opening, he had stumbled over the scent trail. The same strange car scent as before, that the Alpha had told him to follow, from home. The urgency of the command had still echoed in his head: follow it. The old beagle had hesitated, watching the fight that he couldn't hope to win. And had turned to track along the scent. Hoping this was right. He was still tracking. Hoping. 

His tired brain couldn't remember properly now, through the weariness, but he thought he recalled, not long ago, hearing that strong voice in his head again. Telling him to look at the white shiny board on the metal post by the roadside, coaxing him to focus fuzzy eyes on the black squiggles crossing the surface. The voice had hurt his head so much, the pain making him a little dizzy. Had he heard it? 

Across the ditch, a car door clunked, and the engine purred away into the darkness. The woman had gone. The old beagle, trembling, limped painfully back across the ditch and resumed his tired lope along the faint, rubbery, chilling scent. 

An hour later, Riley barely heard the next car, head drooping between his shoulders in weariness as he limped doggedly on. Then he blinked, heart aching on a sudden thud as he dodged the door opening just ahead of his nose, whining at the pain in his paw. 

He stopped and blinked again, nostrils twitching at the scent of the person sliding out of the car: the boy who lived next door. He smelt funny, even more strongly wolf than earlier, but it was Adam alright. 

Then the hound's haunches hit the asphalt, hind legs collapsing as the scent of the driver striding around the rear of the car washed over him. The Alpha was so much stronger. And furious. Riley's limbs were melting under him in fear, and he trembled, head dropping instinctively to rest on his throbbing forepaws as he peered up at the looming figure approaching, the tip of his tail supplicating. He had meant to do right. But the Alpha was so angry. 

The hand caressing over his head reassured him, then he gulped half a yelp as he was scooped abruptly into strong arms just before the wolf leapt over the roadside ditch holding him, and strode off across the stubbly field. 

Riley's fur was standing on end, being carried by this volcano of explosive feeling. But he was soothed by the hand still expertly fondling his ears: the Alpha was not angry with him. 

Slowly through the fog of exhaustion in his brain Riley recognised - the Alpha was proud of him. While Adam pumped in water, the powerful wolf gently, swiftly washed his paw in a little trough at the side of the orchard, then licked it healed himself- properly healed. Together with licking over his other clean pads, so that they buzzed and tingled fire, but stopped aching. Then Adam and the blazing Alpha shared out a delicious supper of warm pork chops from a paper bag, all three of them standing around gnawing together. Riley's tail was waving exuberantly as he devoured his share of the delicious feast. 

Sharing meat with an Alpha. 

Shortly afterward, the old hound sat happily on the passenger seat, tired brain clouded with fuzz, and flopped against the upholstery as the pair of two-leggeds spoke to each outside the open car door. Mac crouched down abruptly, lifting the beagle's head to look into his eyes, but Riley winced and looked away. It hurt. He was too tired. Then he whined apologetically as the Alpha surged back to his feet and said, "Are you sure?" in a brittle voice to Adam while he carefully closed the door. 

The boy pressed a palm to his own head, crushing flat the grimy once-white cap that was now tied to his scalp with a dark ribbon. The boy's voice was harsh, vehement as he vowed, "Yes." 

The wolf grunted and handed him the car keys and his phone, turning slightly to flicker a burning glance back down the road in the direction from which they had come. "The travel sickness will be horrible once the drug wears off - try and get as far as you can before you have to abandon the car, but don't get arrested." 

Adam grunted, and strode impatiently around to the driver's side. The Warlord half-growled, and Adam jerked to a halt and looked back across the roof of the car, gaze caught and held by the burning brightness of the Alpha's. Mac seared a deep, searching, almost yearning look into the werewolf's eyes for a long moment, before he nodded, growling again, "Keep in touch." There was a flash of white fur, and in seconds the graceful wolf vanished in among the trees. 

Riley was staring at the spot where the Alpha had disappeared, heart aching. Then he felt familiar fingers stroking between his ears, and stopped whining. "Good boy," Adam whispered hesitantly while the driver's door clunked shut behind him. "It's just you and me on this hunt now - Mac has to lead the more direct attack. But one way or another, we'll find Gem." 

*** 

That had been far too close, Mac thought as he limped into the Marshmont dining hall the following afternoon. 

The vast chamber took up almost the entire third floor of the cliff fortress, flanked to the west by a series of large kitchens, and to the east by a smaller, private dining room. A long, wide corridor running along the windowless north side connected all the rooms to the central stairway, and the doors in the north wall of the corridor opened only onto a series of store-rooms and butchering rooms. 

The long bank of tall windows opposite the dining room doors flooded the space with warm afternoon light. A vast, detailed map of the broad valley and surrounding mountains covered almost the entire length of the long wall opposite the windows, behind the equally long, heavy wooden tables. The sparse melee of besieged Marsh wolves were chattering in relief as they swarmed in toward the succulent food, relating in hushed, excited murmurs the staggering series of events which had enabled them to repel the night attack, an attack that had commenced only minutes after the Mackeld had parachuted in. 

Mac was trembling with fatigue after his second night of battle without rest, covered in sweat and healing wounds, both those from this new fight, and those which had not yet fully healed from the battle down at O'Connell. He collapsed onto one of the benches, scowling at his excruciating piquant, and ignoring the empty winged seat at the head of the top table to which Karim Marsh was beckoning him. Jon Marsh's seat. The Marsh wolf heeded the warning look he received and settled with a grimace on a bench to the right of the empty seat, next to Mac's brother Will Bancroft. 

Mac's brain was seething, his heart keening. He hadn't managed to fight through to Jian-Xi Tzo. He still didn't know where she was. Warlord Tzo had arrived with a mass of new forces at dawn to augment the attack here at Marshmont, leading an all-out assault to take the fortress. What the hell was the Tzo himself doing here? 

The Tzo pack had flown in with their remaining air transport. Mac shuddered at the thought of the position the Aster would have been in if his mate hadn't invented her travel drug. They would have had no chance of keeping up with their enemies. 

His Gemma. 

Wincing, Mac's eyes lit with fury and he reached for the overpoweringly enticing meats piled in the dishes before him with a hand trembling with fatigue and anger. As soon as he had refuelled he would sortie out and beat her whereabouts out of the fucking Tzo himself, if necessary. 

Mac tore off a mouthful with no table manners whatsoever, chewed ferociously, and was already biting off a second piece when he noticed the figure of Hakan hovering hesitantly in the far doorway of the dining hall, beyond the packed tables of hungrily wolfing Marsh. The White second was shivering lightly as the scents caressed his nostrils, his battle-battered packmates peering past him longingly, foreheads creased with their own piquant headaches. 

Ah. Damn, thought Mac. 

The Alpha shook his pounding head, dragging his mind out of his brooding fury, irritated with himself for not realising, remembering. He rose quickly back to his feet, swaying slightly as his stomach howled for more, clenching his claws into the wooden tabletop. 

"Karim Marsh," he called across the long tables, voice thundering above the noise, and the gorging warriors in the hall all suddenly froze, falling silent, heads turning to the formidable Warlord. 

"May my Whites share your kill?" asked Mac formally. 

A sense of relief washed through the hall, and Karim spun to face the wolves packed just outside the Western doorway. The heartfelt howl of his fria welcoming the guests was echoed by a wave of slightly shamefaced laughter throughout the vast chamber, and the Marsh wolves quickly rose to shuffle seats and benches sideways to make room for their new allies, calling them in, beckoning them to the free places. 

The accidental informality was actually beneficial, Mac thought to himself as he sat down again, watching the mingling packs. The Whites were dotted everywhere in and among the Marsh, and the warriors of both packs were beginning to swap stories eagerly. The Marsh could not make the slightly hesitant Whites more welcome: their rescuers, who had crashed through the Tzo lines, enabling the Aster wolves together to expel the Tzo warriors who had broken through, and then together Marsh and Whites had sealed the breech in the Western buttress. Even the wariest of the Whites, unaccustomed to other packs, were slowly relaxing under the delighted shower of goodwill. 

The White warriors must be as starving as he, Mac rebuked himself silently. They had had no time to stop and eat, since he had called them urgently just after dawn, ordering Hakan to select fifty elite warriors to hijack a truck, and just get here. Fifty - well, fifty-two, had used up all that Ada had had of the travel drug - and it had been lucky that Will had still been with them, since none of the Whites could drive. The other two Mac had sent elsewhere. 

You did well to remember the etiquette, the Alpha conveyed silently to Hakan. I have been guest-free here for so long, I had forgotten. My apologies. 

As his eyes met those of his White second down the long room, Mac briefly touched his fingertips together in the sign of contrition. He felt the little rumble of feeling from the watching Marsh who saw the exchange between wolf and Warlord. 

Hakan smiled a lopsided smile and flicked his fingers to the Warlord in the old sign of fealty, lowering himself with a wince into the seat that Karim had pulled forward for him, and accepting a haunch from the proffered bowl. 

I would not shame my Alpha, he conveyed smoothly, a hint of amusement buried in the tone. 

Mac flickered a burning look at him, then dropped his eyes and stared at the meat on his plate, waiting for each of his Whites to take at least two mouthfuls before he allowed himself to bite back into it: a self-imposed rebuke. 

He waited. 

Then he looked up, distracted by the almost pained scent of frustration in the room. Every single wolf was staring at him, waiting for him to resume eating. 

Damn protocol. 

"Eat!" he commanded them. Some reached hesitantly for their food, but then looked at the unmoving figures of Karim, Hakan and Will, and stopped short. Mac sighed, and explained impatiently, "I ate before my pack had food. An Alpha should know better. So I will wait until you are all eating before continuing," he announced, a note of steel in his voice, meeting Hakan's eyes again. 

The roomful of hungry wolves still waited in silence while the White second answered softly for them, "You are our Alpha, our Warlord. We wait for you to eat first." 

Hakan was still keeping his face perfectly straight, but Mac wasn't fooled. 

"You have spent much of your recent days with my mate," the Alpha acknowledged softly, while his eyes sparkled with increasing danger. "But do you really wish to challenge me as she does?" 

The words especially now hovered unspoken in the air. Hakan shivered. 

"Eat," Mac finished softly. 

Hakan reeled backward where he sat, and sighed as he obediently picked up his joint. "She says I spend too much time with you," he muttered to it, and took a bite. 

Mac closed his eyes to prevent his glare from burning the wolf, then felt his heart jolt as Karim's iPhone, set on the table beside him, buzzed with an incoming call. Leaping to his feet, he snatched up the handset and conveyed fiercely to the March second: Bring me that road map. 

Two minutes later he was leaning over a small chest under one of the windows, tracing a pen along the large scale map while talking urgently in a low voice on a phone. He was following a line of dotted red circles which traced a slow, short pathway through a mishmash of dense roads. 

His voice was brittle, "You can't work it out - which was the last of them?" 

"No," Adam's voice was exhausted, wretched. "We've tried them both, but the trails seem to be fading in the rain, Riley's - he's so miserable about this, he managed for so long." Mac could hear the tears in the young voice. 

Not their fault. "You need to find shelter - you're in a small town, there must be a hotel that'll take dogs. Get some food. Rest," the Alpha ordered quietly. His brain was expanding in urgent need, searching for possibilities. "And yes, the rain is a setback, but only a setback. You must be close - two sets of Argen tyre-tracks means you are converging on the goal. You will be close." 

"But we've lost her trail," Adam whined in angry misery. "We can't smell either of them any more - I couldn't reliably anyway, but now not even Riley can." 

The boy was still too human to be able to differentiate human vehicles from wolf. Realisation flared in Mac's mind, and his brain cleared sharply. A small, feral smile lit his lips. 

"Don't worry about that, Adam," he reassured the young werewolf. "You may not yet have the nose to smell the car, but unlike us, you are able to smell scent-masked wolves. You are a werewolf, still partially human. And between you and Riley, you have narrowed down the search area immensely." 

His eyes ranged over the expanse of forested mountains to the east of Adam's marked trail: it was a large area, but a thorough search would find her captors. 

"All wolves have to hunt the wilds around where they are based - you will find a trail of those wolves, scent-masked or not, if you search methodically," Mac explained. 

He was pleased to hear the reviving enthusiasm in the young voice, while Adam burst out eagerly, "I'll go and look now - I'll find something. I'll hunt everywhere." 

"No - go and get some rest, first, both of you. Eat. They will not be hunting in the rain," returned Mac. "You will be more alert, faster." 

He heard a sigh of acknowledgment. 

"And I have sent two of my best trackers to join you," Mac continued. "Let me know where you find lodging and they will come and meet you. They will probably not be able to scent the wolves, but they will be able to sight track, and recruit and hunt with stray dogs from the local area. You will have to direct them all in what to do, what to sniff for." 

And the werewolf would no longer be alone. 

Mac's skin was shuddering at the knowledge of the danger he had let loose, the laws he had broken by setting the werewolf and the hound to hunt alone. Yet - to bring the boy here, to a fight he hadn't the skill to fight, and so imprison him with no hope of atonement - no, that would not have been looking after him. 

Ada was too slender to overpower Adam if he lost control, but she could outmatch him with skill. And between them, she and Penny should be able to keep him in check, if necessary, until Nils got there with the others. 

"What about Riley?" the young werewolf interrupted Mac's thoughts. 

All that Adam heard in reply was a heavy, pained grunt, and the thud of the phone hitting the wooden floor as a distorted howl echoed through the handset, followed by a thunder of scraping benches and pounding footfalls and yells. 

"The terrace!" Adam heard the ringing challenge of the Alpha's bellow above the cacophony. "Karim - hold the Eye!" 

*** 

Two days later, Bethan drove slowly into a small town slumbering in a brief patch of midday sun. She blinked around at the small signs of peaceful urban normality, feeling oddly displaced, unreal. Angry. Hunched low in the seat beside her was the unhealthily skinny figure of Ada. They hadn't said an unnecessary word for over a day, each holding to their own silence. 

Bethan still couldn't believe that she had let Mac talk her into this trip, it was such an infuriating waste of time. She and Kate had answered his call to go with Nils Fealden to help Adam, Penny, and Ada hunt for Gemma as soon as he had asked, no question. But almost immediately after they had arrived at the damp patch of forest and met the others, Mac had - well, ordered Bethan and Ada to divert on this trip. 




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 15b



She had argued. She was half-Italian, after all, and well used to teasing Mac. 

But this time - there had been something implacably cold in his voice down the phone. Dark. Mac hadn't argued back, just given her a stark ultimatum. The eerie stillness of Ada, Penny and Nils, waiting beside her, had been disturbing, almost frightening, crumbling the fire in her voice to a whisper. Bethan reassured herself again that she hadn't just folded. 

She was lying. Mac's voice had been the truly frightening. 

Ada wrinkled her nose as they passed a gas station. Bethan noticed the movement out of the corner of her eye, and opened her mouth to comment, again, but shut it with a snap. The damn skinnybunny had been refusing to give out practically any information - obviously the first rule of Mac's mob was you do not talk about Mac's mob. 

That was what Kate had christened the motley little crew of hunters, each with their eager crowd of scruffy dogs. Bethan and Kate had speculated again on their way down to join them just which agency Mac belonged to, and why he was pulling together this small, secretive group to hunt for Gemma instead of going to the standard authorities. They had whispered loudly in front of their escort Nils, but beyond flickering a slightly amused eye their way, he hadn't responded. 

Whatever - whichever organisation he worked for, Mac was obviously pretty senior, judging by the way the mob both referred to him and responded to him. Plus there was the ease with which he issued orders. He must have been under cover back home in Lemark, at Gemma's place. But thinking about it, Gemma's flatmate had always had that easy air of command, even though he had rarely used it. 

No wonder he was so damn attractive. 

One titbit that Ada had imparted was that the reason the hunt was so secretive was because Mac was under strict orders not to waste time on it: Gemma's fiancé was tied up in in charge of something pretty major going on further west, and the forest search was in some way prohibited. 

Hah, thought Bethan, like that'd stop him. But then she seethed again. So why the fuck did you pull me and Ada away from the hunt, just when I had gotten started, Mr Mac? 

"Left here," the stick-like girl beside her murmured. Ada's eyes widened, she looked almost shocked while she watched two pre-teen boys in jeans and t-shirts cycling around in the empty parking spaces to their right, showing off on their bikes. The boys were competing to see who could keep the front wheel aloft over the longest distance and jump onto the kerb, shouting and laughing to each other in easy camaraderie. 

If Bethan was seething, Ada was almost stunned by the relaxed, sleepy atmosphere of this small town. Using the travel drug, she and Penny had sprinted down on public transport to join the young werewolf, and the Mackeld had been driving them relentlessly to assemble a pack of dogs to hunt for the Alfamme, his orders driven by in furious worry. 

Then a snap of acute, visceral anguish had skewered him, recoiling on the entire pack. Even now, almost two days later, the piquant still lingered faintly in her head from the pain of that backlash of that blow. However, the pain it had wrought had been buried almost instantly by fear. 

Seconds after, almost on the recoil of the staggering pain, the Alpha had slammed down his shields and locked them out. Everyone: Mackeld, Whites, the Wolflord himself could not break through without crashing him. Her heart had been keening since, a slight, constant tremor of fear - the whole pack felt the same, wordless fear. Fear for their Alpha. He had barricaded them all out, although the faint tug in her mind of her oath to him still held, and he still led the relentless tide of battle-melds to defend Marshmont. But it was like being sent commands by a computer. There was no emotion: the feeling in him was all smothered, crushed. 

Please, my Alpha. 

Ada jumped faintly, pulled out of her tense thoughts when the human driver beside her muttered irritatedly, "I heard the directions too," and took the corner a little too fast. 

In contrast to the frozen atmosphere up front, on the back seat, the old dog suddenly awoke from his slumber, rolled over with difficulty onto his stiff and aching legs, and reached his head up to sniff loudly at the crack in the window. Almost like a young dog, Riley then surged to his feet, pressed his nostrils flat to the wide crack, and started to snort and snuffle eagerly, his tail beginning to wag. 

Ada turned her tear-bright blue eyes to the beagle, and even in her fear a laugh was surprised from her when, with a burst of enthusiasm, the hound turned to poke his wet nose into her cheek and slurp a kiss on her jaw. 

She squeezed shut her eyes. Why did this command of the A's feel like a form of farewell? Settling accounts? 

They parked up two minutes later. 

Both girls walked Riley into the feed store to which Adam had directed them, Ada with a hand on the suddenly rejuvenated dog's collar. Bethan cast up her eyes and held her mouth in a straight line as the medium sized-hound towed the slender waif eagerly in through the open double doors past a weatherworn 'Dogs Welcome' sign. 

As soon as they entered, Riley rushed off down a high aisle stacked with chicken feed bags towards a side door to some inner sanctum, dragging Ada sideways, causing her to hop off balance on one foot after him and out of sight. Bethan could hear the other girl muttering, "Wait on, wait on!" under her breath. 

Bethan sighed in exasperation. Then she grinned. Ada had been sent along to look after the dog, so on her head be it if she wasn't up to the task. She herself was merely the chauffeur on this idiotic trip, and would be glad to see the back of it. So she left the pair to their struggle for leadership and approached the cashier counter instead. 

"Excuse me?" she said. 

A square, capable-looking older woman wearing a bright, soft cotton shirt and jeans was standing behind the desk. She looked up enquiringly as Bethan stepped forwards. 

Bethan gestured behind herself, to where they could both hear the other girl simultaneously cajoling and heaving the dog back up the aisle, "We found this dog on the road south of town and he seemed to be headed this -." 

The shopkeeper's eyes had already dropped to the beagle being dragged reluctantly around the corner, and the dog looked up and spotted her at the same time. He changed direction and bounded eagerly forwards, yanking the girl still clinging to his collar into a patter of quick footsteps before Ada let go with a short laugh. The woman's pale blue eyes lit up in answer. 

"Riley!" she cried in delight, darting out from behind the wooden desk to fall to her knees on the hard floor, returning his exuberant greeting with one of her own as the dog launched himself onto her. 

"Oh Riley! Oh - thank-you, thank-you, we've been looking everywhere, where did you find him?" cried the woman, not looking up, her words muffled by a bombardment of ecstatic love while she rubbed her face in the dog's short fur and hugged him back. 

"South of here," repeated Bethan. Dammit, she really couldn't keep the smile from twisting her mouth, but her eyes were sombre as she watched. "Glad to be of service. He was headed this way and we just gave him a lift, thought the feedstore the best place to ask if anyone knew him," she lied glibly. 

"Oh, thank-you so much. Can't I give you a coffee, a drink, anything for your trouble?" asked the woman now sitting unselfconsciously on the concrete floor with her legs curled to one side, turning her happy, tear-streaked face up, her arms cuddling the equally happy hound who had crawled onto her jean-clad lap and was snuffling her ear with repeated licks. 

"It was no trouble," Bethan smiled at her. Which was a lie. She wasn't about to tell this woman just how far south Riley had been. 

Ada bent to run a hand over the dog's short coat one last time, also smiling, a little sadly. "It's good to see him so happy to be home," she added in a soft voice. 

They were looking for you, she told the old beagle. There were posters asking for news of him everywhere, she had seen them on the lamp-posts as they had driven through the little town. 

Riley didn't reply, he was too busy making sure Jane knew how much he'd missed her. Besides, he didn't think the comment worth responding to. Of course they'd been looking. He was family. 

Ada sighed a little wistfully as she turned to follow Bethan back out of the door, popping another of the travel pills the Fealden Alfamme had fedexed her. 

Through the windshield, Bethan lifted a hand to the woman standing with her dog waving farewell in the doorway while she backed to circle out of the car park, then her face fell back into grumpy creases as she turned the car towards the main road. "I can't believe we just wasted two days dropping off a bloody dog in the middle of this hunt," she growled impatiently. 

Ada sent her companion a cool look, reminding her in a crisp tone, "Riley is no longer needed: we have other dogs who know the scent now. Mac decided that it was time he got home safely. That hound's was horribly homesick, and he's too old for this, but did wonderfully tracking Gemma from here despite his aching bones." 

Bethan snorted. By the time they got back it would be four whole days wasted, when she could have been hunting for Gemma! Mac didn't seem to know what was important, any more. 

Ada looked out of the side window and her eyes crinkled slightly as she remembered the happy tilt of the beagle's head, the look in his filmy eyes when he'd scented his home again. Riley had helped the Alpha immensely: without him, the hunt would have been impossible. Mac did know what was important. 

Her heart began to shiver again as she worried just why her Alpha had decided that the hunt for his mate was no longer the highest, utmost priority for them all. 

*** 

There was a slightly yielding, smooth surface under her back. The surface was buzzing faintly, vibrating against her frozen skin. Frozen. Her blood felt petrified, congealed to heavy slush in her veins, only the faintest hint of movement of red blood cells seeping between the packed, unmoving crystals of ice. Pain numbed by cold. 

A dim sense of alarm trickled through her as the vibration continued to gently shake her frozen body, a muffled shouting beating at her ears, then slowly dimming, as though she was sliding her head into a box. The loss of sensation sounded a vague alarm somewhere inside her. 

After some moments within the depth of numbness, Gemma realised on a panic that she wasn't breathing, and the shock drove a sharp, gasped intake of air to flood into her lungs, lifting her chest. 

Her chest screamed. 

Raw, ripped edges - screaming, bleeding pain through the frozen cavity - if the rest of her hadn't been an ice statue, the rake of the pain would have lifted her into a piercing, howling arch to try to ease that agony. Inside her ribs, she felt grated. The hole inside, where her heart had once been connected, all of the arteries and vessels were choked or ripped off, discordant, mutilated. Each raw nerve speared directly into her mind, stabbing her again and again with a twin, nauseating, unbearable ache. 

The feeling of immediate dread rang louder through her as with a faint hissing noise below her feet, the voices dimmed further. But her ripped heart and mind couldn't respond, she couldn't take this pain, couldn't move - couldn't. 

Still, her ears absorbed the words that the female standing somewhere below her feet was shouting across at the male. A name caught at her, drawing together her shredded brain to slowly percolate some meaning from the shouts. 

"... lost your fucking temper! Now it's dead we have lost our bait for the Mackeld too, you spineless whelp!" 

The words swirled in her throbbing head, dull and almost senseless, held together by the name. 

That name. 

A tiny speck of heat struggled within the broken ice-shards in her chest. 

A second creak of moving metal, and a blast of air hit her from the right. Her brain began to absorb the other urgent messages from her senses. The dusty scent surrounding her was - curdling, and Gemma's awareness was jolted by a sudden, new fear. Realisation dawned: "It's dead". 

It. 

The werewolf. 

Her. 

Realisation dragged a splintering fear in its wake, the name of her mate echoing more loudly through her. They thought she was dead. 

Her Mac. 

That was the pain: she couldn't sense him. At all. Never before had she been aware of the thread of feeling between two wolfmates. Until now, when it was gone. She couldn't sense him. 

So he couldn't sense her. 

The old warning from Valerie thudded through her veins: "When you die, early or late, then so will he, in grief, and guilt." 

Her brain catapulted into full alert, leaden lids peeling painfully open revealing unyielding darkness, but the scents aligned her. She was lying nearly smothered in an enclosed, heavy box, on a conveyor belt of metal rollers. A shuttered vent beside her was blasting air in just below the surface on which her body was lying. The whole tiny space smelt of ash. Fine ash and overheated metal. 

The fear quadrupled, lifting the hairs on her human skin, and Gemma was on her side, tearing weakly at the shorn, mangled shutter with her bare human fingers. The gashed, broken metal fell away and she squirmed desperately to scrape her small, sick frame around the ninety-degree bend into the vertical air duct as she heard a click of a new valve opening behind her. Terrified by the half-recognised scents, the blood now pounding in her ears muffling the continuous, vitriolic shouting match that had erupted in the room below, she had no idea how far or how fast she managed to jam her way up through the solid metal chute against the blasting air, before heat seared at her feet and legs, blistering them with pain. 

She erupted into a T-join in the square ducting, terror and pain driving her, and crawled some feet along a slightly wider shaft before she was brought up short by a second, fully closed valve leading away from the torrent of air behind her. This one was undamaged. Belatedly recognising the heavy claw-marks that had shredded the valve at the bottom at some time in the past, what it meant, that some wolf had clawed desperately at that vent from the inside, trapped in the inferno -. Gemma's heart cramped in revolted realisation, her stomach heaved, and she was violently sick into the tiny shaft in which she lay. 

Her stomach heaved convulsively, repeatedly. Her mind swirled, nose twitching, dimly absorbing - something else amiss. Curling as far in on herself as she could in the mercilessly hot, cramped space, almost screaming at the pain in her heart, her mind fragmented under the agony which surged back to overwhelm her now as the immediacy of death sank back. 

Distantly through the sick stupor sinking back through her limbs, her ears absorbed the roar of the gas inferno in the small cremation chamber from which she had escaped, and beyond, the continued bellows of fury between the antagonists. 

Mac, her mind whimpered. 

Her heart was bleeding, raw. He was gone. 

Ripped away. 

Gemma bit hard on her tongue to keep from screaming as the pain of that tear surged back to the fore while her sick body heaved with the compulsive, violent retching. She lay shivering, the weakness in her limbs smothering her to the hot metal as she exhausted herself holding in the anguish bludgeoning through her. Tears lit her eyes. The ice in her veins was helping her remain still, smothering her, but it couldn't entirely douse the agony. 

Never before had she realised how deeply he was entwined in her. Had been entwined: now he had been ripped out. Half of her ripped to furious, agonising, savaged shreds. 

The wolf inside her was keening, sinking deeper and deeper through waves of depression, alone, sick, sick to death. No pack. No mate. 

Shut up, she cursed herself. What do you think he's going through? 

Her wolf. 

Her mind clamped into clarity, furious. And carefully, she pulled her physical self together again, lying in an exhausted, shivering heap, face contorted against the pain of the ice in her veins and the blistered burns on her feet and calves. 

She had to get to him, let him know. Somehow. Gemma shifted wolf, to tear out the valve above her head with her claws. 

Nothing happened. 

She tried again, desperately, a hand sweeping sluggishly up across her human skin to check for the Argen collar, but it wasn't there, she was completely naked. 

Why couldn't she shift? As she lay shivering, her hand landed in a pool of liquid. Ugh. But... her nose and mind slowly filtered an oblique answer to her question. A vile answer. She had just vomited into the shaft in which she was lying. But she couldn't smell the result, only feel it. The only thing that blocked scent for a wolf was silver. Silver. 

She couldn't shift because she had been silver poisoned. That was why she was 'dead'. 

So she couldn't move. Couldn't reach him. 

The tears were rolling down her hot cheeks. 

Eventually the roaring beneath her stopped, and Gemma heard a click above her head, the scrape of metal on metal. Her mind sorted through her options, and she realised that the searing, agonising burns on her legs and buttocks were not fading. Her feet were still scorched agony, feeling tortured. Sickness dragged at her, making her feel sluggish, maimed. She couldn't heal. Couldn't shift. Couldn't sense her mate, or anyone, all alone in her head. She felt human. 

The lonely echo within her, the pressing walls of metal and the impenetrable blackness drove the despair in stronger and stronger waves through her head, shuddering through her screaming limbs even as her heart sank slowly beneath the desolate isolation. Trapped. The wildness within her shuddered, beginning to shake out of control. 

Stop it, she cursed herself, focusing fiercely on her mate. She had to get out. 

The traces of dried tears of her cheeks tingled. Inside her, however, the faint tang of blood in her mouth tasted of life, and her remaining heart was slowly growing more fiery, burning with fury. 

She was not human. The wolf was there. Trapped in her heart, in furious sorrow. All of her was igniting, the need pulling her together, one whole being. They - the scheming wolves below, had stolen her from her mate, torn him from her. They had severed them. 

Mac would be in such pain too. 

Worse pain. 

She had to get moving. 

Gemma finally recognised, now, what she had never completely trusted before. Mac loved her. She knew this. She didn't need that bond to know. It was simpler than the deep tie of songmate. He loved her. The wolf knew. She knew. No doubts. 

But she also knew, the dread heavy in her stomach, that if she didn't stop him - her heart was thundering in terror at the idea: Mac following her into death. The terror eclipsed the pain and the fear of the cramped space clawing at her internal wolf, and the fear of the darkness pressing on her human psyche. Gemma felt around above her head, feeling the open slats of metal where air was now free to travel. She gripped one thin slat and began to twist it, trying to force her sluggish, pain-drenched limbs to break a way through into the dark vent, seek a way out. 




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 15b



Wisps of the retreating, furious shouts that she could still hear teased into her numb brain as Gemma worked clumsily at the slats barring her way. 

"Couldn't you have fucking resisted playing with the Mackeld's toy until we'd got him too?" the female cursed. 

"I didn't see you resisting playing with her brother," Nicholas Grey howled his response. 

The furious pounding inside Gemma's aching chest interrupted with a staccato jolt, then began to beat a harder, erratic rhythm: double fury. What she had heard thundered again and again through her pounding head, waking her further, setting her teeth to a silent snarl as she worked. So. Two reasons. 

Where had she heard that woman before? 

Hold on, my love, she thought out into the darkness. Please. 

*** 

Hello patient readers, 

Apologies for the long wait, and thanks to those of you who are hanging in there. This was originally a bit that was flashbacks later, but I realised it's really the end of Ch15 and have rearranged. 

Chapter 16 is also finished, I will submit it together with this, but it may take longer to be posted as it's longer. Please let me know if Ch16 is confusing. It brings in quite a lot that was hard to weave, and I'm not sure whether I've left out too much of the background, having rewritten it too many times to count , and whittled it down. 

The final Chapter 17 is fairly straightforward, and I thought nearly finished, but I've just hit on something exciting to add - I'll post it as soon as I can. There also may still be a number of questions that haven't been answered, or inconsistencies, which I'm trying to find before I finish the story. If I don't find them all, please let me know! 

Many thanks to those of you who let me know about DesirePink stealing the story so far and posting it on WattPad as hers (grr). It had been taken down at my request the last I looked. 

Please vote and comment! 

Smiler 

-



Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 16



Gemma's limbs gave out at the same time as the third grating.

The metal she was weakly wrestling with was rusty, corroded, the orange dust causing a paroxysm of coughing in her sluggish, frosted lungs. It didn't help that the steep angle of the last ten feet of the ventilation shaft meant that she had slithered down on the slippery metal and was pressed to the grating, back hunched and shoulders and head at an awkward angle, cheek jammed against the crumbling orange-tainted bars as she struggled with them.

Her limbs were trembling in exhausting and this horrible, pervasive sickness, her tears trickling across her temple. The dragging vacuum inside her was leaching what little strength she had, her fervour dwindling despite the faint, hopeful scent of fresher air in the gloomily lit rock passage below her.

Mac. The emptiness ached through her, sapping her last shreds of will.

A small whine escaped Gemma as she wrenched wretchedly with the makeshift lever bar she had brought, one of the slats she had broken from the last vent. A gasp escaped as the entire square metal fitting suddenly emitted a grating noise, shifted, then gave way under her weight.

The side of her face smashed into the rock floor and her eyes blacked out, head spinning in pain. The emptiness in her stomach heaved. She could do no more than retch helplessly as the giddy feeling from slamming to the ground sucked to the surface the icy, sullen feeling in her veins. Her sense of her surroundings faded as her body struggled feebly against the ice and the emptiness to stay afloat, stay alive.

Weak convulsions wracked through her as she lay, trembling and writhing on the cold stone, unaware of time passing as her mind swam in and out of the edge of consciousness.

Humans.

In disorientated patches, Gemma gradually became aware of the scent now beside her, recognition filtering slowly through her swimming head. She couldn't open her eyes, her limbs heavy beyond her control, body still periodically convulsing in paroxysms of agony, cutting her mind blank with pain. Between the bouts, waves of awareness swept in to baffle her with new scents and sounds, retreated, leaving her empty, then swirled back in, teasing her with dimly recognised sensations.

Two women. Urgent whispers above her shivering, helpless form, the sound muffled, incomprehensible outside the steady crackle in her head, like a radio that had lost signal.

A dim sense of movement. Being lifted, carried.

Colder.

The shivering increased, and Gemma's teeth chattered as she was lain on cold, smelly rock. A rubbery scent of tyres permeated the sand dusting on the floor, tyres and metal, rust: cars. She swam back towards dizzying, nauseous reality.

"All right," was hissed above her head, the woman's voice a low whisper. "You keep checking for somewhere."

Both women reeked of fear; their voices were trembling.

A hand grasped her hair, quite gently, but any movement hurt, and Gemma whined helplessly as her face was turned slightly to the left, to where she could smell one of the women crouched over her.

"Told you," hissed the other voice close by, the tone a low accusation, revulsion pulsing through the air.

"Where did you go to school?" whispered the first voice.

Gemma was fading again, being dragged back under despite the shivers that shook rattles of pain through her battered limbs, when a finger tapped her cheek, abruptly.

"You. Where did you go to school?"

What?

"Answer. Or we just leave you here anyway," cut in the second voice harshly. The first made a little huff of disapproval.

Gemma shivered harder. Strained to open her mouth, eventually letting out an unrecognisable grunt. Tried again.

Once she had finally managed to whisper an answer, the woman asked a second question. Then a third. It was such an effort to talk, grinding out stupid answers to stupid questions. The grilling didn't stop. Who was her favourite Sesame Street character? Favourite movie? Who won the last Olympic 100 metre sprint? Russian president? Best flavour jello?

It made no sense. Gemma gave up at that point, and collapsed into a new set of coughing, feeling herself receding. She just didn't care, the whispers over her head sinking back into oblivion.

Mac. She couldn't get to him. Her body was too weak, poisoned. She was lost.

A tiny spark rose. No, she couldn't give up. Not on Mac.

She struggled again, reaching out a flopping, limp limb, straining to haul herself weakly across the rough, petroleum-soaked sand dusting the rock floor, towards that beckoning scent, her legs trailing uselessly. She was pulled by the scent of outside. Outside this horrible stifling rock prison.

As sigh above her head, and she was lifted again, carried jerkily and slid into a metal box. A thin carpet was under her bare skin, and she curled up, shivering more heavily, brain empty, losing her fight as the nausea swept up again, pulling her stomach up, up, tearing it into her raw throat. She lay and sobbed, only glad to be off the cold stone, fading out.

A gentle hand wiped away the tears running down her cheeks, and a soft material was tucked over her shoulders and breast. She couldn't interpret the whispers through the thunder in her pounding head, but she felt the gentle hands and more tears eased gently from her eyes.

A heavy clunk sounded, the slam of a car trunk above her, shaking her body.

Gemma curled in on herself and sank into a nightmare of shivering, lonely agony.

*

The days swam by in throbbing and fading gasps of semi-awareness. Her body was sweating, convulsing, fighting and fading in a constant, ceaseless cycle. It seemed interminable, and she longed at times to give in to the despair, the pain pulling at her.

But dimly, she was aware that there was something comforting about her small, dark hidey-hole. Something held her.

The humans came twice daily and fed her: the one who had questioned her, and one of two others. They brought her clothes. Water. A damp wash cloth stroked over her clammy, sweating skin.

Gemma surfaced once to find her shivering, wasted form being held crouched over a grate in the centre of the cold rock space. Her eyes blinked at the parked cars gleaming in the dull light around them. A finger prodded steadily at her distended bladder and she gasped, letting go, crying at the humiliation, the pain and sluggish sickness shaking her useless limbs.

"Shh," whispered the woman on her right soothingly, stroking a hand over her face. Helen. "Don't let it worry you. I used to be a nurse."

Back in the trunk of the car. They fed her spoonfuls of black, dusty granules.

Gemma choked, coughing on the dryness, but the gentle voice of the nurse admonished her like a small child refusing her medicine: "It'll do you good. And you can have a yoghurt if you swallow this."

Activated carbon, the name of the black granules swam into Gemma's mind. Charcoal.

She had been poisoned.

Struggling against her dry throat, she swallowed.

*

Gemma felt completely wrung out, boneless, when she finally swam into true consciousness, alone in the small, dark trunk of the car where they kept her hidden.

Dark. Pressing on her.

Inside her. Empty.

She opened her eyes to escape the ache, ignoring the weakness shivering through her at even that small movement.

Blackness. The sheer darkness sheltered her, except -. Faintly, her eyes made out the contour of a misshapen hole above her head, a patch of greyness in the dark. An opening in the lid of the trunk.

The hole looked a little like a hand.

There were four long rough-raked scrapes for fingers, with a fifth gash scored in from the left. Then a wide triangular hole at the base, cleanly cut away.

Almost undetectable, a tiny whisper of scent teased from the rough edges of those finger marks. Gemma saw her own hand lift, weakly trembling palm and fingers stretched open to meet the mark, touch palm to ghostly palm. So close. A little smile curved her mouth while tears ran down into her hair, her blurry eyes focusing on the gleam of gold just visible around her left wrist. Her heart beat fiercely, longing rising through her.

That scent. All this time, hidden in the trunk of this car, too sick to move. But it curled around her protectively, even here. Her Mac.

Stealthy footsteps approached in the semi-darkness outside, and Gemma dropped her hand, her heart freezing. A corner of her mind noted, slightly bemused, that her bracelet had disappeared.

Human, her nose told her, calming her pounding heart. Helen - the nurse.

Then a slender hand reached with careful, practised ease through the hole above her face, curved back on itself, and pulled an exposed cable over her head. The trunk chunked opened a crack, while Gemma smothered a laugh at the practical reason why the humans had hidden her in this car.

A second scent hit her, a taint colouring Helen's skin and hair, and Gemma clenched her teeth against the shot of anger that wrenched through her.

The scents of pain, fear, and lust burned in her nose - human mating scent and seed - wolf seed.

The rage burned through her, shaking her weak limbs exhaustingly: Helen was torn, and aching in pain.

That wolf needed a lesson in manners: this had to stop.

Gemma remembered now, what had been done to her. The poison.

She didn't know how long it had been after the show when she had come around. The show when she had publically humiliated Nicolas Grey. Mac had humiliated him. They had humiliated him, publically, together. It had felt like it had been a long time, she had been fully healed, lying on a hard board in a small chamber.

Her nose had wrinkled instantly at the scents of three other wolves in her nostrils. The female lying across the room had been in pain. The males had been enjoying it.

Almost instantly, Grey had noticed that she was awake, and had stridden over from tormenting the sjeste on the other side of the room, to her. His stride had been slightly off, his gait hunched to ease a lingering pain between his legs. Gemma had smiled, and Nick had erupted. The wolf had begun striding about, screaming about how he was going to subjugate her, make her crawl, display her cowed submission to the world and to the damn Mackeld.

Gemma's thoughts had fled to Mac, and she had felt her own anger rising. She had been pierced by the memory of the anguish she had sensed buried in her mate, that he'd been unable to hide, twinned as they had been in that fight: Mac loathed himself for not protecting her better, not protecting her from this damn wolf. He had been in such pain.

She didn't even remember going for Nick, the desire seamless with the action. No Argen collar then, no bounds between rage and reaction, she would have killed him almost instantly, moving past his startled evasion with ease, had the other damn Grey wolf not shot her from across the room.

The dart hadn't stopped her, but it had slowed her down, the needle seeming to punch ice into the veins of her right thigh. She had had to work a little harder to kill the cowardly cur who had so hurt her mate.

Grey's crashing fear had been thick in the room, making him react wildly, off balance, and he had been screaming orders at the other wolf while he had barely held her off, his flesh tearing under her claws.

She had felt so whole in that rage. Clean.

Another dart, the slug slamming into her, and she had slowed slightly further. Determination drove her on, but Nick's return blows had been landing then, and her own blood had begun to run, the scent mingling with Grey's as they had swirled around each other.

A third dart; fourth, spearing into her. Her veins had begun to spin out of control.

"She can't still be moving!" the other wolf had screamed then, in terror, still hovering at the opposite side of the room, flinging the now empty gun across to crack painfully across her temple before snatching something else up to throw to her adversary.

Gemma had been moving still. For Mac.

As she had strained to heave her limbs after her desire, Grey had swerved in underneath her attack, the desperate fear bright in his eyes, and had stabbed a finger-thick plastic syringe down her howling open throat, squeezing a slug of icy, viscous liquid down her gullet with a fist clenched convulsively around the bulb at the other end. A choked gargle, and Gemma's swimming awareness had lurched to the disturbing total absence of sensation from her legs as they had suddenly collapsed. Her ears had been ringing softly, the convulsions beginning to overtake her.

But she vividly recalled that last stark image of Grey's face, the last sight that had been in her fading vision.

Gemma returned to the present with a small, feral smile lighting her face when the trunk of the car lifted to the smooth whoosh of hinges. Nick had been terrified of her.

The smile snapped off as she looked up into the young, rounded yet gaunt face looking down at her.

The scent of Helen's pain, fear and misery was mingled with the wolf's mating scent and enjoyment.

These wolves needed an Alpha. A proper Alpha, who would teach them how a wolf should be.

She knew just where to find one.

*

If only life was that simple.

Almost two months had passed, Gemma's existence a mingling of unbearable, solitary endurance, and frantic, relentless necessity. During the weeks in which she had struggled towards enough health to escape, the mesh of her new friends had grown, until the weight of their whispered, mangled hopes now crushed her here, forcing her to think beyond her own, simple wishes. Wolves and humans both: she couldn't just leave them here.

Yet they couldn't get out. This prison had been built to keep wolves and humans in.

Gemma had mapped almost the entire subterranean hive since she had healed; recovering first under the care of her human friends, enough to simply to move again, then healing fully after learning which of the wolf lab-rat slaves she could trust, and teaching them to create her silver antidote.

There were three sets of people in the vast underground labyrinth. The Faulk overseers, the guards; the wolf prey, sex toys, slaves, or samples in the 'medical research' programmes; and the human slaves - also toys, and experimentees, but less difficult to contain and less valuable.

For this was Faulk territory, although only the hundred or so Faulk wolves who worked down here knew of the extent and purpose of the underground complex. The rest of the pack led perfectly normal wolf lives on the surface, proud of their homes and vast hunting range, the renown of their pack centred around the famous Faulk medical research centre.

None of the inmates were able to tell Gemma when the underground annex had been started. The oldest of her wolves had explained that this Alfamme's father had already been expanding it when he had been Faulk Alpha, working on secret plans with Nicolas Grey's grandfather, then father, both of whom had been frequent visitors. Upon the death of the old Alpha, only two Faulk warriors had challenged his daughter for the succession, and somehow she had defeated both.

When an Alfamme was loved and trusted by her pack, none of her warriors challenged her.

In this case, Gemma doubted that that was the reason why more warriors had not challenged Madam Faulk for the succession. Her stomach roiled. Madam Louise Faulk: The Louse.

Why on earth had the Faulk decided to bondmate with the Marsh? She couldn't imagine two more opposed characters - well, she knew why Jon Marsh had, his daughter had made that perfectly clear and it wasn't hard to guess, looking at the luscious Alfamme, but what had the Faulk gained from such an alliance?

What had the Louse been up to?

Whatever the plan had been, reputedly the Louse had been damn angry when she'd returned, after the mate-bond had been severed due to her treatment of the Marsh's human guest. Hopefully that had foiled whatever damned, nefarious plot she had been building. This place shouldn't be allowed to pollute further - it had already infected enough wolves.

For Grey's lair in Medway had just been a poor copy of this place; a weak seedling spawned by this central canker. The 'medical' research here at Faulk had yielded the wolf control drug, both elements: fix and key, yet the Louse guarded the secret formulae viciously. Here, Gemma had learned that neither Grey nor the Tzo could actually manufacture either half of the drug: they had to buy them. The Faulk complex reeked of the foul wealth it generated from two industries: 'health' and sex.

Consequently, Nicolas Grey's father had set up his own secret laboratories to try to identify and duplicate the drug. And his son had later inaugurated an illegal recruitment programme for skilled chemists.

It all led back to the Faulk. The Louse.

It was late evening, and the wereem was lying on her back in the ventilation duct just past the grill that opened down into the laboratory. She was listening with half an ear to a caustic argument between two of her pack as she waited; Alan, her second, was adamant that Ginger should not try to help his escape attempt later that night: he did not want anyone else involved.

Don't argue with him, Ginger, Gemma interjected on a growl. The stubborn bastard needs all of his strength right now, he has less than hour to heal his feet enough to be able to run.

The echo of anger in her conveyance silenced them both, although she could feel a tinge of amusement from her damn insubordinate second. She had told him that it would be enough of a distraction if he could just cause mayhem in the auditorium during tonight's show, but no, Alan had decided he needed to get above ground. For which he needed to escape from his cell. And therefore had needed to be damaged enough by his afternoon purchaser to be withdrawn from the menu for tonight - ugh. She felt so guilty. Already!

Oh stop whining, my titchy little Alfamme, Alan conveyed privately. I cleave to you - but if you won't accept my advice then I'll just have to make sure you get the help you need anyway.

Your advice is not always right, she grated.

Your reason for vetoing this was not sound, he returned dispassionately. You didn't want me hurt. I'm a warrior, Little Gem: I fight, I hurt, I heal. Tonight I am already almost healed - the pack bond is so much stronger with your key.

Gemma kept her eyes closed and breathed deeply, holding in her anger: What was it with fucking Alphas? That they were always so damn convinced of their infallibility.

I am not an Alpha, Alan grated in his turn.

Oops - touched a nerve. Despite never intruding on his thoughts, Gemma had picked up that Alan had once been a pack Alpha, many decades ago. Now he had been broken, drugged into a semi-stupor, used, and tormented both as Louise's toy and by his memories of what had brought him to where he was. A morsel on the Faulk menu, for the wealthy clients who visited this hell.

This underground complex had obviously started as a series of passages hewn roughly from existing rock caves, possibly store-rooms. Those were now the garages. The entrance hall, human and wolf cell blocks, kitchen, dining hall, exercise rooms, shower and toilets areas and relaxation quarters for the guards were also hewn out of the solid sandstone, but lined with beautiful, curving brickwork that arched overhead, the material and workmanship showing the age of the extensive network.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 16



The more recent areas were obvious from the concrete structures and plastic studding: the dungeons, morgue, new laboratory, stores, offices, studios, arena and auditorium, and the plush reception area for the well-heeled clientele. Most recent was the swimming pool adjacent to the garages, where the human slaves were exercised daily to keep their attractive figures.

All of the labyrinth, both old and new areas, was well served with high-quality ducting for ventilation. Narrow rectangular tunnels which, if you were small enough, and good at carving bypasses around fans, could serve as a hidden travel network.

The only place down here that Gemma hadn't even seen was the block of maximum security cells, buried in a second layer below the central corridor. The sole lift down was pass activated, and the spiral emergency staircase riddled with sensors. The one time she had tried to penetrate down there was the closest she had come to being recaptured; there had been both motion and scent sensors even within the air ducts - programmed to identify both wolf and human scent. Luckily she had been scent masked, her human scent weak and wolf scent undetectable, so the signal that had triggered the alarm had been borderline. After a desultory check, the over-confident guards had decided that the alarm had just been tripped by a rat or something.

Despite not being able to get down there, Gemma had found out who was kept in those cells, or at least one of the captives. Her human friend Helen had been drafted to clean up the nauseating signs of systematic abuse mottling the skin of a new inmate who had been brought here by Nicolas Grey just before the Halloween show and taken downstairs immediately.

That show had starred Gemma; it hadn't gone exactly as Grey had intended.

The girl Helen had treated had had a mop of startling platinum-blonde hair, and high, Slavic cheekbones. And after Gemma's 'death' Opal had overheard the Louse, in her fury at his killing her bait for the Mackeld, refusing to return Grey his toy when he had left. Natasha Vanilchov was still down in the high security cells. And Nick was not here, torturing her.

So they would be able to kill him! Damn, if only Mac knew!

Mac. Gemma's heart creased around the draining, relentless emptiness, mind reaching blindly for the solace to fill that vacuum. The longing surged through her - but she couldn't think of him. Not and function. She had to hold back yet. But Gemma couldn't repress her silent prayer, just praying that he still was. Praying that he would wait. Yet for what? For what would he be waiting? As he felt dead to her, so she would feel dead to him. Maybe her Mac was no longer out there, no longer there to return to: her home, her songmate? She couldn't tell.

Stop it, snapped Alan harshly, his conveyance slapping at her. You cannot indulge that pain tonight. He would not wish you to.

Gemma hauled her equilibrium straight, annoyed at herself for deserving that rebuke. She must be more unsettled by the uncertainties ahead than she knew, it was a long time since she had unintentionally succumbed to the dragging doubt. That was a raw, frozen wound that she couldn't touch, or it would freeze her also. She couldn't.

He would not wish her to.

That was true, as her second knew: Alan knew Mac. Years ago, Alan had lost his temper once too often and had admitted himself to the Aster Centre for Anger Management at Himlesky, when the Macs had been among the Alpha-lin, the alpha trainees learning to expand their self-control to help the volatile wolf patients with their own anger.

Sadly, despite what he had learned there, Alan's anger had always remained a little too close to the surface, and years later he had come to Faulk medical centre in search of further help.

He had found it.

Although this help left anger strangled in Gemma's throat: Alan no longer had free will. He had agreed to take part in the experimental anger management trial, as had most of the older wolves incarcerated here, and so had volunteered for the first administration of the drug.

He had never been offered a choice since.

Until now, his voice suddenly grated in her mind. Will you fucking stop lying there reminiscing and get a move on, my titchy little Alfamme? I don't want to waste the only free evening I've had in months.

The guards and clients never let up on him - it was Alan's own morbid joke that the reason the Faulk no longer kept him down in the maximum security basement cells was because he was so popular - the guards had grown tired of having to go through all the damn extra rigmarole to escort him up to the dungeons every single time he was purchased for an hour or two.

In truth, he had been too battered, too abused, to care any longer: to even try to escape. But his Alpha training had been a godsend for her, for all of them - she knew she wouldn't have got this far, wouldn't have gotten them this far without him.

You'd have managed, Alan snorted gruffly.

I thought you said I'd have been crashed out by the first reasonably powerful guard I meandered across if you hadn't taught me to hide my shouty shields?

He'd actually been a lot more scathing than that.

The first day when she had crept along the metal vent above Alan's cell, she had suddenly been startled by a sharp blow on her mind shield, and a strange mind blasting into hers, taunting her as he had attacked. Alan was damn powerful; the Faulk guards had learned how dangerous it was to approach his cell between drug dosages, and were now meticulous about waiting for the control drug, replenished via the aerosol sprinklers in the ceiling, to take hold again before they came to get him. Gemma had gotten too close to Alan's cell.

Yet her gasp of pain had been echoed by a gasp of wonder from the small concrete box below, and the abrupt withdrawal of the painful rake of intrusion.

You survived? Alan's incredulous mind-voice had been strained, muffled by the clouds still stifling his mind - although the drug hadn't stopped him from breaking her defences. But Grey killed you for your beautiful, public humiliation of him.

Gemma hadn't been able to reply, her throat dry, head still ringing from that blow, the mental whiplash from her broken shields slashing like snapped elastics across the tender inside of her mind.

I would cleave to you, my Alfamme, had been the deafeningly startling follow-on comment, and Alan's mind had brushed hers again, like a reaching hand seeking a handclasp.

The words, the feel of the oath had shocked her into replying, despite the echoing pain.

What? NO! I'm not an Alfamme - don't be ridiculous. Shuddering even at that breath of touch, she'd pushed him away.

You are an Alfamme. Please. Your humiliation of Grey is a legend within this hell. And -

That wasn't me! That was my mate - my Alpha! OW her mind hurt. What had he done?

-now I find that despite your being silvered to death when subsequently almost managing to kill him - Opal was in the room too - you're slinking blithely through the halls, defying them further. Alan's mental tone had been both awed and smug.

I am A WEREWOLF!

I would cleave to you, Alan had insisted. Please, he'd added, reaching out again with that mental tendril.

She had pushed it away again, panicked, Will you just listen - I can barely control myself, never mind anyone else. No way.

Pl- damn, Alan had broken off. They had both been unaware of the hiss of the gas through the sprinklers inside his cell during their silent shouting match, but both had abruptly fallen silent at the tramp of several sets of heavy feet approaching. The footsteps had halted outside the door, and a key had sounded in the lock.

Keep your fucking shields tighter - I could sense you, Alan had snapped at her urgently, now having to struggle to convey even over the few feet between them as the waves of fog rose in his head.

Gemma had lain silent in the duct, tears on her cheeks when the guards had finally entered and hauled the powerful old wolf from the room. The Faulk wolves had been laughing, sneering, and just the mental images that their words had dredged up had been revolting, while she didn't have to - wasn't the one who would have to experience what they were so casually joking about.

But she couldn't accept that wolf. She'd only just been able to handle the Whites without going insane, with all of Mac's help.

She couldn't, she'd told herself.

Famous last words.

Well, if you hadn't still been crawling about waving those smug: look! you can't see what I'm thinking nyah nyah nyah, shields that your idiot mate let you taunt him with, I wouldn't have badgered you so much, Alan pointed out in annoyance. Her blatant shielding had really annoyed him, he had mentally shouted at her so much every time she had come within his range that she had had to learn to hide her shields to give her ringing head a rest.

Accepting him had somehow happened during those caustic lessons, and then her second had immediately started sorting out who of the other drugged slaves down here he thought she ought to accept too. It had been easier to accept them than to continue arguing, and something about the bond - once she had started, with Alan, it would have been impossible to deny the others what she had somehow given him.

Gemma hadn't been able to understand Alan's almost desperate exuberance when he had first conveyed to her. But then, she had spent most of her life alone in her head, and found the pack mind cloying. Most wolves, having lived with their families sharing thoughts and love since before they'd been born, found it echoingly, wrenchingly lonely. Unbearable.

That was partially why the control drug combo was so undeniable. The drug blocked normal conveyance at any distance beyond a few feet, killing the pack gensis, isolating each wolf and making him or her exceedingly vulnerable. Vulnerable to the single, commanding connection with the key holder, which it was almost impossible to withstand. Gemma couldn't block the instructions from the keys to her new wolf pack, couldn't stop the guards from drugging her wolves and manipulating them, but accepting them as hers loosened that hold and gave them a little corner to cling to. When Gemma was close enough her wolves could whisper with their packmates, sense them, buoyed by the gensis: true pack.

Aren't they there yet? Alan demanded impatiently.

You know the shift changes go haywire when there's a show on: just hold your horses, they'll let me in when it's safe, Gemma retorted.

Hold your horses, Alan repeated on a snort. Damn stupid thing to say to a wolf.

He really was a lot stronger tonight, and itchy with the desire to get moving. Gemma gave a little moue of distaste at the reason. Her lab-rat wolves had keyed a dose of the control drug to her, and she had managed to sneak it to Alan earlier this evening. The main ingredient was almost impossible to get hold of safely, they had to be very sparing, only use it in emergencies, so it was only Alan: most of her wolves she could only hear weakly, if at all.

And they wouldn't be able to get any more shampoo once her humans were gone. Shampoo contained the ingredient most carefully inventoried in the lab, every millilitre tallied so that the rebellious element among the lab-rat slaves couldn't siphon any away into their secret tests. This was the fourth batch her human friends had managed to smuggle in to her.

You really think they won't tell? Alan said brusquely.

Gemma closed her eyes and counted to ten. Then to twenty. This. Every day. Every fucking day. She had had enough of defending one race to the other - the wolves were never going to trust the humans in a thousand years, and the human slaves truly believed that the others were there simply as spies for their pimps.

Suddenly, her eyes sprang open as she heard the faint rustle of the grating beyond her feet being pushed up into the air vent. The faint scent of Ben reassured her and she heard the soft brush of metal against metal as her packmate carefully laid the metal grill in the ducting beyond the gap. Already she was arching on her hands and feet to crab herself backwards soundlessly over the hole, then she lowered herself onto her back, dropped her feet in, squirmed around in the cramped space and felt her hips grasped firmly, steadied as she was lifted down by the young wolf.

There was a pyramid of wolves underneath her; four sturdy hulks at the base, standing impassively shoulder to the shoulder with their backs to the wall while holding the ankles of the three they were supporting. Those three were steadying two more who were standing on their shoulders, and Ben was standing on the last two. A silent, skilful pack of defiant acrobats, who were currently out of sight of the guards in the spur off from the main lab.

Ben crouched swiftly, silently, swinging Gemma down to the two below him, who grasped an arm each and lowered her further, until within a blink she was placed gently on the concrete floor, the pyramid disintegrating seconds after her safe arrival to a chorus of silent greetings. Simone was already enveloping her in her labcoat while Jorgen pushed some safety glasses up her nose and disappeared around the corner by the furnace, following his already-departed packmates.

Gemma pulled on a pair of oven gloves and was just opening the door of the incubator, reaching in for the tray of samples she had left last night, when a pair of guards strolled into view in the main lab area, strutting their smug, menacing swagger.

One of the guards glanced indifferently across at the two silent lab-rats working back-to-back in the small annex lined with the ovens and sinks. Simone was scrubbing something out in the sink opposite, and Gemma was too accustomed by now to her daily excursions into the lab for fear to make her hand shake as she carefully laid her beakers on a tray and slid the gloves off, then picked out some lab gloves to pull on in place.

She carried the tray around the corner into the main lab, mind idly noting where the batters were tonight - the labyrinth slang for collaborators, as she crossed to a workbench far from the main doors where the guards usually stood. The batters' positions were passed to her through the weak, sluggish links with her pack, dotted around the huge room. They loved it when she joined them, all she heard was an irrelevant murmur of idle commentary, but they could communicate, the gensis whispering silently among them. The power they gave her rebounded to them, she was just a conduit, a focus.

The laboratory was vast - the central chamber large enough that it would have fitted five or six large juggernauts side by side down the room without brushing the walls or the heavy-duty lifting cranes suspended from the ceiling. The yellow-orange lights hanging below the crane hooks shone a harsh bleach into all corners of the room, although beyond the dozens of rows of grey worktops with their silent chemist-slaves, the green glow of the emergency exit sign above the double doors of the main entrance cast an additional, eerie light on the faces of the pair of guards standing below.

Another four were standing by the door to the store room, watching one of the laboratory rats emerging with a large bottle, then checking the contents as he stood waiting, pale face downcast. The pair of guards who had just come off duty said something provocative to the pair taking over, and all four laughed maliciously as the slave shivered helplessly. But the off-duty two turned and left by the adjacent side door with no further action; damaging the lab-rat slaves on a whim was forcefully discouraged by the Faulk.

The silence of the lab fell again, the only noise the monotonous rumble of the extractor fans, and the whirring and occasional electronic beep from a machine or workstation. Lab rats were not allowed to talk.

Gemma pulled the concoction she had prepared the previous night from the fridge, diluted it carefully with the incubated liquid, added the extra ingredients and then set the timer, forcing herself to work slowly, meticulously, despite the heavy thud of her heart.

She waited. But the anticipation of tonight was burning her blood too quickly through her veins, beginning to colour her scent, and so Gemma grabbed her latest antidote attempts from the fridge, trying to calm herself down by concentrating again on this exercise in futility. She began to pipette solvent into these latest test samples, preparing them for analysis, keeping her head down.

Fifteen minutes later, she stared at the results on her screen.

What?

This couldn't be right. The antidote attempt she had concocted yesterday was ridiculous, that test had really just been a joke - something to do while she had waited. Like tonight. The wereem checked a second time, a third, then got up, calling, Rupe, silently, and drifted over to the hand sink at the end of the bench to throw her gloves in the bin and scrub her fingers, trying to contain her jumping heart.

Ridiculous. Mac was not superwolf!

Rupert was the senior chemist here - he had been born down here, trained practically from birth to the position he now filled. Let him tell her how wrong she was.

Her brain kept jumping at the possibility - but why would that formula work? And just typical that, if it really did, she had no chance of making any more, stuck in here.

Aghast, she glanced down at her left wrist as she realised that she was twisting Mac's bracelet around, fidgeting feverishly with it while her mind raced. It was visible. Her horrified eyes flickered sideways to the wristlet of tiny glass cylinders on her right just as a shiver of fear crashed in over her and both bracelets abruptly disappeared, furring back with the light dusting of human hair on her skin.

Gemma's cheeks were burning red. Usually she had to fight her shields to get the damn things to appear, in any form. However sick, maimed or fighting-for-her-life she had been at times in here, she had never once, even in the rage apparently, allowed herself even the chance to lose Mac's bracelet. Andrea had laughed when she had first heard that Gemma could hardly ever get herself to not fur the thing, even in human form.

"That's how any cub learns," she had said. "Plait something they love into their fur, and they soon learn to fur it as they shift. When you aren't scared of losing it, it'll appear."

And apparently even seasoned adults had difficulty differentiating between left side and right when furring, although it was easier to select between materials. Gemma still couldn't fur clothing at all, but Mac's bracelet, in unison with the elasticated metal wristlet of tiny phials on her other wrist - that wasn't going anywhere.

When she had been able to get hold of the thing, the wristlet had been incredibly useful, as it held tubes containing the remains of a variety of the drugs that she had been working on back in the city. She had built much of her packs' freedom and their escape plans from it.

Now this new antidote, if the readings were right and then a physical test worked the same -. Her heart jumped again. No, she must have gone wrong somewhere, it was impossible.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 16



Rupert was seated at her screen, his eyes narrowed as he checked the concentrations on the read-out. Again. And again.

Gemma was quivering.

This set was B3? the chemist demanded, trying to hold onto his own calm.

B3, corroborated Gemma automatically. But -, she turned slightly too fast to evade attention, glaring as she watched her packmate fumble in a drawer for a new syringe, rip open the seal, then carefully draw up the small amount of liquid remaining in the labelled MS-tube, before gently lifting the needle and expelling the air.

Her other wolves, those dotted close enough around the lab, were watching out of the corners of their eyes, quivering, realising something important was going on without knowing precisely what.

Don't you dare, conveyed Gemma. We need to test it further first, make sure.

I volunteer to test it, responded Rupert fiercely, and slipped the needle under his lab-coat sleeve.

Remember what happened to Melanie? Gemma snarled in his head, stomach sick, but Rupert was smiling gently, she knew he didn't care.

Whatever happens, this is not your fault, our Little Gem, he replied lightly. You didn't drug us in the first place - you are just trying to give us back the choice. Much as I prefer the wisp of freedom since I have cloven to you, I will be ecstatic if this gives me full free choice, frees my mind from this fog. And I will be a much stronger fighter for you, with no involuntarily divided loyalty.

Gemma almost snarled, blood pounding in fury, but simultaneously her timer for the humans' drug went off, and a pair of the guards began to walk over, sensing the excitement in the air.

Get away from here! Gemma ordered her damned insubordinate koiru, rapidly scooping the pea injectors she had laid out into a drawer - she didn't want any questions. She was fuming. Tonight was not a night for this.

Rupe ducked his head, hissing faintly through his teeth at her anger she had projected into his head, and picked up the tray of wolf samples to carry them away.

Put those down!

I've emptied it. I may as well clean up for you, my Alfamme. Rupert replied as he walked hastily over to the sinks. Hastily enough to narrow the attention of the guards onto him. On purpose.

Gemma clamped down on her anger, and began to add the last ingredient to the humans' drug as the guards strode past, following Rupert. She couldn't hear the menacing conversation over by the wall, but her fingers were shaking as one-by-one she filled eight little plastic bulbs the size of a pea with the liquid. Her human allies could administer the contents just below their skin with a simple slap, and this amount was all they would need to give them hours to lose their pursuers. It was a pity that the only human scent-block she had managed to create lost its potency so quickly, hence having to cram a trip to the lab into tonight's madness.

A hasty movement made her look up, and she saw one of the guards smash his clenched fist heavily against the side of Rupert's face, knocking him into the sinks. Rupert snapped something which made both guards jerk in incredulous anger, then they grabbed him by the arms and began to haul him away backwards, towards the cells.

Gemma watched, white-faced, as her damn wolf bloody well winked at her over the shoulders of the two vicious bastards dragging him off for punishment.

You said you needed a diversion to be able to leave before the third shift-change, Rupe told her seriously, using all his strength to broadcast so the rest of the lab rats could hear. You know I am too valuable for them to seriously maim.

Damn him. She could feel the members of her pyramid drifting back towards the ovens, each with a plausible excuse, while the guards dragged Rupert towards the door, taking it in turns to smash heavy blows into alternate sides of his face.

No! She started forward after the trio, her blood seething, anger rising as she watched.

Do not spoil it: let him fight for you, Alan snapped furiously in her head, stopping her short. You have to learn to let us fight: we are warriors.

Gemma growled silently in reply, both at Rupert's self-sacrifice and the necessity of letting him get away with it. Then she took a resolute breath, heart wincing, and turned to follow her acrobats into the small space by the ovens, dropping the small bag of pea injectors she held clenched in her fist into her lab-coat pocket.

A minute later she was crawling swiftly through the vents.

She stopped and injected herself with the wolf scent-mask so that when she reached the human side, her scent would be human. However, the guard on the human side was already asleep, his snack drugged by her friends with the phial she had given them. Once she had lifted the keys to their cells it took less than ten minutes to collect all eight of her friends, hand out the injections, and sneak with the then scentless humans back through the side door into the kitchens.

Actually, they still held a slight hint of a dusty tint to Gemma, but her wolf colleagues had assured her that they hadn't been able to smell any of the test volunteers at all.

The humans assembled silently in the far corner of the room beside a large brick mound shaped like a beehive, its domed top higher than Gemma's head. In the centre of the structure was an old, cast iron door, at waist height. The bread oven hadn't been used for almost a century, apart from as a hidey-hole for Gemma after she had moved out of the garages.

The wereem swiftly locked her friends into the kitchen and ran off to replace the keys on the guard's belt, crawling back through the smelly air vent. By the time she returned, Sandy, lying head first in the old oven, had carefully lifted out the last bricks that they had worked loose over the preceding weeks, opening the back into the guards' locker room. To get around to the boiler room from the kitchen door would have led them past the auditorium side-entrance, and there were guards stationed there. They had had to find an alternative route.

After a breathless moment's pause, Alex relayed, "All clear," as Sandy's legs began to draw forward into the small tunnel. A moment later his feet disappeared from view.

Time to go. The humans each took a deep breath; nerving themselves for this journey.

The wolves in the cells they passed remained silent, unaware of their scentless presence. Gemma grimaced. It would be so much easier if they could all escape together, humans and wolves, but she had realised early on that that would be suicide, the two races just could not work together, the distrust, revulsion was too great.

It was hardly surprising.

The most cunning of Madam's imperatives down here was the confrontational segregation of wolf and human slaves. The only times when wolf and human were physically in one place was if a client had requested both types of toy. However, both races were marched along the same corridors, fed in the same hall, saw each other day in, day out, ignoring either other's presence with disgust, or glaring bitter hatred.

The division stemmed from the weaker members of both races - the reward for useful information was treats, and some wolf or human slaves would succumb to the urge for better food, better treatment, and betray their fellows for any infraction of the rules. The rewards for betraying members of the other race were significantly more substantial.

And besides, it wasn't really betrayal. Not of them.

It also didn't help that occasionally Madam had placed a wolf guard among the humans, as a spy, to measure any level of insurrection.

And so these humans who had rescued and hidden Gemma had constantly been testing her at first. The wereem hadn't known it at the time, but even the wiliest of the spies set among the human slaves faltered over reminiscences about Sesame Street, Starbuck summer specials, or third grade homework. The lack of shared childhood was telling.

But slowly her human friends had come to believe that she really wasn't one of them. The circle of humans helping her had gradually increased as they had also realised - she would get well. She could help them. Because Gemma could and did remain hidden - the guards hadn't found her, despite her initially being hidden in the trunk of a car which several of them had passed by daily. The inordinate level of silver in the wereem's body had meant that she had had no scent that would alert the wolf guards.

That much silver would have killed a wolf. Luckily, she wasn't one. The humans were right.

Even if she had dared to risk trying to make her wolves and human friends escape together, the wolves would not have been able to take the route she had planned tonight. For a start, the sensors sealing off the defunct boiler room were all keyed to wolf. As usual for places where the human slaves were meant to go for cleaning or household duties, the sensors were paired: a motion sensor detecting anyone, coupled with a scent sensor which only sounded if detected motion was not accompanied by a human scent.

The device was cunning. Her wolves from the lab had warned Gemma that even a scent-masked wolf would trip the coupled sensors: the motion detector noted that someone had moved, but the scent sensor alarmed that the interloper was without human scent. The Faulk left no loophole; her alchemist slaves made the wolf scent-mask drug, after all.

Or only one loophole: werewolves. The scent sensors had also been created by wolves, and could no more detect the metallic smell of the mask bi-product than their inventors. And when Gemma wolf scent-masked herself, she still exuded enough human scent that the sensors registered her as human: no threat. Hah.

Carefully the eight humans and one scent-masked werewolf worked their way inside, and Gemma breathed more freely once they had closed the door of the small, square room behind them. She pulled the makeshift rope her friends had manufactured out from where it was hidden hooked inside the old chimney, then looped one end around her waist while Mel began to coil the rest loosely over her arm.

Sandy was standing beside her in the small square space at the base of the chimney, looking up inside the narrow, smooth vertical shaft. Cursing lightly, he shivered, "We'll never get up there - it's too tight! Even you couldn't swing your elbows at the top, Gem, you'll get stuck."

Gemma made sure the rope was secure about her waist and stepped closer to the lanky, beautiful teenager. "Made sure the rope doesn't get caught," was all Gemma advised, reaching up to touch her fingertips to the blackened inside of the circular shaft before adding, "Give me a leg up!"

Even as he dropped onto one knee and lifted her dusty foot onto it, Sandy continued protesting on a mutter, "It gets narrower the higher you go - you might be able to squirm through if you didn't have to wriggle against gravity, but you've got no chance, no room to manoeuver, you'll fall!"

Gemma stepped from her foot on his knee to having both feet on his shoulders and replied laconically, "Can you get higher? I need as much boost as I can get - this is going to be exhausting."

The others stepped in around the young man, heaving under his shoulders to help him surge to his feet, until the crown of his head was in the opening to the shaft and Gemma was inserted into the base of the stack. Tilting her head so that her forehead was pressed against the grimy surface of the chimney, Gemma could just look down into the despairing eyes below her. Leaning to one side, her eyes holding his, she stretched one arm above her head and put the finger of her other hand to her lips, calling for silence.

She shifted her right hand, claws springing out and biting into the mortar between the bricks lining the chimney.

Sandy's eyes shot wide in disbelief.

"Make sure the rope doesn't snag," Gemma repeated, squirming on his shoulders to force her other arm above her head. His eyes were whirling in shock, anger, doubt, hope, and the young man swallowed, uncertain.

"It's our only chance," the wereem reminded him, and saw his eyes settle into a kind of horrified acceptance; there was nothing they could do. If the humans were caught as they were at the bottom of the shaft, they were just as guilty, just as liable for punishment, or termination. This was the only chance: trusting one of them.

His eyes were glittering angrily.

Gemma pulled herself up on her right claws, and bit the left into purchase in the other side of the shaft, slowly, steadily pulling herself up the first few inches. It was a relief when her feet were finally out of sight of the others, and she could shift them too, push off with her toes. But she had thought it best not to spook the whole bunch of them; Mel was pretty volatile at the best of times.

Her arms had begun to burn even before her feet were brought in to help. By half way up, she was sweating heavily, panting the sooty fumes, her limbs trembling.

You've done this before, she reminded herself fiercely. You can do this.

She had only done this once before, just. And had discovered, when she had cautiously peeped her head out of the top of the shaft, just how impossible it was for a wolf to get any further. A human?

Piece of cake.

It took over an hour to get herself to the top. Cautiously she lifted her eyes above the rim of the stack, and took a look around, her limbs trembling in fatigue.

The cool night air was a caress on her grimy, sweat-shining cheeks, and a tear trickled out to sweep a path through the soot as she absorbed the sense of space around her.

The stack emerged in the middle of a large pond, a small, four-foot diameter man-made island buffering the chimney top from the water, but leaving no place to hide. The shimmer of dim starlight reflecting on the water surrounding her soothed her eyes and fast-beating heart. She was outside.

Across on the other shore of the large pond, she could see rows upon rows of silent, expensive clients' cars parked around the back of a large white building. A single pair of guards were silhouetted against the faint glow through the plate-glass entrance, waiting for late arrivals.

They were not looking this way, and with the trees on the opposite shore shadowing her silhouette - it was possible that they might remain undetected. Faintly beyond the trees behind her she could make out the tall, solid bulk of the perimeter wall. She tasted the air. Only distant scents, both human and wolf: clean. Luck was with her, there was no tell-tale breeze to carry their whereabouts to the guards at the door or the guards on the wall.

Silently, Gemma heaved herself out to balance precariously on the man-made island. She took a long, steadying moment, but her heart was beating faster, wilder, and she couldn't afford to wait. They couldn't afford to wait. Slowly, exhaustingly, she began to heave Ramona up on the rope. The petite Mexican was very good at jamming her feet into the sides to give Gemma rests, and the werewolf kept reminding herself fiercely that her muscles were damn fit and healed damn fast.

They were both grimy, sweating and exhausted when the girl eventually heaved herself out, flopping over the rim onto the small circle of concrete bolstering the chimney-top. One foot splashed into the surrounding water, the sound carrying on the night air, and Gemma murmured, "Shh!"

They both froze as the guards looked over. A pair of sleepy ducks, startled by the sudden noise in the night began to glide swiftly further from the island into the patchy moonlight .The guards grunted and looked away again.

Ramona pulled her foot back, leaned over, and cautiously prodded her whole leg downwards, but couldn't feel the bottom. "What is this?" she whispered, hauling herself back into a crouch on the opposite end of the chimney top, and wiping a slightly oily-looking residue off her wet skin.

"Industrial residue lagoon - I've tested it," Gemma murmured back almost soundlessly. "Mainly silver - no need to worry, you'd have to swallow half the lake for it to have any effect on you."

A tug on the line indicated that back at the base, Helen had tied herself on.

"C'mon," Gemma added, a wary eye on the guards.

Ramona groaned softly, but got to her feet and placed her hands behind Gemma's on the rope. Steadily they began to haul in unison. They had practiced this a lot.

Ramona discovered, as she waited, shivering, while Helen and Gemma pulled Liz up, that she could stand in the lake, the tops of her shoulders just proud of the water as she held onto the edge of the chimney support. Slowly the circle of escapees widened, until, at last, Mel and Gemma hauled Sandy, the sole male, up the shaft. His shoulders were scraped and bleeding from the last part, he had to force them through with forceful heaves of his legs, but the young man was grinning broadly as he stuck his head out into the open air.

All of those standing in the lake were shivering with cold, the air had the nip of late autumn, and it was a chilly night.

"How come," panted Mel to Gemma between gasps a moment later, "you're not as exhausted -," another gasp for air, "- as the rest of us?" "How come you could do that eight times?"

Gemma's eyes met Sandy's, both opaque in the darkness.

The moment of truth.

"I -," began Gemma. Then she swallowed, a feeling of fear welling up. Her eyes sought Helen's, pleading for understanding. "I'm sorry. But I'm not one of you."

Helen's eyes didn't change, just the corner of her mouth crooked slightly. Gemma had had a feeling the nurse had known for a long time.

"You can't get off this island, can you?" Helen asked softly.

"What?" hissed Mel in counterpoint. "One of them?"

Gemma tore her gaze away from the warm, happy sparkle in Helen's eyes, and was revolted to discover Mel's outstretch hand pointing accusingly towards the pair of guards murmuring together at the entrance to the huge building on the opposite bank.

She only just held back a snarl. She was nothing like them.

"No," she hissed, having to keep the sentence short to stop herself swearing at the damn bigot. "Not them. Either trust me. Or shout. Now."

Sandy had already made this decision. He clamped a hand over Mel's mouth as she opened it to snap hysterically at the wereem, and hauled the girl's curvaceous frame back against his, holding her firmly.

"We have no choice," he hissed almost silently into her ear. "Either shut it or I'll knock you out and fucking drop you head-first back down this shaft."

There was a long, quivering silence reverberating between the still figures crouched on and around the small island, eyes glaring suspicion and hatred in the darkness. Then Mel hissed out a sigh, relaxed slightly, and shrugged against Sandy's hold. He let go.

"I never trusted you," she spat the whispered vitriol into Gemma's face, before turning to slide almost silently into the water. Without looking back she began to swim for the shadow of the trees on the opposite bank.

Helen touched Gemma's arm softly, but the wereem had turned urgently to Sandy. "Can you stop her from going off on her own once she reaches shore? We're lost if even one of us is found - need to stick together, stick to the plan," she whispered.

The youth had already slid into the water, and the ripples curved their tell-tale path out from his trajectory straight after the black shadow of Mel.





Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 16



Gemma watched the retreating ripples nervously, her stomach tightening in dread. That left her with only six humans.

Helen touched her shoulder softly again. "Can you get off this island?" she whispered again, worried.

Gemma looked straight up into the soft eyes.

"If you will all help, I can," she replied hesitantly.

Six was pushing it - especially when some, like Ramona and Jess, were so short that only their heads were above the water. But each of her friends folded her finger-linked hands against the back of her head, braced the sides of her forearms above her ears, elbows facing forwards, and took a position stoically, waiting. The heads of the women were evenly spaced across the not long, but oh, too, too long stretch of water to the trees. Stepping stones. Gemma shivered, looking down into the liquid blackness, her skin shuddering at the memory of pain, insides tightening in revolt. Silver. She couldn't do that again.

Her heart was screaming at her to go back, climb back down the shaft - she had got them this far. The rest was up to them.

They would never get over the perimeter on their own. Or even if they did, they would be hunted down immediately.

Taking a few short breaths, stiffening her nerve, Gemma allowed herself one brief glimpse of memory ; that beloved face. Asleep, relaxed: home. Mac.

She darted lightly across the makeshift stepping stones, blanking her mind to all else except getting them home. The second to last, Jess, faltered as the ball of Gemma's foot slipped on her hair, swaying sideways on uneven footing, and Gemma was falling, lurching clumsily, desperately to drive off from Alexandra's sleek blonde mop, choking back the cry as the clumsy leap was too short, the poisoned water waiting to engulf her all that she could see.

A firm hand fisted in her hair and yanked, screamingly painfully, although she swallowed the sound while Sandy whirled her by that excruciating grip on her hair onto the grass bank. Her fingers clutched automatically and she lay, panting, her scalp feeling like rivulets of blood were about to cascade down over her eyes. He let her go. Gemma clung to the grass, tears leaking from her eyes as she buried her nose into it and held back the sobs, body shaking in terror.

Her nose was delighted. Grass. The soft, sharp scent caressed through her. Green blades stroked her fingers, the touch of a friend. The tears rolled and rolled.

Mel sniffed her distain, standing waiting impatiently turned a little away from the were while the others waded ashore as silently as they could.

Sandy nudged Gemma with a foot, and she hauled herself back together, swiping a hand across her wet face as she uncurled effortlessly to her feet, still shivering. They weren't out of the complex yet.

Alan? she called silently. If you are sure you will risk this for us?

I will do this for you, came the clear reply.

Her heart thudding painfully, Gemma began to flit carefully between the trees, leading the humans toward the side gate in the high perimeter wall. Many of the patients at Faulk Medical Centre were admitted here because they couldn't control themselves, couldn't control their rage. Even the above ground, legitimate centre was built to try to help them, and contain them as they were treated.

"What are we waiting for?" hissed Mel, some quarter of an hour later. Several sets of increasingly suspicious eyes were glinting at Gemma in the faint light as they sheltered in the last of the trees, looking across the wide stretch of short-mown grass to the large, locked gate for trucks, and the smaller standby for foot-traffic. The side gate was slightly less littered with guards.

"It's not working, is it?" whispered Sandy half angrily.

"Patience," breathed Gemma brusquely in reply. Her eyes were angry, mind locked on Alan, and she lifted a finger to her lips.

It had been over a decade since Alan had last broken out of his cell and attempted an escape. The old Faulk had broken him - so they thought. Yet now her second was creeping up the main staircase by the auditorium, having disposed of the guards at the bottom. He had also managed to link in with Liz, probably the strongest of the Little Gems on duty in the auditorium, and had obtained the information he needed.

As he drew closer to the top of the steps, Alan's nose allowed him to time his arrival perfectly, so that when a silken-sheathed woman emerged from the guest bathroom at the head of the plush staircase, the naked wolf was kneeling waiting beside the male bathroom doorway like an abandoned puppy, his hands seemingly manacled behind his back, head bowed. A short chain led from the collar around his neck to a loop on the wall.

"On my," murmured the black-haired woman and halted, eyes widening. "My absolute favourite cock." She stepped forward and caressed his curly locks with a gentle hand, running it down the side of his neck before closing her long, blood-red nails on his earlobe painfully.

"You weren't on the menu tonight, it's been most disappointing," she sighed, stepping in closer, her legs widening so she could rub her crotch against his face, twisting it up with the hard grip on his ear.

Suddenly she leaned over him, smothering his face between her thighs with a hand on his head and whispered into the back of his neck, "And I've got that very special something for you in my car, like I promised. I'm sure you would find it a spectacular ride."

Her low laugh was not pleasant, and Alan found it simple to mask his tremble as a shiver.

The predatory woman shot an angry glance at the closed men's room door. She hated men. Why should some man have been allowed to purchase the big one, when she had been told that he wasn't on offer?

Alan waited, his heart beating steadily. He could but try - Lady Cruel was a little intoxicated with testing his pain boundaries and had been taunting him about taking him for a ride in her "special car" for months, although he had known it would never happen. The Faulk weren't lulled enough to let him above ground, however heavily drugged. He burned it off too quickly to be entirely predictable, they never let him beyond the monitors which registered the level in his sweat.

The monitors didn't register who the drug was keyed to.

The woman drew back with a snort, and he heard a lipstick unstoppered. Alan watched through his lashes, heart exulting, as Lady C casually scrawled an I.O.U. on the solid oak door to the ladies' washroom, unclipped him, and led him away toward the lobby.

This wouldn't work. It wouldn't. But it would get him further, create more mayhem. His glazed eyes fixed on the back of the woman leading him, Alan was nevertheless aware of the slightly suspicious glances that the smattering of guards placed around the ornate hallway were casting him. The monitors remained silent. Lady C stopped the approaching pair of Faulk with a scorching glance, and tugged her toy into the waiting lift.

"Which floor, my lady?" asked the young wolf brightly as the doors began to close. The youngest guards were always posted furthest from the shows. Watching was one of the perks they had not yet earned.

"Dungeon," drawled the woman, scoring a nail harshly down the crease between Alan's pectoral muscles.

The young Faulk swiped his cuff-pass across the reader to silence the wolf alarm which had sounded as soon as Alan had stepped in. As the doors closed, the woman tapped the youth smartly on the shoulder and said, "But first take me up to the car park - I have left my new present for this toy in the car."

The Faulk wolf hesitated, staring at the woman, and her eyes narrowed dangerously. Lacy C was one of the wealthier clients, and did not like being crossed. Especially by men.

The young guard then glanced up at Alan, who was doing his best impersonation of the angry, drugged shiver that had plagued him for so many years.

"He can't leave the lift," insisted the wolf.

Lady C sighed, "Silly boy. You can have him suck you off as you wait if it's that important to you."

The young wolf sighed and pressed the button for the entrance hall.

*

The floodlights within the hospital grounds suddenly swerved from their usual beam on the beautiful clock face in the central watch tower, and swiped in to focus on a lean figure sprinting flat-out towards the base of the gatehouse. There was an upheaval at the side gate, guards sprinting off into the darkness toward that zigzagging light. Gemma snapped "Now!" sharply, and led her small group in a running crouch along the waist-high hedge toward the gate. Despite leaving no scent, the humans were incapable of running quietly, with heavy footfalls and thunderously heavy panting.

She hadn't thought of that.

"Wait!" Gemma growled, and pulled ahead, tearing full speed across the gravel driveway to leap onto the startled guard turning to face the sound. His partner also spun a little too late from where he was staring out trying to see what was happening around Alan, and after finishing him, Gemma beckoned urgently to her friends.

She would not think about what she had done, the bodies lying twisted at her feet.

Sandy was the first across, knowing what they had to do, and he heaved the second guard up so that they could place his still-warm palm on the door pad. At the bleep, a green light appeared, and Gemma swiftly typed in the four digit code that Opal had decrypted from the mainframe downstairs.

The gate cracked open, the screeching alarm which burst into the night as it did so drowning out a unified gasping sigh from the whole group.

"Gem!" Helen embraced her in delight, disbelief.

The wereem let out a long, unsteady sigh of relief.

Then a howl of fury sounded from the darkness under the central watch-tower, jerking them out of their momentary inaction as they all squinted across at the light. The floodlight was still zipping around, trying to focus on a whirl of breathtakingly swift bodies.

Get moving! One of them yelled at her silently. Alan was now attacking the guards who were swerving back toward the open gate.

Gemma quelled her surging impulse to go and help her warrior. No. She first had to lay the false trail. Had to.

"Get going!" Gemma hissed to the humans, folding her nurse in a swift hug. Heart burning, she herself shot out into the darkness beyond the gate, her feet crunching loudly on the loose pebbles. A second alarm screeched out as the wereem ran between the posts, and a new shout went up from the walls.

A searchlight suddenly flashed down over the parapet, zigzagging in violent, searching swipes of movement before it blazed onto her form, running low across the open grass towards the forest. The spot was burning on her skin, semi-blinding her as Gemma sprinted flat out. Good: they wouldn't be looking for another trail.

Behind her, under the still shrieking alarm, she could just faintly hear a separate patter of stealthy crunching as the humans tiptoed off in the opposite direction.

Gemma ran with all-out abandon to give her friends as much of a head start as possible, and then the scent of the trees was about her, the dense underground catching at her ankles. She tried to pass silently over the muddy ground, but could hear the rattling of briars as she burst through, the snapping of twigs underfoot. There was so damn much to learn. She wanted to learn. Here, alone in the forest, her tears overcame her as she sprinted with a burning heart: she wanted to get home to Mac. She had just killed two wolves.

Run.

Not far into the forest, four skilled warriors overtook her and pounced, tangling her in a net that burned against her skin and brought the icy, retching sickness surging into her throat. Her limbs faltered, trembling as she struggled, panic crashing over her until her energy was sapped away and she faded to the chilling touch. Dimly she could feel the Faulk lugging her somewhere, panting. The crunch of gravel, shadow of the gateway, then she was dumped back onto grass, lying in a sharp, bright light. The net was stripped off her and two of them pinned her flat on her back to the ground while a third twisted her head sideways by the hair so that her face was dazzled.

What the hell are you playing at? screamed Alan in her head. She could smell him not far away.

She didn't answer, mind still spinning in the sickness, although her blood was beginning to beat more strongly now that they had lifted the net off her. A new scent caught her and her eyes cracked open. Sharp, black stiletto heels were approaching her face, gemstones flashing along the edges of the leather upper. The shadow of their wearer fell across her.

"Well, well," murmured a sleek, cultured voice, the tone delicately chilling. "Look who we have here."

The Louse crouched, and taking Gemma's chin in a firm grip, turned her face so that the wereem's bared teeth were inches from the Faulk's nose. Angry, predatory eyes glared down.

The scent cascading over Gemma raked her with the memory of Adam - this scent, polluting when she had last seen him: his tortured eyes. Her teeth snapped painfully on air as she lunged without thought, and a howl ripped from her as the warriors pinning Gemma down snorted with laughter and easily quelled she struggles.

Madam Faulk stroked a gentle finger over her cheek, trailing revulsion, then traced it down toward her heaving breasts. "Such passion," she purred. "Such - resilience."

Then the Faulk Alfamme unfolded gracefully back to her feet and murmured, appraising Gemma, "I must get back to our guests. Take them to the basement, and prepare the wolf for punishment." She paused, pondering, "The were - prepare it for a photo shoot: no damage. I want to get the adverts up tomorrow."

"Adverts?" echoed the guard, respectfully.

Madam Faulk slanted a malicious smile down at the pinned wereem, and purred, "A new act for the Advent Show. I think we'll call it, 'The Taming of the Shrew'."

**

The show was on.

As the Louse had promised, Gemma had spent the last two days being rigorously, exhaustively prepared for the presentation. Her hair had been cut and styled, skin buffed and waxed and lightly tanned, teeth whitened, and their continued bluntness verified.

There was no punishment as yet, no drugs. Madam had apparently ordered that Gemma be left untouched, just readied for the act. The Faulk Alfamme was intending to break the insubordinate wereem publically, as the mainstay of their biggest annual event, in order to demonstrate her mastery and renew the Faulk reputation.

Gemma teetered upwards one more step, the ball of her sandaled foot landing on soft, thick carpet pile. This was it. The last run of the stairs that bent around the back of the auditorium, rising up to the rear doors.

Her stomach was churning lightly, tension beginning to tighten as her two guards drew her carefully on, toward the hum of sound echoing from the theatre. Towards that reek of anticipatory lust: cloyingly human, with some faint hints of wolf. Each equally disturbing.

She could do this, Gemma reminded herself, seeking the calm which had enveloped her as she had reassured her pack earlier. Her stomach quivered, and she deliberately smothered the glimmer of fear with a self-congratulatory reminder: the Faulk were still hunting her human friends. They could not yet have escaped the forest, but her hope grew with every passing moment.

The ripple of noise grew louder as they approached the closed doors at the back of the room, the rustle of movement, clatter of voices and laughter and chink of glasses easily audible. A wild image flashed into Gemma's head of a huge mouth waiting to swallow her.

Calm down, she ordered her seething blood, her clenched stomach. She shivered, saw the guard holding her right leash smile and took a deep breath to calm herself as they halted just outside the double doors.

That was a mistake. The thickness of the scent unhinged her spine, little ghostly touches of aversion swirling discordantly across her skin, breaking her into a convulsion of shuddering. Revolting: the warm, damp, pushing smell of male and female lust. Tendrils of the cloying fumes seemed to slide across her exposed flesh, making her clench her teeth on a sudden surge of revulsion.

Show no emotion, she admonished herself fiercely.

The guards had stopped too, making her wait excruciatingly outside the doors. She shut her eyes, and the one of the left stepped in behind her, pulling her naked shoulders back, straightening her spine. Displaying her.

Gemma tried to block out the knowledge of what she was wearing. Wasn't wearing. The short black embroidered corset covered more of her than a bikini would, although the way it accentuated her full bust, it was a danger to her walking on these ridiculous heels, overbalancing her so that she was likely to fall flat on her face.

Her attempts at internal humour were getting more and more feeble, shaken by the stark reality of what she was facing.

Her slender, athletic legs were shimmering in sheer gloss fishnets, attached to the base of the corset by fine strings of tiny black rosebuds. Most humiliating of all, a small rectangle of black gossamer looped between her thighs, her 'panties' attached by further clips to the corset. For ease of removal.

Her wrists were tied behind her. Gemma held her head high, and kept her eyes fixed unfocussed ahead. This was her plan. She had to succeed. Over the last few days she had cultivated an air of bored, slightly detached disdain. It was farcical, considering the way she couldn't stop shivering, but she would keep pretending.

The doors opened.

There was a moment of blindness as a spotlight hit her, blinding her, burning against her naked skin and heating the black corset. But the scents told her, without her looking. Both Madam Faulk and Nicolas Grey were here tonight, down on the stage, waiting to restore the Faulk reputation for ruthlessness and dominance.

Yes.

Her eyes scanned the boxes on the balcony above, and there was Ginger, kneeling submissively by the side of her current purchaser. Gemma triple blinked the agreed signal, and saw her sjeste close her eyes as she conveyed to the others.

Here we go. Gemma swallowed, her spine stiffening as she obeyed the light tug on the leashes attached either side of her Argen collar, and began the long descent to the stage. Another shudder shot through her. She felt criminally negligent, being cut off from her pack, unable to sense or guide them at this crucial moment. Damned Argen. She could feel the collar clearly, like a buzz of weak acid against the skin, nauseating.

There was a rustling murmur as hundreds of people turned to follow the spotlight heating her path down the shallow stairs. Eyes gleamed at her in lust - lust for both sex and pain, the reek of their anticipatory enjoyment pulsing on the air.

Disdain. Disdain. Her heart was panicking.

A murmured request, and her guards stopped her, turning her to face the sea of dimly seen faces to the left of the walkway. The left guard stepped behind her again and pulled her shoulders back again sharply, causing a drawl of soft comments and some quiet, unpleasant laughter.

The stench of sadistic arousal rolled over her, pulling her back into this room, her personal danger. Gemma's heart was thundering erratically, her stomach churning with bile. She hated the feeling of fear, but hating it didn't subdue it, so she glared out above the gleaming eyes, focussing on the walls behind, breast rising and falling rapidly.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 16



They enjoyed that.

Desperately she began to count seats. The auditorium was almost circular, from where she stood there were rows upon rows of plush throne-like chairs dropping down to the central stage; hundreds of them, all occupied, almost all of the pale faces of their occupants turned towards her, eyes gleaming with malice and excitement in the low lighting.

More rustling above her hear drew her eyes up. A second sea of faces were visible above the elaborate moulding fronting the balcony. The faint smiles or sneers on those faces set her breathing racing in short pants.

The smiles grew.

Gemma shut her eyes and reminded herself: twenty-five minutes. All she had to do was prolong this show, keep the Louse and Nick absorbed for less than half-an-hour, so that her wolves could reach their vantage point and set off the diversion. The wolf slaves were never keyed to anyone other than these two.

Her guards turned her back to face the stage.

Disdain!

Slowly, slowly, she was drawn on, paraded down the shallow staircase, precarious on her heels, her breathing accelerating as they approached the stage. The rustling murmur grew, and the scent raked at her as she tried frantically to drag back over herself some stoic aloofness.

She couldn't. Her tremble was continuous now, and she feared she might actually be having a panic attack. Not that she expected any medical assistance around here, if she did.

Her ears were ringing as she fumbled the four short steps up onto the stage, and her guards passed her leashes over to the two ringmasters. Drawn to the centre stage, she was turned to face the audience, the lights thankfully blinding her to the sight of them. However, the scent was worse. And now the audience's lust was augmented by the predatory anticipation of the pair of sharks slowly circling her. She was too vulnerable like this. Nick slipped the tips of two fingers under one of the suspenders which crossed her left buttock, stroking them slowly up and down across the sensitive skin. She couldn't help but tense further.

Twenty minutes left? Gemma thought to herself desperately. Surely it's been five minutes since I entered? Her ears twitched to the sound of bitten-off cry of pain from above the balcony, followed by a murmur of wretched pleading slowly fading as the slave was taken away. Ginger's part was working.

Do your bit. For an instant, Gemma managed to steady herself.

Nick pulled the elasticated line of roses out to its full extent, and then released the band to snap back against her tender skin. Both sharks laughed as she flinched slightly, and Nick stepped closer to her side, facing sideways to her front, trailing his taunting fingers along her trembling hip to the next suspender band, stretched tight across the top of her right thigh. Gemma shut her eyes, reaching desperately for some kind of fortitude.

"You didn't really think that we didn't know, did you, little were?" the Louse's musical voice murmured behind her left shoulder, amused. "You didn't really believe that none of your little wolves would betray you?"

The taunt was ignored as Gemma strained to drag her façade of stoicism over her pitiful shivering. The Louse sashayed around her victim's front, trailing the soft strands of the multi-lash whip in her right hand across the heaving breasts, slithering the soft tongues slowly across the black, embroidered corset framing and barely concealing the taut mounds of the wereem's soft, golden skin.

"You don't believe me?" she drawled softly

Still Gemma ignored the Alfamme, furiously pushing her brain elsewhere, counting the seconds silently, wondering how far her assembled pack of her wolves had got, whether they were now slinking silently down to the second-lowest level, as planned, tiptoeing towards freedom.

A key slid into the Argen collar at the back of her neck, clicking it open. Gemma froze, her brain catapulting back to here-and-now and automatically, damned helpfully, filtering meaning from the last two taunts just as Madam the Louse added, "See for yourself," while she lifted the collar away.

Unbidden, like the elastic Nick snapped to sting against the tender skin of her inner thigh, Gemma's brain snapped to link with her pack. They had reached the second level. All of her Little Gems froze, momentarily distracted by the feel of the Alpha bond flaring awake, just as Gemma caught a faint hint of movement in the shadows to Adam's left. Too late, she shouted a warning. The dark hallways around the small group of rebels suddenly exploded into confused movement, and pain, blood, fiery anger and pungent fear began storming through the bonds from her pack as claws and teeth slashed through the dimly lit corridor.

Betrayal.

Gemma barely heard the chuckle, felt the second soft caress of the leather whip over her skin. Her mind was reeling as she swayed under the battering of images and sensation while her pack was swamped from all sides within a barrage of attackers, despair swirling as they clutched at their Alfamme instinctively.

Air raced over Gemma's skin, sucked away to the harsh whistle of the whip drawn back at full speed. The whipcrack was cut off to the accompaniment of a muffled shriek, but Gemma was barely aware of what was happening to her body. Eyes wide but blind, she was drowning in the pounding, powerful waves of happening smashing into her pack from all sides, sinking, struggling valiantly, desperately to hold them together, afloat.

And then she steadied, her links with her pack stabilising, strengthening, her self-control slamming securely back into place, and she braced against a stable rock that seemed to rise within her, holding firm the maelstrom of frantic thoughts. Her mind still reeled, but expanded, steadied. Gemma began to get a wider sense of the pattern of the battering attacks on her wolves - where the successive waves were exploding from, retreating to, where to stand strong.

And where the attackers were weak.

A surge of swift thought, and she felt her small pack responding instantly, hurling themselves together against one single, tight-packed rank of the enemy, crashing in an all-out fight: teeth, claws, a slammed shoulder, twisting, elbows jabbing - and through.

They burst as one unit into the empty corridor beyond; Gemma's pulsing awareness simultaneously flickering to where they were now, where was best to go, and where the enemy were following. She spun the rear guard to crash into the first followers, destabilising the solid line, distantly only semi- aware of the feel of blood splattering warm across her own naked skin, a firm arm around her waist holding her fast as air whistled through her hair.

The pack were running to a dancing reel in her head; front ranks poised in guard positions at vantage points while the remainder ran past, followed by the clash of the defence at their heels, breaking the spearpoint of followers, then turning to run at the rear as they hurtled through the familiar, hated corridors.

The enemies seemed disjointed, slow, fumbling in the dark beside each other.

Her pack were one unit, bursting in fluid movement through her screaming brain.

Gemma's nerve-endings were shredding in pain, tearing apart with the ripping of thoughts from all directions, but she ignored the agony and held on desperately, held together as her wolves burst clear into the lab, splitting instantly for half to race across to secure the other door, the second half wrenching the iron guttering from the wall to slam it as a lever underneath one of the heavy, concrete-lined furnaces. They all heaved together, and the massive box juddered in a screech of protesting concrete and metal across to the main doorway, all but the last six inches of the opening blocked just before the heavy weight of attackers slammed against the opposite side and smashed the door back into the oven.

Someone was missing.

ALAN! she cursed.

The damn wolf. He had shut up and shrunk quietly on the wrong side of the door so as not to be noticed by his Alfamme, pulling hard against the meld. So he was now in position to defend the entrance, gain them the extra moments needed to manoeuver the oven into place and thoroughly seal their refuge. Alan was jubilant: defending his pack.

Fury exploded in Gemma - she would not lose Alan - and under her sharp call the pack were back together again in the familiar confines of the lab, leaping in practiced grace into the wolf pyramid. Opal raced up to the peak and burst through into the tiny metal vent, ignoring the claustrophobic fear as a second, stronger feeling pushed her to wriggle along to above the other side of the wall and cut a new opening above the heads of the furious melee of wolves struggling to overcome Alan in the tight confines of the corridor.

What?!

Opal wiped the blood from the fur over her eyes with her forearm. Gemma felt as though her brain was melting in bafflement and pain, and blinked. She was looking down, through Opal's eyes, at two large, blood-drenched wolves attacking the enemies now. No, three. A second large warrior was slashing his way through to where Alan was fighting with his back to the door, barrelling attackers aside faster than they could pile onto him, despite being slightly hampered by having to defend the small figure he held clamped to his side, and deflecting several slashes aimed at the spinning shadow of Ginger fighting at his side. Abruptly the tawny-haired newcomer spun and flung his burden up toward where Opal was staring out of the new opening in the metal ducting above their heads.

Gemma blinked again, disorientated by a nauseating double vision as her own eyes met Opal's while she was still looking through Opal's, seconds before their hands locked wrist-to-wrist and she was yanked painfully up half-into the duct. Reeling, wincing at the backlash as her flabbergasted mind just dropped the pack meld, she was suddenly starkly aware of where she was bodily, as well as mentally - how the hell did she get here?!? But despite the disorientating pain of the searing piquant slashing in her head, she knew damn well how she had gotten here. The firm imprint of that arm about her waist was too damn familiar to mistake.

How did HE get here?

But he smelt wrong, felt wrong.

Fear hit her like a blow. What the hell was he doing here in this death-trap?

The fight was raging more fiercely below them as Gemma snapped a series of painful mental orders and wriggled furiously into the duct, following Opal at speed back to the lab. The dusky wolf dropped hurriedly to the floor and Mo flung a bag of hackdust up to his Alfamme, while Gemma, mind bleeding pain, shrieked again, Get Them OUT of there.

She spun on a swift, practiced motion, hanging with alternate hands off the opening, then torpedoed back through the short length of tube propelling the dust-bale ahead of her. In seconds she had ripped the bag open with a claw above the new opening, and showered it over the majority of the Faulk wolves crammed into the corridor fighting to get within range of her mate, packmate and her koiru. Forewarned, Ginger, Mac and Alan held their breath where they were fighting with their backs to the door, the slight sjeste wedged between the two breathtakingly deadly Alpha warriors.

Within the lab, at her command, half of her pack had levered the heavy weight of the oven to teeter on one edge, skidding sideways slightly, leaving just enough room for the three exiles to scrape through the door while the majority of their adversaries were doubled over, coughing and shaking themselves desperately to rid their fur of the debilitating dust. Then the rest of Gemma's wolves slammed into the furnace from the opposite side and it smashed back onto all four feet just as she dropped from the opening above their heads. Cables snapped as the oven screeched across to slam the heavy metal door fully closed with an echoing clang of finality while their enemies hurled themselves again into the opposite side.

The faint green glow of the emergency exit sign above the door shone on the panting group of stationary figures, eyes shining black and feral in the dull light.

They all just stood, shellshocked.

Gemma stared at him across the group. He was leaner, more compact, explosive-looking. But for all the tension of his frame, this was a pale, faint copy of her mate. He looked drained, empty, as though all that was Mac had been leached from him: a mirror image, not the real, live version.

Her heart was beating frantically- she still couldn't feel him there. His fighting - it had been superior, skilful; but slow, for Mac. He was - dimmed. What had happened to him?

And he smelled human . Maybe her nose was confused by the colouring of sweat and blood in the air, the fiery scent of anger mingling with the sharp scent of fear, but no - Mac did smell human. As she sniffed, her nose was swamped by a heavy jolt of despair that suddenly pulsed from Gemma's right.

"We are trapped," whined Ellen, her breath short and fast. She inhaled a humourless gulp of laughter, "Lab rats caught in a trap."

"Who is this?" hissed Rupert aggressively, and the swirl of anger, distrust, and fear thickened the air between the small group of wolves .

Something was wrong with him. And now he was caught here with them. Anguish clenched around Gemma's heart, and a half-bitten off howl escaped her throat as she launched herself at the dimly seen figure, grabbing his arms to shake him, voice keening higher to disappear into a screech: "You shouldn't be here. This is hell. No. You should've stayed AWAY,"

This close, she caught a faint whiff of her Mac exuding from him, and the tears began rolling down her cheeks as she slapped her palms onto his chest and pushed, hard, trying to push him away. He didn't move. His hands came to settle over hers, but all he did was hold them gently.

"Someone betrayed us," growled Andrea on a wavering note, and the suspicion thickened in all nostrils, wrenching already tense hackles higher.

"We can't get out!" wailed Ellen again, while Rupert burst out with a furious counterpoint, pointing an accusing finger. "Is he the one who betrayed us?"

"NO!" snapped Gemma, spinning to glare at her koiru.

The emergency light flickered out, and the sprinklers snapped on, lashing freezing cold water on the small, dismal group. There was a collective harsh intake of breath.

A pause for a heartbeat, two.

Then suddenly the dark vault of the room was echoing with a chaotic, rising maelstrom of howls and bitter accusations, despair and fury and fear egging each wolf to higher, louder cries while voices rose and claws and teeth began to slash in the air. The deafening chorus was rising, their hacking, slashing, wailing voices beating off the walls, doubling back at them, when a deep, menacing growl cut across the cacophony, the low, admonitory note curling up each wolf's spine and snapping his or her mouth shut instinctively.

Gemma's spine tingled in recognition. This was Mac.

Into the sudden, deafening silence, her mate's voice, pitched low and brittle with feeling, was barely audible, "What I most loathed as the Grey's captive -," he began. And stopped, his breath hissing in the air. The chaos in the scents was suddenly charged with a different electricity, each wolf reeling him or herself in to listen fiercely, barely breathing.

Gemma could feel her Alpha trembling behind her, and his voice was low, hoarse when he continued, "- is that captivity teaches one to accept this life, teaches you that you are worthless."

The conveyance cut into them all. Heart creasing, Gemma swayed, wanting to turn, but not sure, not wanting to break this. She was frozen by the quiet wave of loathing, anger, knowledge, tingling between her pack and her mate.

"There is no way out of this place; it is inside us all," agreed Ellen bitterly, her voice tight with tears in the darkness.

A wave of awe rose inside Gemma, awe crested with sadness as she understood what her mate was doing. An Alpha led my example, but she couldn't lead her wolves out of this. She was trying to lead them out, but she had never really been in.

"I have got out once: all the way out," contradicted the Alpha firmly, his soft growl again silencing the hissing chorus of murmurs around them. "I will do so again," he stated implacably. Gemma felt a wisp of longing exude from her Little Gems, mixed with cynical disbelief. But some hope. The hope lifted her heart.

A hand closed around her wrist, tugging her around to face Mac. "And take you with me," he promised the pack while he pulled his mate towards him, unerring in the darkness.

Suddenly she was in the air, her legs closing around his waist as his arms plastered her to his chest and palms found her cheeks. Then his lips were over hers, so sure, so soft, the trembling in his limbs bringing tears to her eyes and her arms around his neck as he explored her lips with aching, gentle longing, tracing every contour, every nook over and over.

A flickering spark, and a small jumble of dim lights came on, sheltered from the drenching downpour in one of the fume cupboards, highlighting Ginger calmly taping firm the electrodes attached to wires and bulbs that she had just dipped into two large beakers of liquid. The pale light shone across to where tawny fur remained wrapped around brown, water beating down on the pair, their lips glued together, impervious to the light or the audience who watched silently, with increasing amusement or indignation. Then Rupert finally growled for a second time, his voice resigned, "Who is this?"

Gemma sighed, and wriggled to get free.

Mac sighed, and lifted his head reluctantly.

The deluge abruptly dropped to a trickle, then mere drips. Gemma landed back on her own feet and she grinned at Mo as she spun to face her pack. The old wolf was twisting tight a clamp to crush closed one of the exposed water pipes running floor to ceiling on the far wall.

This is my mate, she conveyed to them all proudly, wincing against the scrape of pain through her mind at the simple phrase. Stating the obvious.

"Save your shiele," growled Jorgen. All of the wolves hovering some paces back were frowning in pain at their own headaches. None of them were used to melding.

"Where is Ben?" Andrea suddenly asked, quietly. A frisson ran through the small group. They all straightened, and looked around.

"I don't remember sensing him in the meld," growled Mo, striding back towards them.

The eyes all focussed on Gemma, and she was instantly aware - Ben had not been with them. No. The taste of betrayal was sour in her mouth, brain echoing in shock, hurt.

"Oh, what does it matter?" snapped Ellen on a wavering note. "We're all deadwolves now anyway. There's no way we can get out of here. Even with the Mackeld."

"That might matter," Alan responded quietly. "How did he get in? Find us? Her? The Alfamme said that they no longer shared a link."

The glowing eyes turned to the Alpha, who was standing quietly, holding closed a rip in his upper arm as it knitted.

"Explain," gritted Rupert. The suspicion in his voice had lightened, but it was still tainting the words

The quiet green eyes lifted.

"Please," the wolf chemist found himself adding automatically as he met that cool gaze.

Mac sighed. "The mental link was broken," he agreed quietly, his sombre eyes turning briefly to his mate's. "But love doesn't break that way, so I was bound to try to follow her. Or avenge her." The words of the explanation were quiet, matter-of-fact, but Gemma found herself suddenly biting her bottom lip to keep it steady, eyes glistening as she dropped her head so that she could listen without being overwhelmed by the loss behind those bleak, echoing eyes.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 16



"I had hunters out who were close enough to run across the trail of your escaped humans, and suspicious enough of their strange scent to follow it," Mac continued. "The humans told us of the setup here."

He paused. "But the major offensive against Tzo is far from here; I could not divert my warriors without either alerting your captors that we were on our way, or risking losing the wider war against Tzo. So it had to be subterfuge."

Her wolves were all still, breathing lightly as they listened intently.

"I have a warrior with inside knowledge of Madam Faulk's - lifestyle, who managed to infiltrate it again and obtain an invitation to tonight's show. I came as his human guard," Mac explained. His eyes slanted to Gemma and he clarified, Samuel, silently.

Gemma growled softly, and Mac smiled grimly as he continued his explanation aloud, "I knew Gemma was melded with some wolves as soon as they lifted her collar tonight, my - mind called to hers, but she was busy, enmeshed, so I held myself back as long as I could. But when her scent changed to fear and they were about to whip her - I had to get her out of there," he finished on a growl.

"You smell human," Jorgen agreed tersely. "How the hell did you manage that?"

There was a smile in the Alpha's voice. "Before she was captured, my mate isolated the fix Grey uses to hold the binding drug to wolves despite their fast metabolism. A friend has developed a human-scent ..."

Better than me, thought Gemma morosely.

"...combined with that fix, to allow a wolf to smell like this for hours, but -."

There was a murmur of educated appreciation among the assembled scientists. "We never could properly isolate the human scent," said Jorgen.

"Then - how many of your wolves did you bring?" interrupted Ellen eagerly.

Mac's voice had a slight edge as he continued, "The drug is only bearable to a wolf with a very high tolerance for silver; otherwise it just debilitates him or her. I am the only one we've found who can metabolise it, so far. And it weakens me - practically crushing my shiele - that was a side-benefit tonight. I have been able to mingle here without the Faulk wolves being aware of my aura."

"So you thought it would be useful to just waltz in here alone, weak, and get trapped with the rest of us?" whispered Gemma, her voice hitching on a gulp as fear drove the anger in her higher again. "Not your best idea ever."

The green eyes were swirling black as he looked back down at her and Mac growled softly, carefully, "Having seen the advert for tonight's show, I wasn't thinking very clearly."

Her head lifted and her cheeks flushed. Damn. Those adverts.

Had he liked them? an excited little voice in her head wondered, before she snapped at it to Shut up.

Confusingly, the suspicion on the air lightened as the Alpha pair glowered at each other.

"He's an Alpha!" exclaimed Ellen on a note of discovery.

Gemma rolled her eyes, making her head hurt. You could call him that. Mac slanted a sarcastic look her way, then yanked her in for a bruising kiss.

I'll tell you later what I thought of them, he conveyed privately.

"So we can create ECMD keyed to him - inject the others, all of them simultaneously so that he can make them break from Grey or the Louse, fight with us," Ellen continued, gesturing around the outside walls, the wider halls of the underground complex. "He's so much stronger, can hold a lot more than our Little Gem."

Gemma growled, "The ECMD is a good idea, but key it to me, like before. You are my pack - you just melded to me." There was a tinge of pride in her veins.

"And you're exhausted," chimed in Jorgen, eyes flickering between Alpha and Alfamme. "Besides, he must have helped you. No-one could lead a battle-meld like that instinctively, it was so - streamlined, elegant."

The eyes of half of the wolves around them were eyeing Mac speculatively, or admiringly. It looked like most of her damn pack were allied to her mate already. Gemma was surprised to feel a little spurt of jealousy. She snarled and shook her head violently at them.

Mac stepped forwards, a light frown between his eyes. "Right," he said. "What do you need me to do?"

Gemma turned her snarl on him, but was halted by a low voice at her right elbow.

"I have a better idea," said Rupert. The lanky chemist also advanced a pace, he was looking down at his left forearm, a fingertip slowly circling the invisible site of a former puncture wound, the injection from days before.

"It would appear that our Alfamme has hit upon a second option, an antidote that shakes the mind free, gives back the clean choice," he said. A small smile was playing over his lips, and there was no frown between his eyes. Can you not feel how clear I am, my packmates? His conveyance seemed to boom almost as clearly as Mac's, in contrast to the muffled murmurs around him. And I have been re-keyed over the past few days - but it just doesn't work. No side effects, no rage. Our Little Gem has broken the fix.

A gasp on intaken breath hissed through her pack.

"And now we have the main ingredient here," Rupert added aloud, pointing to the large, tawny Alpha. "A wolf with an exceptional level of silver resistance."

"Oh," murmured Gemma on a low note of discovery. That was why she had been able to make this effective antidote from Mac's shiele. It hadn't made sense.

All eyes turned to her mate, who was standing straight, eyes narrowed in thought. "This would work on all wolves who have been given coerced - give them free choice?" he asked.

"The only test has been on me. We haven't had time - Gemma only finished it just before she was recaptured, we haven't had the formula," replied Rupert.

Mac's eyes were gleaming slightly in pride as they rested briefly on his coldly furious mate.

"We would be better just keying ECMD to the Alpha, to ensure loyalty," growled Jorgen. "He can hold them, and with them all we can definitely fight our way out of here."

Mac's eyes shot sideways, and his voice was cold, "But he will not. I admit it is no fault of your own that you have a distorted view of free choice, but do not suggest to me that I enforce the same lack of choice on others."

Jorgen's cheeks flared hot and he snapped, "They are already enforced."

"And you would prefer them to remain so, because they do not hold with your loyalties?" retorted Mac. "That is not wolf." His eyes returned to Rupert. "How long does it take to make this antidote?" he said.

"With all of us?" responded the tall, lanky wolf, "The cream of the lab-rats here? We can synthesise it in a few hours, if we can hold them at bay while we work, and what's more," there was a smug note in his voice now. "The store here holds all of the other ingredients, and the methods of administration that the Louse and Grey have used - blowpipes, pea injectors, inhalers, dart-guns. If you can give enough of your resistance through your blood, we can make enough for the whole complex, have it ready to administer in one fell swoop."

"Blood?" cut in Gemma on a squeak. "I used -," she shut up, realising as she met Rupert's eyes. Extraction from hair would take too long - it would have to be blood. No, said her heart - that would weaken him so much.

"What about making enough for the outside Faulk pack, too?" her mate murmured quietly, eyes inward.

Gemma's heart thumped and her eyes shot sideways to him, narrowing then widening in fear. "No," she vetoed quietly. "That would be an insane amount. Even the amount needed for the complex slaves and guards will leave you too weak - this is idiocy, you wouldn't be able to fight, defend yourself."

His eyes shot back challengingly to hers. "My mate will defend me," he retorted, lips twitching.

Gemma smacked him, "Mac, NO."

He ignored her and walked over to Rupert, rolling his neck to get a crick out of it.

"This looks like our best chance. As I said, what do you need me to do?" he asked.

Rupert's eyes flickered between Alpha and Alfamme, and his lips twisted, eyes holding Gemma's as he reached out a hand, palm up, and conveyed quietly, I would cleave to you, my Alpha.

"How the hell do you think we're going to hold them out if you're comatose?" cursed Gemma, her eyes smashing into Rupert as the damn traitor clove to her stupid mate. She stomped forward to tug admonishingly at the hair on Mac's upper arm. "Jorgen's right, I'm not a warrior!"

Her fingers tingled where they brushed against his fur, and a jolt of warmth shot through her at his proximity, the shimmer off his skin beginning to resurface. For now, until they drained him - damn him. How could she have forgotten just how damn stubborn he was?

"Alan is a formidable warrior," Mac responded calmly, "I suggest that you listen to him."

"Well in that case, I propose that we drop more hacking powder out of the broken duct to clear the main doorway," Alan said on a quiet note of evaluation. "Then if Ginger and Tim will mix us an explosive we can bring the roof down there where the rock above is weak. We could do with only defending the smaller side-entrance."

He stepped forward and also held his hand out, palm up, to the Mackeld, conveying the oath privately.

"Good thinking," agreed the Alpha, briefly covering Alan's palm with his own, and they both winced while the powerful bond knit. Gemma snarled and stomped off towards the store to get more dust, ignoring the rest of her small pack as they began to crowd in to fawn over her mate.

Tsk tsk, you should learn to share, taunted Mac silently. I shared the Whites with you.

Ellen was standing too close to the Alpha, holding her palm out and smiling admiringly up at him when Gemma re-emerged from the small storeroom with a large bale of plastic-wrapped sawdust in her arms. Mac completed the last link with Ellen while Rupert, to his left, carefully rolled up the Alpha's mangled sleeve to expose his now-human forearm, tapping lightly to expose a vein.

"Gemma's right, you know," he said quietly, "We will need a lot of blood to make this feasible, to tip the balance - you would be better lying down."

Gemma froze where she was.

Please don't do this, Mac, she whispered, the dread pooling in her stomach. He would be unable to defend himself. His head lifted slightly, and calm green eyes met hers.

What would you have me do instead? This is our best chance.

Gemma winced at the 'our'. I don't want you here, her heart cried. Distractedly she noticed that the pain slashing through her head had disappeared. Disappeared when he had kissed her that second time. Wasting his shiele - dammit.

Picchu -.

We had a better chance when you were outside! she cursed him.

His eyes were warm.

Oh, Gem. You mean you felt better. I felt much, much worse.

Gemma growled and stomped off to thrust the bag of hackdust into Alan's arms, where he was assembling the defence and the pyramid.

If you die in here, then so do I, she hissed at her mate.

Copycat, he returned cheerfully. But I'm not planning on dying: your damn adverts show that you can now handle being tied up, and so I have a promise to fulfil.

Gemma's anger grew at the leap of excited blood in her veins, and she turned her back on her mate pointedly, trembling with what she told herself was fury as she began scrambling up the new pyramid.

Not excitement. No. This was fury.

You'd have to catch me first, she snarled at him. Then her hackles yanked alert at the response of her female wolves to the pulse of Alpha mating doft that suddenly perfumed the lab behind her while she leapt for the ventilation duct. Angrily she retrieved a tightly folded wedge of paper tucked and tossed it down at Jorgen, then caught the hackdust bale that Alan threw up and pushed it into the vent, preparing to heave herself up.

Abruptly the siren scent of Mac's lust cut off.

"No!" he called, striding forward, shaking off Rupert's grip on his arm as he gazed up at her. "Send Opal - you are too vital in this."

Gemma's brown-black eyes were wide, incredulous, as she hung from the rectangular opening, swinging lightly and turned her head to glare back down at her mate. "What did you just say?" she asked. "Talk about double standards."

"This is not an emotional decision," he growled back up, a low note of menace to his voice. "We need chemists urgently - whereas anyone can fight. And I am the only source for the resistant shiele - the standards are no-where near the same, Gemma."

"Need I point out to you, you're in a room full of bloody chemists," she snarled back, then pulled herself up into the opening with the ease of long practice.

There was a rush in the air behind her, a couple of startled grunts from the members of the pyramid, and a firm clasp snapped around her left ankle just as she was about to push off into the darkness. The weight which dropped like a stone onto the end of that unmoving grip yanked her painfully back through the opening with a scrape of her stomach and an echoing bang of her skull against the roof of the duct. Gemma yelped as they fell, struggled against the strong grip which shifted to hold her securely about her waist, then punched Mac hard in the stomach as he landed holding her. She was snarling in anger - how could he embarrass her that way in front of her pack?

Her Alpha dropped her to her feet and yanked her closer by the shoulders, power fizzing along her nerve endings as he glowered into her eyes.

"There is a fucking war on, Gemma. Think. We need you here."

"All RIGHT," she snapped, and her fist lashed out to strike him again. He caught it in mid-air, holding it stationary, and growled back, "Not now. We will fight this out when we are out of here, if you wish."

Gemma glared back up into the pulsing green-black swirl, seething in rage that he was so damn autocratic, and repeated her earlier defiance aloud, spitting staccato words through her anger, "You will have to fucking catch me first."

Lust surged from him.

The other wolves were frozen in the explosion of pulsing tension, halted in shocked poses around the room, staring.

Then the oldest of them, Mo, abruptly shook himself, letting out a snort, and said dryly, "Yup, definitely Alphas, and definitely mates." Andrea hiccupped on a laugh, and a wave of releasing tension washed through the wolves in the room, easing the fear and causing a happy little hum of a hopeful sigh, into which Jorgen said tentatively, "Uh - Alfamme? None of us ever have made this solution before, so if you don't mind stepping us through it -."

Fucking Mr Always-Right Alpha.

Gemma shook herself free of the clasp on her shoulders and stalked regally over to the lab bench where Ellen and Warner were setting out the vessels needed.

Her heart was shrinking, swirling in jumpy fear, as she heard Mac settling back on the wooden bench behind her, joking to Rupert to relax the chemist while he advanced nervously with a makeshift bloodbag: needle, tube and flask swiftly sterilised in the furnace.

No, her heart keened.

Abruptly she spun and raced back to her mate, grabbing his face and mashing her lips to his to halt the sob rising to her lips. Mac's hands lifted to cradle her head. His thumbs stroked softly over her cheekbones and he gentled the kiss, nuzzling over her lips, soothing her, his mind whispering silently, Shh. Shh, my picchu. I know. Shh. I love you too.

"Huh," she growled under her breath as she pulled away and spun back to the workbench where her packmates awaited her.

A little waft of amusement from the watching wolves followed her on the air.

*

Over an hour later, Gemma was standing beside Rupert's shoulder where he was seated at the main workbench, verifying the readout of the concentrations in the antidote they had synthesized with the first quarter pint of Mac's blood. They both checked once again against the results for the original mixture that Gemma had created, then Rupert slowly filled an injection dart while the other lab rats looked on with bated breath, watching out of the corners of their eyes while they continued to make more.

The noise around them was appalling; there was a heavy continuous battering and threatening howling at the side door, where Alan's small force was determinedly battling to hold back the horde of Faulk wolves trying to break in. However, Gemma barely heard the sounds of the fight, the concentration she had pulled around the lab rats absolute: they had to do this. It was the only way out, for all of them.

But a sudden piercing, sharp spike at her heart broke her focus, her face blanching as she almost doubled over at the drag of the pain. All of the wolves working around the bench with her winced in unison, catching an echo of her agony, and a collective half-gasp, half whine arose when Gemma automatically lifted her aegis, stumbling around to look over at her unconscious mate lying on the far bench.

She knew that drain.

Natasha.

But Mac was too weak, too fragile to take it just now. Why didn't he just give it up?

She knew why.

Even from here, she could see the palsy-like tremor in the comatose figure. Her mind hurtled over to help, but she couldn't get past his shields, he had blocked her out from his physical pain, and was automatically blocking her out from this too - damn the damn stubborn wolf!

A shot of panic jolted through Gemma as the shaking grew even as she watched. She felt the agony in him increasing, leaking past his shields.

This was deliberate; a second front by the enemy. The timing couldn't be chance; although equally they couldn't know just how weak Mac's defences were just now.

Fear ignited the killing rage within Gemma, but she reeled it in easily, containing the power, using it to block the pain. She spun back to face the bench, grab up the filled dart and turned swiftly away, barking, "That is correct. Finish it, load all the darts and deploy them, as agreed."

A corner of her mind noted her pack members straighten and stiffen in reaction to something in her tone, a gleam of light firing in their eyes as most turned instantly to get on with the final steps of making and administering the antidote to the fix.

Five however sheared off towards the pile of rock which had been brought down to block the main doorway, behind which they could hear noises of more enemies steadily burrowing their way through. Following her silent orders they assembled in an unstable, makeshift pyramid atop the rough stones, and Gemma scrambled up and leapt from the top to grab the edge of the old vent, flipping herself inside with an uncannily fiery agility which she didn't even stop to question.

Hurry! Hurry! urged her heart.

Alarms were already sounding all over the complex, although Gemma noted a new one bursting into a cacophony above her as minutes later she slithered dangerously fast down the shaft to the lower level, into unknown territory. The high security cells.

She could only hope that the guards were a little preoccupied - although her cover was blown sky-high by now anyway.

Reaching the bottom, with no more time for subterfuge, she slashed oven the ventilation shaft at the right-angled bend, and dropped straight onto two startled guards waiting in the gloomily lit rock corridor beside the lift entrance, below.

They were slow fighters. More skilled than she, but strangely slow.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 16



That was two more she had killed.

Later.

Loping down the corridor unscathed, past banks of sealed cell doors, Gemma's nose wrinkled in disgust at the vile scents of blood and burnt flesh guiding her towards the large set of double doors at the end. A muffled, wet choking noise accompanying a rhythmic metallic-screeching sound suddenly halted, and Gemma steeled herself as she burst into a run towards the closed doors, palming the injection of the antidote and taking two short, steadying breaths.

The doors burst open as she reached them and a torrent of wolves smashed out.

Amidst a confusing tumble of sights and devastating scents, Gemma focussed past the handful of wolves charging towards her, past the vicious, white face of Nicholas Grey sighting a gun in her direction, to the slender, naked figure with the shock of platinum blonde hair bent over a padded bench behind him, her wrists and ankles held by two burly wolves.

Swerving gracefully past the ones who tried to intercept her, hearing the bullet whipping through to bury itself in one of them to a sharp, strangled cry of pain and panic, Gemma rolled in an acrobatic tumble past Grey and slammed herself into the wolf holding Natasha's wrists, her left hand slapping the needle into his bare calf and pressing the plunger as her claws swiped for his groin.

The broad-shouldered wolf released the Vanilchov Alfamme to defend himself, deflecting Gemma's blow with ease. Behind her, as she twisted in a desperate attempt to block a lazy strike from the burly wolf, the wereem felt a swift surge of movement. She heard a strangled yelp from the male who had been holding their victim's feet, and the smell of burnt flesh receded as the pain-driven Vanilchov sjeste launched herself at her advancing enemies, howling a hoarse keen of total fury.

A flicker crossed the face of the wolf in front of Gemma, a spasm of agony, and the large male stilled, his pupils dilating as though he had been hit over the head.

Alan had whispered of this duty, his shame debilitating; the worst offenders were forced to this. He had flickering memories of watching his own limbs holding down other wolves, while they were being 'treated'. He loathed himself, had fought that command the hardest. But he hadn't succeeded in breaking free.

Gemma had gambled on such being the case tonight. It looked like she was right.

The wolf facing Gemma stumbled backwards, swaying, an anguished look appearing in the black depths of his eyes. Gemma spun to face a swift approach she sensed behind her, ducking under a slash at her throat and scraping her claws across the leg of her attacker. The next instant he was flung across the room into the remaining enemies as the wolf behind her erupted with his own howl of anguish.

Grey's second bullet buried itself in his hapless pack-mate while he was flying through the air, and Gemma caught a glimpse of Nicholas' white face across the heads of the remaining five as he focused on Natasha tearing into the already severely depleted front line, Gemma leaping to join her, and the massive wolf behind Gemma shaking himself free of the last of the drug, to a rising cacophony of fury.

Grey turned and fled.

Natasha tore down the left two defenders and shot off in his wake, despite the ungainly limp whenever her left foot hit the floor, the wrath blazing off her scenting the air. Gemma was caught on the thigh by a rake of claws as she pursued the Vanichov sjeste. She cried out as she spun to fend off the attacker, but he was already dead, and she paused for a second, meeting the eyes of the wolf she had hit with the antidote, seeing the melt-down in the anguished orbs where he stood with heaving chest above the bodies of the last two, tears rolling down his cheeks.

It was not your fault, she conveyed fiercely. And please, we need your help to clean this place up. To free the others.

His reply was very faint, whether due to the residual drug or to his state of mind, she couldn't tell.

I will clean up, the wolf vowed, eyes swirling black and shining with tears.

She lost him in the main corridor on the upper level. They had fought their way out of the stairwell together, not enough Faulk wolves had assembled by then to successfully halt the amazing prowess of the huge warrior at Gemma's side. But then she had been driven away from him as the new attackers had arrived, forced to dodge away into a side passage as she was unable to fight such a swathe of enemies, losing sight of him in the melee and then desperately just running to stay alive ahead of the vicious pack of koiru trying to down her.

Her heart burst in relief as she caught Mac's scent just before she ran slap bang around a corner into an unyielding chest, felt her wrist grabbed and was yanked behind her mate so painfully that her shoulder almost dislocated.

Gemma turned to help, her mind panicking with the memory of when she had last seen him: ten minutes ago he had been comatose and fading after all the blood they had taken from him.

By the time she had turned the seven who had been chasing her were dead.

The hairs all over her body sprang to full, electrified alert as Mac completed his spin from where the last enemy was toppling, raging at her, glaring black anger as he hissed, "What the hell do you think you're doing?"

His eyes were lit like an inferno, and the feeling smashing from him was brutal, the bombardment of sheer danger shrinking Gemma inside her skin as her brain suddenly wobbled in shock. The tumultuous power pouring off him was stifling, and looking into his eyes was like looking into a volcano. This wolf was seriously dangerous.

Mac stalked two steps toward her, trembling in fury, the fluid movements eloquent of barely controlled rage.

Looking up into his livid eyes, feeling the flame of his anger cascading over her skin, lifting her hair, Gemma felt a flush rise to her cheeks: Mac was alright. He was healed. So damn quickly?! And this was her Mac.

As her mind steadied, the wereem became aware of their wider surroundings. Aware of her wolves - their wolves, now, creeping in groups of three or four through the familiar corridors, closing in on the auditorium, administering the antidote to every wolf they passed. There were some short, vicious fights ensuing, but Mac was guiding them and the numbers of rebels were actually increasing, not decreasing, as more wolves turned to fight with them than against. The new recruits were not melded, she couldn't sense them, but she could see and scent them through their koirus' senses.

Mac was guiding them.

Tears sprang to her eyes and a wave of overwhelming relief suddenly crashed through her as her eyes blurred on the beloved, furious features. Something in her heart gave way, a small damn bursting, and the next second her nose was buried in his fur, her face jammed into his shoulder as she flung herself across the space between them and cramped her arms uncomfortably around his too-broad torso.

Gemma clenched her jaw against the tears she wanted to bawl, heaving deep breaths of his acrid, angry, achingly familiar scent, and her limbs were melting. But she couldn't lose it, she reminded herself fiercely. Not here, not yet. They were not out yet.

She had to stay strong. But - Mac was here.

She was no longer carrying this alone.

A little sob escaped, and she bit her lip, tasting the blood as she buried herself fiercely closer to her mate. Mac closed his arms around her. A strong hand began soothing up and down her trembling spine but the acrid burn still lit his scent as he conveyed, privately, You IDIOT. I told you to stay IN THE LAB.

A call for help echoed in both their heads. Before Gemma could react, Mac had grabbed her hand, and they began to race back up the corridor toward the central hallway, side by side.

You told me to defend you, Gemma returned virtuously, although she hiccupped on a half-sob and couldn't help smiling as they ran. He was so gorgeous. She had missed this feeling of - protection.

Her mate growled, low, halting briefly to slam open a door, rip off the metal handle and fling it hard into the back of the head of one of a quartet of huge wolves tearing into Mo, Andrea and a third wolf she didn't know, all in one blindingly fast move. The enemy dropped, unconscious and Andrea leaped onto the second one, growling in satisfaction while Mo knocked the legs out from under the third, the new recruit tackling the last.

Mac hauled on Gemma's hand, pulling her on before she'd truly taken in what he's just done. I meant you to defend me IN THE LAB, as you damn well knew - how dare you run off from me again? her mate continued thunderously.

Her heart jolted at the pain buried in him, but she decided attack was the best form of defence and retorted caustically, I ran off to rescue your betrothed - I expect a little gratitude, here.

Gemma watched inside her head as her Alpha rapidly shuffled information and orders between their wolves, sifting out knowledge of the layout from her own head as he worked out to how to reach them. A little jolt of awe shot through her - she really did need to work on her battle awareness - she couldn't properly take in what was happening to all the separate members of her pack. Never mind fight and plan and keep up an argument in the here and now.

"Gratitude?" snarled Mac, so angry he had to vocalise. "How the hell can I defend you if you keep running off?"

As he spoke, another four hapless enemies ran around the corner to the left of Gemma, leaping to attack them. The front pair faltered at the blast of rage blazing off the Alpha, and Gemma copied the move she'd seen in Mo, dropping under the foremost's wild, unfocussed sweep of claws and kicking hard into the back of his knee, watching in satisfaction as his legs buckled.

"Who says I need defending?" she shot smugly over her shoulder toward the grunts of Mac taking on the other three. She didn't even bother to look, not in the least worried considering who had her back. The one she'd knocked over barely had time to land before a tawny fist snatched him out of her vision and she completed her turn to see her one opponent landing on the little heap of unmoving limbs Mac had already created.

"Don't get cocky," he snapped as they spun simultaneously to run on. "You need more lessons." Gemma grabbed her mate's hand, and melted in the frisson of awareness which tingled up her arm.

"I know," she sighed happily, delighting in the pure joy melting through her. He really was here. She skipped a happy little hop as she ran, and jumped sideways, wrapped her legs around his side and clasped his head to kiss his cheek. She had to tilt her head further to reach the corner of his mouth. "Please teach me, my Alpha," she whispered.

His anger spiked, the disintegrating scent this close in her nostrils sending a shock of warning through her, and Mac's hand was rough as he pulled her off and dropped her on her own feet beside him, keeping his grasp on her elbow to tow her on impatiently.

"Damn right, I'll teach you: not to run off into danger," he snarled, adding: And stop being so damn happy about it!

That wasn't fair! "Can't a girl be happy to run into her mate?" Gemma retorted, the smile she couldn't help still twitching on her lips.

Then she slammed to a halt as they crossed a scent leading to the guardroom door, tried the handle ineffectually, and began to swiftly carve out the lock.

Mac pushed her unceremoniously out of the way, punctured his claws in and ripped the door off, growling, "This isn't a joke, Gem."

The stench of fear as the heavy metal barrier was wrenched free washed over both of them, wrinkling their noses in unison. They blinked for a moment in the reflected light of scores of pairs of eyes. A mass of terrified human slaves were sardined claustrophobically in the dark room, locked in, most still adorned in the skimpy finery of refreshments for the guests who had been watching the show.

"Get out of here!" Gemma shouted at them, even as Mac's hand grabbed hers and she was whisked away. "Through the garages - run!" she urged over her shoulder, seeing the first few cautiously stick their heads out of the doorway as she was pulled around the next corner.

The reek of their fear: pain and sex mingling in misery, churned through Gemma. It was a scent she was all too familiar with now.

"No, it's not a joke," she agreed on a sad murmur.

Silence now, her mate thundered in her head, his speed increasing as he lifted her bodily off the floor and crouched lower into a lethal, prowling run, holding her tucked to his side.

I should have kept you free of this, her mate added, his true feeling of deep - inadequacy - reverberating inside her, his reaction to her sadness. Whatever has happened to you, picchu - whatever they have done to you -

Gemma was no longer able to pay full attention. Her focus had been dragged ahead, to the confusion of noises and desperate thoughts cascading from the beleaguered group of her wolves trapped and fighting back-to-back at the base of the back staircase to the auditorium. They were out of antidote.

You are my picchu, Mac was snarling in her mind, his thoughts growing wilder, black. Please. I will give whatever I can, to help you heal - space, protection, training -.

Gemma cut him off, impatiently. You already have given me what I need, Mac! she snarled, almost swearing at him as she palmed the antidote dart he had brought her in her left hand.

Then Mac dropped her just before the last corner, ordering Stay here! as he leapt around the bend into the pack of waiting Faulk wolves .

What?

No way. Through his eyes, she could glimpse the powerful Faulk leader howling orders down at his troops from his vantage position up on the staircase, blocking the retreat at the other side of the swirling melee. Her wolves were being backed up towards that powerhouse of skilful, flashing claws.

Gemma ran back a few paces, placed the dart between her teeth, then ran and sprang for the beam crossing the passage overhead, clawing herself a hold. In seconds she had levered her way inside the suspended ceiling, and began to rapidly finger-and-toe sloth-move her way through the small void, hanging upside-down from the flange of the I-beam against the roof.

The fight and the ceiling muffled her scent enough that it was only as she dropped through the brittle layer of tiles that she heard the loud curse Gemma! in her head while she slapped the antidote in her left hand against the burly enemy's neck, simultaneously grabbing the fistful of claws aiming for her face. She didn't manage to completely twist out of the way of his other hand, and winced as the sharp claws scored through her hip into her hipbone.

The tang of anger exuding from the melee at the base of the stairs exploded with the force of a supernova, and suddenly Mac was barrelling up the steps, at the spearfront of the small gang of Little Gems. He was slinging aside the enemy warriors, a murderous glint in his eyes, which were narrowed on the huge wolf Gemma was struggling to disengage from.

The wolf flinched away, a look of anguish crossing his face, eyes flickering in bewilderment as the antidote kicked in. Gemma reached to convey to her mate and found his mind black with fury, drowning in it.

Mac wasn't stopping.

She pounced on her wolf, grabbing at that lethal, sweeping arm while her legs locked around his waist.

Mac! Mac! He was compelled, she conveyed urgently.

In one swift move her mate grabbed her by the ankle and hauled her around to his side, so that he could see, lunging for the wolf who had injured her, who was scrabbling backwards up the steps. Mac ignored her words, furiously intent on his prey.

Gemma squirmed in the implacable grip, flinging herself up to try to yank Mac's head around, distract him, break that lethal intent. Her arm was across his eyes.

"Will you listen to me, Mr Stubborn? I'm fine! I'm already healed!" she bawled at him.

Mac swiped her hands out of the way and leapt again for the panicked wolf who twisted frantically and yelped as the claws raked across his side: deep, but deflected enough to not kill. Yet.

"MAC!" Gemma grabbed her mate's head again and jammed her lips against his, hard and angry.

Mac's responding growl was vicious, and something exploded inside him. Gemma felt herself crushed back against a hard wall as hard fingers clamped around her face to tilt her head up so his lips could ravage hers, teeth biting possessively at the tender skin. The bitter anger pouring off him was hair-raising, months of pent-up, barely held-in-check anguish boiling over, erupting violently. Gemma was submerged under the deluge of it, fingers clutching at his shoulders to hold tight as the black, furious fire tore into her, searing her with his pain.

Silent tears were rolling down her cheeks.

Mac lifted his head, his lips an inch from hers. His eyes were raging fully black, lost, and he was shuddering as he tried to winch his fury back in, barely clinging to the last thread of control. Gently, he licked the mix of blood and tears from his lips, tears glinting in the corners in his own eyes. He was submerging under this, the rage taking him. Her Mac.

A hard knot inside Gemma broke at the feeling raging off him, and she leaned in, tucking her head into the corner of his neck. Please. Her lips were tingling with healing against his skin, and she quietly breathed in his vicious musk. But it was him. This was her home. Please, Mac.

She was so tired of fighting.

The anger was rising: scorching, acrid, his beloved scent. It knitted through her.

A different, aching tingle deep within her chest, and she felt it. Felt him. Her wolf. Her songmate. The aching desolation in her chest eased, and there he was. Their bond. A warm, beautiful feeling melting her heart.

Mac's breath hitched. He hissed. Shuddered. Then Gemma watched her mate begin the vicious internal struggle, the strain to suppress his anger, his fear. Inch by inch, damping flame after raging, torturous flame, he reeled his volatile emotions back in, smothering them within that iron control.

Eventually, Mac rested with his head on her shoulder too, breathing deeply, nose pressed to her neck, snuffling her soothing scent. Gemma found that she was crooning under her breath, massaging gently at his scalp, enjoying the silken run of his hair through her fingers.

He was still boiling with anger.

And when Mac moved, he kept her cradled on one arm, tucked into his side.

The wolf Mac would have killed, the former leader of the enemy guards, was standing two steps down, beyond a guard ring of Little Gems standing around their Alphas. His eyes swirled dark, hollow with emotion. Mac's still smouldering gaze fell to the hand held out towards them, palm up, the sign of a wolf entreating an Alpha to take him into his pack.

Slowly the Warlord's burning gaze lifted back to the eyes of the wolf who, five minutes earlier, had injured his mate.

The guard shuddered uncontrollably, but held his ground.

Gemma snuggled her nose in closer to her mate's throat, her nostrils burning in the scent seething off him, raging higher again. A little shiver trembled down her spine. Mac was so damn volatile. And dangerous - she could barely comprehend the weight of the packs he now encompassed - so many wolves, tearing at his mind - he was only just in control.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 17



Muffled cries filtered through the double doors leading to the back of the balcony level of the auditorium: howls and the scents of thick, fresh blood and fear. The doors were slightly ajar.

On the short landing several yards ahead of Gemma, almost too swiftly for her to follow, Mac dove for the base of the entrance, twisting onto his back with a palm braced and extended over his head. As one hand slammed open the door, the other flashed blindingly quickly through the widening crack and bit into the raised, clawed foot of the leader of the wolves waiting to ambush them. His momentum sweeping him through the entrance on his back, Mac's shoulders heaved and he swung the enemy wolf in a vicious circle around the rest of the awaiting ring, the razor-sharp claws of his hapless scythe shearing through the ambush, sheeting blood.

Gemma didn't see what her mate did next. Up here, she had a clear view beyond to the events on the ground floor and her nose drew her eyes to what was happening below, near the stage entrance. The view shocked her into stillness. Nicolas Grey and Louise Faulk were standing side-by-side with their backs against the stage, a reception for ranks of chained wolf slaves who were being dragged in by several Faulk and Grey guards. Some of the chained wolves were fighting desperately. Others staggered in dazed, drugged. Either way, the efficient, indifferent claws of the Faulk and Nicolas Grey sheered through the jugular of each in turn, before the guards tossed the bodies onto a growing pile in front of the stage. A factory of slaughter - it was so efficient. Inhuman. Why?

Her heart jolted as her mate speared a savage conveyance into her head: the Louse and Grey were killing their imprisoned enemies, wolves who Gemma and Mac had hoped to free.

Rage surged in Gemma's throat, and she darted forward.

Firm hands grabbed her shoulders, and Warren hauled her back.

"No," the warrior hissed under his breath. "You insanely angry are manageable. He is not." The other four of her pack who Mac had ordered to guard her formed a tight-packed shield wall around her.

"I can't just -," spat Gemma, and then she broke off as a piercing yowl sounded from underneath the balcony. At the same time an echoing shout thundered in her head.

All warriors to me, Mac's incensed order reverberated through all her pack, together with a stark image of the slaughter in the room below. The conveyance was open, it was broadcast violently to all wolves within his range, judging from the winces creasing the faces of every wolf in the room - even the Louse flinched momentarily, and glanced up at the enraged Alpha slashing indomitably through the ranks on the balcony who were struggling to even slow his passage.

However, even as he called, Mac's mind was furrowed with doubt, racing through possibilities - why the hell this ostentatious showy killing? It would be simpler, quicker, to have the guards kill the dissidents in their cells. The reason, he feared, was to draw the rebels here, consolidate them for some sort of trap - what? He was dubious about calling them. Yet neither could he just leave the Faulk to her slaughter.

So he would just spring the trap and deal with whatever she flung at his wolves. Damn her. Damn Grey. They would regret this.

A flashing cloud of ash-blonde fur was fighting her way toward the stage below, leaping onto one of the guards who was dragging the next victim forward. Natasha was still limping, but lethal. At her back was the huge, feral-eyed bulk of the wolf who had been holding her wrists downstairs: the first wolf outside the Gems to receive the antidote. He was lumbering more stiffly than the lithe sjeste, limbs more accustomed to confinement than freedom, but no enemy came within his orbit and survived. The anger burning off the pair of them was hair-raising, even from this distance.

However, there were hundreds to Faulk wolves in the room; nearly all of the guards, all shifts, plus a small troop of Greys. The three Alpha warriors were struggling against the tide of such numbers, while the swift, brutal slaughter continued.

On Mac's call, the flickers of erratic thoughts from her pack had coalesced into one strong, coherent stream and Gemma could feel their rapid convergence on the auditorium, the pull of that command, together with the reason behind it, reeling them in effortlessly.

Moreover, the Gems had fewer opponents to fight through. The bludgeon of Mac's image of what was happening in here seemed to have floored many of the Faulk guards still fighting outside. Those who had not been selected for this duty - because they would not acquiesce with this?

Rupert burst in the doorway at the rear of the stalls, at the head of a swirling troop of furious Gems and their new allies. Seconds later Andrea and Mo leapt through the emergency exit to the right. The screams and snarls of killers and defenders escalated in a crescendo, driving the black rage higher in her head while Gemma struggled against the limbs holding her back, crying in anger.

Then a new wolf scent materialised beside her and Alan's voice snapped urgently in her ear as he slapped one hand over her eyes, the other over her mouth: "This isn't your anger. Separate yourself. One of you has to keep calm!" The scent of his vinegar-soaked fingers shocked Gemma back into reason with a shudder of revulsion, and she heaved a deep, repulsed breath as she apologetically withdrew the claws which had automatically risen to sink into Alan's arm.

Both of her second's hands lifted, and she and Alan stood side-by-side for a moment, watching the bloodbath below. The view was shocking, but not as frightening as the fury of the storm clouds scudding through her head.

Through Mac.

Her Alpha was furiously slaying his way toward the front of the balcony, directly above the murderous pair by the stage. What had happened to her Mac? His control had always been so calm, so deep, a still silent ocean which nothing had ruffled. Yet in an instant, witnessing this soulless killing had whipped the ocean into a colossal, destructive medley of emotions, howling in a grip of a hurricane. Gemma staggered where she stood, leaning back against a pillar as she felt her mate giving free reign to the tearing maelstrom of his killing rage, unleashing it, pulling all of the wolves in his battle meld to respond with the same ruthless drive while he led them into the vicious melee.

Gemma's own emotions steadied, pulling away from Mac's brutal will to retaliate. For a moment, she had been able to sense all of his wolves: both her tiny pack in the battle meld here, plus layer upon countless layer of wolves clinging from the outside. The tendrils of their vows were knotted in his mind, thousands of gossamer threads straining together to follow the spear thrusts of his searing commands. The depth and number of their knots was excruciating, smothering.

Resentment rose in Gemma as she had felt the deep-rooted, jangling pain caused by the innumerable thoughts clashing through Mac's mind. The pain of the constant tearing at him was feeding the collective fury, drowning him in bloodlust: his, and theirs.

Then a cold douche of fear followed as she realised: without those threads, Mac would be lost. Battle brought a wolf's most primitive emotions to the fore, and a wolf needed to be stable, strong, in order not to sink into berserk rage. Or he needed an even stronger Alpha to hold him in a steady meld. Her wolves trusted Mac to prevent them from breaking apart, yet gouged through the Aster Warlord himself, splitting him in two, was the loss of his mate.

Mac should be disintegrating under the primal urge driving him. He needed to let go, drop into the cold, lost paths his desolation had scored through his mind over the past months. The chasm was too deep to have healed; the fear was almost more unbearable now that he was at risk of losing her again.

Yet throughout numerous battles over the last months, her Alpha had been unable to completely submerge under his despair and anger. Then, as now, he had been incapable of dragging the massive weight of the thousands of filaments down with him into insanity - all those minds, all those wolves. Awash with pain, Mac had wavered several times on the brink. But he was an Alpha. He couldn't drag them all down with him.

Her Alpha.

Gemma could feel her renewed bond with him strengthening, her resolve hardening as she witnessed what drove this reckless savagery. Her mate was finding relief in killing, as he had done countless, countless times over the past months.

Sadness and anger churned through her, and Gemma leaned weakly on the pillar behind her.

He needed time and peace to heal. To bring him back to himself.

Mac, she called.

The effect was instantaneous.

As though seared with an electric shock, Mac suddenly kicked out of the destructive, avenging cycle with which he was leading yet one more battle meld. Reset, as though blinking in a strong light, his heart suddenly smoothed. The turbulent, crashing force of his rage was reeled in, contained, and then redirected in clear thrusts of thought, the power channelled and directed cleanly, and she could feel the answering tremor of awareness running through all of their pack. The impact of the battle meld had just multiplied with the clarity of their Alpha. No energy wasted in turbulent rage.

Stay with me, picchu. I will stay calm if you just - stay with me. Mac's mind was echoing in guilt and relief, deeply shaken. The rage was so enmeshed in him, he had not melded without it in so long, his battles were now all fought this way. Yet his mate had just reached through his shields as though they weren't there: no one could do that. No-one else had been able to even see the vicious emotion that had led them, all these months. But now - he was pulled back by the shame of what she had seen in him: his picchu.

Gemma sighed shakily, and looked up at Alan. "I will stay safe," she promised quietly, the knowledge shocking through her. She had to ensure her Alpha stayed centred; he loathed what he became now, in battle. She shared the promise with her mate. However, a wistful thought pulled at her: they were her pack, too.

I need an overview of the whole fight, Mac said. He was succinct by necessity as he caught a swell of urgent thoughts slinging at him. But Gemma melted in the emotion lacing the brief conveyance: Mac couldn't hide his relief - he was relying on her to hold him stable.

"Then I will join the fray, if you permit, my Alfamme," Alan responded formally, his sombre eyes empty of their usual sarcasm as he hovered beside her, quivering. Gemma nodded, and her second disappeared beyond her shield wall in moments.

The wereem glanced up at the banks of huge lights suspended in rows from the ceiling, and murmured to her bodyguards out of the corner of her mouth, "Any idea how to get up there?"

By the time they had scrambled as fast as they could up the access ladders onto the main gantry, the fight had changed.

Gemma lay flat on the mesh walkway, facing down, her five guards swiftly stationing themselves around her, each facing out in a different direction. Gemma linked with them and with Mac, feeling like an eagle, keenly observing every nuance of movement in the room below through six sets of eyes, holding an open stream of imagery for all of her pack.

They were in trouble: the trap had been sprung. With all of the rebels now centred here, more Faulk were pouring through the doors to the auditorium, the bulk of the main pack from above ground, reinforcements called in to separate and surround the 'invaders'. Only the superior speed, alertness and cohesive meld of the small band of rebels had kept them from yet being overwhelmed.

Plus Mac kept bludgeoning the reinforcement wolves with images of what had been happening in this hidden lair, which they hadn't even known existed. He seared into their heads graphic scenes of the murder which their Alfamme had been perpetrating only minutes earlier, punctuated with shattering stills of her ringmastering the warm-up acts at the Advent show, acts that Mac had endured while waiting for his mate's appearance. The Faulk kept trying to reinforce her meld shield, but she was not strong enough to hold Mac out and each time he punctured delicately through, they could all hear the Louse broadcasting screaming denials, warning her pack that they were being spooked by enemy propaganda.

Why didn't Mac just crash her?

There was revulsion and disbelief in the eyes of many of the Faulk. The arriving wolves couldn't deny the scents steeped into the room, and the blood of the victims lying beside the stage was smeared over the hands of their Alfamme, the chains of the fallen still looped through the lifeless heap.

Gemma watched several of the new Faulk wolves alternating between jerking into movement and staggering to a halt like characters in a badly streamed download. "What's going on?" she asked.

"They're fighting the meld," Simone answered gleefully.

"What?" said Gemma.

Warren explained: "When you cleave to an Alpha - the wolf is the one holding on. He or she can let go at any time, circle." Yeah. She could feel that. All of her wolves clinging onto her. Ow.

"Except when the Alpha melds them - expands his shield, pulls all the oaths together, into one huge shell, and it locks the oaths in place. You can't let go, not in the meld," explained Simone.

"But that lot want to," Warren said, pointing to the jerky puppets below. "They're trying to let go. No single wolf can break out of a battle meld, but if enough are fighting, all together, then the meld becomes unstable, and disintegrates."

"She's finding it hard to control them?" asked Gemma. "Is that why they stop and start?"

"You felt it, didn't you Alfamme? In the meld, we're all kind of - naked to you. Disobeying hurts, then; most of the time, it doesn't even occur to us," said Simone.

"Unanimis lupi," muttered Zeb, behind her. Whatever.

Gemma hadn't thought about it before, but when they had been running to the lab, fighting their way through the Faulk, she had never even thought of her wolves not doing as she wished, hadn't even really thought of them as them. Only us: her pack had followed her thoughts just as her arm or leg would have.

Her eyes were fixed on the jerky movements of the newly arrived Faulk wolves fighting the meld, she saw the shiver run through them each time her mate gently punctured the Faulk's shields with another disturbing image. How many rebels would it take to tip the balance?

Then a halo of fine, ash-blonde hair dancing far below drew Gemma's eyes off to one side. Natasha Vanilchov was alone in the centre left of the ground-floor seating, swirling unceasingly, holding back a raging tide of combatants, never still for a moment, leaping, lunging and dodging in deadly grace.

Gemma's eyes widened as she realised why the Vanilchov Alfamme seemed closer, spotlighted among the other wolves teeming below. She was fighting on the chair backs. Stunned, the wereem's gaze dropped to the flashing, slender legs - Tasha's feet were misted by a cloud of white fluff ripped from the upholstery as her rear claws bit into chairback after chairback while she danced effortlessly across the rows of seating among her enemies.

A stab of furious terror from her mate presaged the sight which Mac had feared as soon as Gemma had focussed on Tasha: Nicolas Grey, poised in his flight through one of the side doors near the fighting sjeste, was lifting his gun toward her prominent figure. Gemma heard a heavy, double-echo of Get down! hit the Vanilchov Alfamme just as a press of Faulk warriors surged forwards and forced the blonde to sway towards them, unaware of Grey levelling the weapon at her back.

Gem! Mac called, pulsing a frantic image. His mate found herself already diving head-first from her perch, his plan clear in her mind. The tight mesh of their thoughts held no room for doubt, and the distant floor beyond the balcony rail was not drawing her as urgently as his eyes. Then she flashed past him, Mac's hands locked around her ankles, and Gemma swooped in a wide arch, suspended upside down in his grip while her mate looped dizzyingly upside-down under a heavy-duty camera pole protruding from the balcony front, his rear claws locked together behind the strut. They were a beautiful pair of acrobats, perfectly choreographed, in complete harmony. When Gemma neared the nadir of their swing, the sharp blue eyes of the Vanilchov sjeste looked up as though to a sharp call, clashing with hers. Tasha leapt to meet Gemma, hands reaching like a small child for a parent.

It felt so right.

The wereem grabbed the Alfamme around the waist and with the force of hers and Mac's combined momentum, half-swung, half-flung her, claws outstretched, across the gap into the face of her startled enemy. Nick stumbled backward, his head snapping up from the sights of the gun he had been focussing along, face turning white.

Complete harmony. Of all of Grey's victims, one stood out. This kill was Tasha's.

Mac had already let go and was somersaulting upright, flipping his mate above him and spinning her so that she landed breathless on one of his shoulders just as his legs absorbed their momentum as they hit the carpeted floor, one of his hands swiping out to swat away the closest enemy wolf at the same time.

Gemma had twisted automatically to look over her shoulder at where the Vanilchov sjeste had landed on Nicholas Grey, leaving her own safety to Mac. Natasha's limbs were whirling almost faster than Gemma could follow, her opponent shadowing in hurried defence: a rake to the neck - blocked; spinning kick - blocked; drop and spring upward back inside his defence, led by a lethal, outstretched hand - Gemma's heart jolted as she watched Nick slam backwards with blood suddenly spurting from his throat, then jerk a second time as he fell, punctured in the chest by five razor-claws, his legs folding like wet cardboard.

Damn. In the end, it had been so fast.

The wereem's eyes rested stunned on the limp figure of the dark-haired, elegantly dressed bane of her last year, lying sprawled on the floor underneath his former victim. Tasha was already tearing into the Grey wolves still centred around their late leader, her fury seemingly unabated.

But Gemma couldn't drag her eyes away from the ungainly sprawl of stilled limbs. Was that it?

Then the wereem's eyes flashed angrily as one of the Grey wolves reached for the dropped gun. A heartbeat later, Tasha's slender foot lashed out in a kick, and brown gaze met blue again on a second moment of clear understanding as the gun flew unerringly through the air towards where Gemma was still sitting on her mate's shoulder. She lunged to catch it, slipping from her perch, and was grabbed and swung around Mac to land lightly on her own two feet among the members of her pack who had run up beside him. A horde of enemies was closing in on them.

Gemma's eyes, burning with a cold light, were drawn beyond, to where Madam Faulk was fighting by the stage. Adam's mordeuse. The gun was heavy in her hand, and she barely noticed as the ring of wolves standing protectively around her engaged.

'No wolf would use silver on another,' her memory of the Silback Alpha's accusation whispered.

She was not a wolf.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 17 Extended Scene



This is an extension of the scene in Ch 17, page 3 – between when they defeat Louise and Tzo arrives. I rewrote it a while back to answer various questions and was going to post it once I'd finished all revisions but that's not going to for be a long while yet so I decided to post this now as reply and thanks for all the comments.




Nearly an hour later, Gemma was massaging her scalp while she plodded wearily around the last corner of the stairway down to the foyer in front of the main auditorium doors. The change in the atmosphere sweeping through the wolves packed underground was electric.

She was weaving through a tide of Faulk and ex-Greys. Their former enemies had nearly all circled to Mac and herself; those who hadn't had either been killed, or exiled, depending on their complicity. Now the warriors were regrouping, slightly dazed, eating the cold remains of the festive foods prepared for the show guests hours earlier. Refueled, the first were wearily making their way out of the underground complex to take up positions along the perimeter wall and try to sleep while they awaited the arrival of Warlord Tzo with his army. Alan nodded politely to her when he passed at the back of a group of Faulk wolves, all grimacing slightly at their piquant headaches, their scents a pungent mixture of shame, elation and determination. 

Gemma stared after him, startled and a little disturbed. Alan being polite was unsettling.

Standing in the doorway at the back of the stalls, her eyes were distracted by the chaos of wolves teeming in all directions, and the piles of ungainly, unmoving shapes scattered around the vast room. One dark puddle of limbs slumped between the corner of wall and floor not far to her right was Nicholas Grey, the handsome face seeming to stare straight at her, incredulous at his own death. 

He looked so small.

Her eyes lifted. She stiffened. A stream of fighters were evacuating through the far door by the stage. Standing just a little out of their way a tall, tawny-haired figure was fiercely hugging a smaller figure to his chest. An untidy tangle of platinum blonde hair was just visible around the bulk of Mac's shoulders. Natasha was pressed as close as she could get in his arms, her face buried against his neck. They were both completely motionless, although the fierceness of the embrace made clear how strongly they felt.

A flash of the old rage shot through the wereem. 

She stomped on it.

Natasha had been through hell. Gemma was planning on hugging her own brother later. Grow up, she admonished herself. He is just offering her comfort.

After a long, silent moment, Natasha's head lifted from Mac's neck, her eyes met his, and gently they began to share little, loving kisses.

Gemma's eyes shot wide in shock. Too much comfort!

Her mind was incredulous, the disbelief battering in waves against the truth of what her eyes were telling her. But it wasn't true. Mac loved her, Gemma. This was wrong.

Through the dinning of blood in her ears, Gemma could vaguely hear a wolf behind her murmuring something. Then the scent caught her - what? Who? - and she managed to tune in to the words he was rumbling.

"... watch you do that to someone else without ripping his head off." 

Mac's voice was behind her right shoulder.

Gemma spun from where she was leaning weakly against the door jam, her legs almost giving way, and was supported by a pair of hands. Furious, she swiped them away.

It was Mac. 

Dazed, she twisted her head to look back across the room. An automatic snarl escaped at the sight of her mate kissing the dishevelled-yet-devastating platinum blonde so passionately that he lifted her off her feet. 

Her mate's double.

"I'm sorry, love, I couldn't tell you until Tasha was safe," Mac said, voice subdued. "The key to her resistance was that Nick did not know that all these years, despite the many times she was moved, Ulf has always been able to quarter Grey range and close the distance enough to meld with her. To donate his shiele - and mine, bolster her strength before Nick could break her and force her to bear his cubs. Twin has been hiding in Grey range, hunting for her ceaselessly, helping her." 

Mac sighed, half a growl, and continued: "Had he known, Grey would have moved Tasha far, far away, where we would not have been able to support her. It would have killed them both had Nick succeeded." His voice was a thread of apologetic sound. 

Stunned, Gemma glared up at the tawny-haired wolf looming over her, his features sombre while he looked over her head at the entwined couple. She twitched wide eyes again to the tawny-haired wolf still wrapped around the Vanilchov sjeste.

Tor and Ulf Mackeld.

Identical twins.

"You're dead," she breathed, voice hoarse and eyes wide. Tor Mackeld. 

Mac closed his eyes and sighed, "I was afraid you'd take it like this."

Gemma snorted an angry huff and punched her mate's arm: That comment wasn't a prediction! Yet. 

I'm just as dead as you, Mac challenged. Although, unlike you, I had been slowly poisoned with chronic doses over months, so it was a tiny dose which cut me off, killed all connections.

Gemma's skin lit with pain, her heart curdling: Mac had been experimented on by Nicholas Grey and his father. He had obliquely referred to this before, but she had never thought - months? Little by little, day by day. What she had seen in here -. 

Her mind jumped away from the thoughts that were pulling the berserk fury into her mind, and grabbed at a safe point of anger: "So were you ever damn well betrothed to her?"

The green eyes reopened, a swirling mixture of contrition and amusement, and Gemma's heart jolted again, almost bursting on a sudden surge of joy: he was hers. No rivals. He always had been. Bastard!

"Gem, I never said I was betrothed to her..."

"You implied it!"

"... just explained why the Mackeld Alpha couldn't be seen panting after another woman," he clarified. "Ulf is the true Mackeld Alpha, I was just filling in."

This time she really punched him. It made him smile. 

"You're not the Mackeld Alpha?" she snapped. "You're the Aster Warlord! You let me think you were Mackeld Alpha. Everyone thinks you're Mackeld Alpha - including your own damn pack!"

"I was just pretending." He wrinkled his nose at her. Damn, she wished her thumps would wipe that grin off his face. Every time she thought of extending her claws to cause some real damage, his happy scent would catch her, together with twitches of conveyance, and she found herself, infuriatingly, melting. Mac had hated keeping this from her, knowing that it was causing her pain. The insouciant relief he felt now was burning off his skin. Together with a deep, melting pride that she had trusted him.

She was an idiot.

"No-one could know who I really was, in case it got back to Nick," Mac explained further. "Luckily, me having been dead for years, the possibility never even crossed most of their minds." 

Irritating reason marched across Gemma's seething mind: as a human, she had been eager to turn into an easily-controlled werewolf. Since she'd become one, one of her mordeurs had been Nick's son. Who knew what the kid would've been able to read in her head without her even knowing? 

But oh, she was still mad at him. 

"How much were you pretending?" Gemma hissed. "Tor Mackeld - how much of what you've been feeding me can I actually believe?"

He stilled, and shared. It was like when she had slipped behind his battle shields earlier, and seen the angry vengeance riding him. Except this was deeper. No words, he just showed her the place in his heart where his picchu lived. Complete empathy. 

She could feel how raw he was, how the worried edges were torn and cracking, rips leaking pain into so deep love. Gemma tightened the arms that had somehow crept around him and snuggled closer, sighing when his scent tickled her nose

Her wolf. He was here. He was hers. She would have plenty of time to be mad at him another day. 

A twinge of worry hit. Hopefully.

There was one stab of hurt within him that she could assuage now. Gemma growled into his fur, the words soft: "No-one. I was rising to mate at Halloween, yes, but you stopped the show and the silver smothered the mating-heat. Then I was hidden until this week." No-one has touched me.

The tremor inside him deepened, and he lifted her up so their faces were level, swirling eyes searching hers for confirmation, hoping, more fearful of her scarring than mere contaminating male rivals, he could wipe their taint out.

Gemma rolled her eyes. "I'm not a liar," she taunted. Relief flashed in Mac's eyes and his lips dove in to shut her up.

Aren't you supposed to be busy? Gemma conveyed hazily some moments later when his head lifted slightly and kisses began to drift, exploring her soft skin.

I've given my orders. Everyone knows what to do, to prepare, Mac replied. He began to nibble tender little bites down the side of Gemma's neck. And it's important for a warrior to get what relaxation he or she can, when he can. The tremble inside her was increasing to match his.

Long minutes later, another thought struck. Gemma jerked upright on her perch astride one of Mac's knees, to find he was sitting on one of the guard's seats just outside the auditorium doorway.

"Weren't you married before?" she demanded. Then a wave of colour washed over her skin at the insensitivity of her question.

"Yes," was all Mac said. His sparkling eyes softened a little toward sadness, and they dropped to fasten on the golden bracelet gleaming on her left wrist. 

"Sorry," Gemma whispered, her throat closing while the shadow deepened in his eyes, remembering what she had been told about Grace's suspect death, and Tor Mackeld challenging Nicholas Grey's father. Mac twisted the gold band, running a finger along the smooth surface. His eyes were sombre but peaceful when they lifted back to hers.

"It was a long time ago, Gem." 

How long?

"Alphas bond young - it stabilises the pack. Grace and I met when we were training with Nigel: lovemates, then bondmates. We were happy together."

The shadow in his eyes was permanent, but softened by time, and the life he had built since. But still his expression darkened when he whispered, "I couldn't protect her."

"Share with me?" Gemma asked, her soft voice pleading.

Mac shook his head, the gesture fierce with repulsion. "No! No wolf would share such memories."

But Gemma was his songmate. She was straining, trying to help, ease this for him, understand. Mac was thrusting away the vile images which she plunged into, inadvertently reaching past his shields.

Excruciating. Thoughts and sensations churned, a turbulent, raking current of memories scouring through her. Grace had been captured on her first rut-run, but had not yielded to the pain the Greys had inflicted on her, not with Mac bolstering her resistance. So the Greys had caught and tortured Mac, directly, to make his bondmate submit. Submit to carrying Nicholas Grey's child - Walter Grey, Nicholas' father, had been obsessed with passing on the Alphaship, if not directly to his son, to his son's child. Gemma shivered even under the blunted memory of that curdling pain. 

Over time the Greys' obsession had shifted to just forcing the Mackeld to grovel, to bring down this most hated of the true Alphas. Humble him. The raw cycle of pain, drugs, shiatz and suffering had blurred. It was only long afterward that Mac had realised that part of their obsession had been to replicate the wolf control drug which the Greys had had to purchase from the Faulk, even then. 

More and more silver, memory becoming patchy, Mac didn't know when Grace had died, or how. He only knew that he had come around, weak, mutilated, to know her death. The berserk rage had taken him, and he had killed his way out of the Grey range, uncaring and unconscious of all the damage inflicted on himself.

And sickened - why had he not reached that rage earlier, for Grace?

Once free, guilt had turned him right back around with the death challenge, the mortefio, demanding vengeance. Walter Grey had used more silver in the fight, pushing Mac over the limit into the freefall of no pack, no bonds, nothing but the sickening, dragging guilt that killing the Grey Alpha had not assuaged.

Gemma's arms were closed tight around as much of her shivering wolf as she could reach. His face was buried in her neck, breaths deep and harsh against her skin while slowly the tremors shaking him subsided. He bit her gently, breaking skin, then his kiss burned the nick closed. Running his nose up her neck, he crossed her jaw to her lips, biting again, retreating, the tremble disappearing entirely. Mac took a deep breath, relaxing, blinking to clear his eyes while he looked down into Gemma's.

You OK? he asked. 

Gemma made a noise of frustration, placed her palms behind his head, and pulled his lips down to hers, hard.

I'm OK. But I'm sorry - I didn't mean to plunge you back into that. She blinked carefully while she explored his lips. They curved into a smile against hers.

I've never shared that with anyone, picchu. It is actually - a release, he said softly. Then added on a more caustic note, I didn't intend to inflict that hurt on you.

Gemma bit his lip this time. Her teeth were useless, didn't break the skin, but they emphasised her growl: It hurts more when you don't share how you're feeling.

Mac stilled, then smiled slowly, plastering her closer, painful memories evaporating in heat. Let me show you how I'm feeling, my picchu, he conveyed.

Who knew how many dazed minutes had passed, when a new scent caught her and Gemma resurfaced enough to yank her hand back from where it was sneaking down toward that bulge pressing against her thigh. 

The violent movement broke their kiss. Cheeks burning, she swam back into awareness of the wolves constantly coming and going from the siege preparations in the auditorium. Gemma tried to latch onto anything except the feel of him pressed against her, the scent of his arousal, the tingling awareness of the power of him dragging at her shimmering skin. Power. "What do you mean, you're not Mackeld Alpha?" she revived enough to totter back to the old subject, voice breathless. "Aren't they cloven to you?"

Mac tilted his head and nuzzled her nose lovingly, licking over her lips. Yes. But we don't really know how - we were a bit surprised, ourselves. 

They clove to Ulf after I died - well, you know what I mean, he explained. Years later, he enlisted me to take his place during his exile so he could guard Tasha. He held the links for me at first and they just kind of - morphed. All the Mackelds had, after all, been cloven to me before the bonds ripped, apart from a few of the youngsters, and the direct links just re-established. Healed. A bit like our bond has. They are cloven to Ulf and I both - like to Alpha and Alfamme, but they didn't know that, there was never any secondary pull to confuse them until Will came and forced me to shunter to Twin.

Gemma sighed and leaned her face into his shoulder fur, smiling ruefully while she breathed in his rich, delicious scent. Another wolf word to learn.

Her mate kissed her under her ear, chest rumbling on a half laugh.

Shunter: one of an Alpha pair passes the battle meld to the other, he explained. Only one can lead it or it will shatter if they think anything different, but with a tight-bonded pair, if the Alpha's about to collapse, he shunters to the Alfamme, and vice versa. Because of the distance I was from Mackeld pack, Will came to help by forming a bridge to Ulf. Once you are trained, Gem, you will be able to take that burden yourself, at need. That's what an Alpha pair does. So you can stop being so grouchy at Will.

Gemma lifted her head and stared balefully at her mate. "Will was being grouchy at me," she corrected.

Mac sighed, reached down a claw and pronged a cube of meat from the fragrant bowl of stew by their feet, which Gemma now vaguely remembered Andrea's scent approaching with a minute ago. He offered it to his mate. "They were upset that I had another pack, especially seeing how overstretched I was."

Gemma almost crossed her eyes, focussing on the savoury morsel in front of her lips, and wrinkled her nose. "Did you wash your claws?"

Her mate glared at her, popped the piece of meat into his own mouth, then made a show of licking clean his extended claw, sucking noisily at it. He pronged a second piece and presented it to her. Gemma grimaced in disgust and refused to open her lips.

You never really got my hygiene standards, did you? she said.

"Gemma, wolves don't have fragile stomachs - that includes you, now," Mac said, exasperated. "I've told you before, few edible poisons affect us. We eat our meat raw off the forest floor. And a warrior has to eat."

Stupidly, she shut her eyes while she pulled an even broader grimace of semi-real revulsion, tongue protruding between her lips, savouring the pleasing familiarity of arguing. A second later she clamped them closed, biting down on her mate's fingertip when the piece of stew was forced through onto her tongue. Her damn blunt teeth had never regrown, all she was doing was chewing on the end of his finger. Her eyes opened on a glare. 

In trying to wrench herself free of his arms, Gemma somehow only ended up on her back on the floor by their chair with her mate plastered down on top of her, his head bent and tongue thrusting the food further into her mouth. She struggled under his weight, trying not to burst into giggles while they played their old, familiar game of futile wrestling. Futile from her viewpoint.

It ended as it always did, with Gemma stilled, heaving short pants under his weight. But she had an additional disadvantage right now. "Why haven't my teeth grown back?" she garbled snappily around the piece of food in her cheek. 

Mac wrinkled his nose, ignoring his arousal and lifting partially onto one elbow to wash his fingers in the bowl of warm, soapy water that Ellen had just placed at his elbow. "To fix a broken tooth you have to pull it out by the root and wait for it to grow back - and you need the rest for eating, so will have to do it one by one, over time. Later, picchu. Teeth are slow." 

Oh hooray. Wolf dentistry torture to look forward to. Gemma grimaced, chewed and swallowed, before intoning with suitably sarcastic solemnity, a little short of breath under his weight, "Thank-you for sharing, oh my most beloved Alpha."

"Oh-oh. Don't you dare mock that phrase, little mate," Mac grinned.

Later still, he pulled himself away, declaring gruffly that they had to eat. After a quick scrub, sitting cross-legged opposite each other they used the chair seat as an impromptu table, savouring feeding each other the large bowl of stew.

Gemma's mind started whirring again. "So when Will came to our place in the city, he made you hand over the Mackeld battle meld to Ulf?" she asked, smiling as she posted another piece between her mate's lips. 

Mac nodded while he chewed, his eyes darkening. He and Twin between them pulled them from me.

"And since that shunter, the Mackelds have known who you are?" 

The pack would never betray either of us, Gem. Yes, they've been in shock, and a little angry, but also - jubilant.

A smile curved her lips. She could bet. But Ulf always knew you weren't dead? 




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 17 Extended Scene



Not at first, no - like you, all ties were ripped apart. But Twin - he thought he was going mad at first, when he started hearing me in his head again, years back. Mac scraped the chair out of the way, leaned forward, and bit her shoulder gently, sending a shiver down her spine. Then he began to kiss her better.

That's what gave me hope, picchu. I know you're as strong as me, and I just - hoped against hope.

Gemma squirmed aside and halted his advancing lips with an offered piece of food. I haven't run out of questions, she admonished. Gently Mac's teeth closed on her offering, and his lips caressed her fingertips in a brief kiss.

You're twisting my tail, Mac cried, his mind-voice echoing with disbelief and jubilation. His brows creased and a frown crossed his eyes, the joyous gleam dampened by resignation.

Shut up and kiss your mate, he then added incongruously. The second conveyance was clearer, without the faint echo, although the difference was so slight it was almost imperceptible. Gemma's breath caught while she stared at him, then looked to her right at the other Mac approaching from the open double doorway of the auditorium, hand in hand with his platinum-blonde companion.

You just accepted meat from a girl? The teasing words bounded again in Mac's head, sounding clearly within Gemma's. But, she realised with a flop of her heart, they did not originate from her mate.

She can run rings around you, Ulf, stop it, a female voice rebuked from a great distance. For all its faintness, Gemma recognised that voice from one stressful encounter months ago: Natasha.

Flabbergasted, she watched the couple join them cross-legged around the chair. The Mackeld twins, sitting side-by-side on the flagged floor opposite her, took Gemma's breath away. Her mate always took her breath away. Two of them was just unfair.

"You were the one who yelled at me," she murmured on a sudden realisation, heart pounding and head blundering in confusion. When she'd been driving the Porsche. Mesmerised, she couldn't help but stare, wide-eyed at the rugged beauty of them. Blatantly unfair.

Ulf grimaced, and Mac slanted a sideways look at his twin, leaving him to answer.

"I'm sorry, Gemma. You kept wanting to kill Nick. And while I applauded the sentiment, I couldn't risk the consequences," Ulf replied. His eyes ignited with feeling, and he stared across the short space at Natasha. His mate leaned forward and gently touched a finger to his lips.

"He couldn't keep his mouth shut," Mac translated wryly. "So I cut him off - didn't want you distracted just then."

Mac's brother twitched his eyes back to Gemma, the fierce light in them dying, and added, "Not the best way of introducing myself, apologies." Then a spark of amusement gleamed, "But I love what you've done to my natál." His gaze slanted sideways at his twin. Mac sighed.

Taking meat from a girl, Ulf taunted again.

Gemma was startled at the accusation. "I thought 'mates share kill'?" she quoted.

An eyebrow lifted. "Is that what he told you?" replied Mac's twin, swaying aside to evade the palm Mac was pushing at the side of his face in an attempt to tip him over. "Oh ho ho - right words, wrong sentiment: a male hunts for his mate, and they share his kill." He slanted a second mock-disgusted look at Mac. "Does lazy Twin send you off hunting for him too?"

Mac's arm and leg blurred, and his brother went rolling off across the floor, laughing.

A little smile tugged at Gemma's mouth, and she blinked away the sting in her eyes. Mac with Ulf was just - right. They were so at peace with each other, relaxed. A pair.

But she was also a little sad. She liked feeding Mac. Sharing that intimacy.

"Ignore my mate," Natasha advised on Gemma's right.

"Most males won't accept meat from their mate," Mac corroborated. He was carefully not looking at his brother when he added: "Feeble ones who worry about upholding their image." 

There was a blur of tawny limbs, which resolved into Ulf skidding across the floor shouting "Dammit, Mac!" through increased laughter.

"He calls you Mac?" she asked tentatively.

The smile that flickered across his face held a depth of unholy mischief. Natasha sighed heavily. "They both call each other Mac. They started as cubs, to cause as much confusion and mayhem as possible, swopping places incessantly." What a surprise. Gemma looked steadily into Mac's eyes, her own narrowed. 

Mac's smile deepened and he tilted the bowl containing the little remaining stew toward Gemma, distracting her. "Many sjeste would feel uncomfortable with this too." Gemma couldn't help but return that grin, picking out a succulent piece to present to his lips.

"No sjeste will hunt on the rut or after, when she might be carrying - too many have shifted automatically during the chase and lost the litter - so her mate hunts for her then," Natasha explained while she watched Mac accept Gemma's offering, his lips brushing against her fingertips in a brief kiss. "But most females hunt at other times. Yet somehow the 'Mates share kill' adage seems to have solidified into one-way machismo."

He would never have let Grace do that, the Vanilchov sjeste added privately, the direct conveyance clear in Gemma's mind.

Gemma turned her head to the woman sitting beside her, startled and questioning. Clear blue eyes met hers, shadowed but tentatively welcoming. Gemma felt a tiny knot of tension inside her twist and crumble. 

"I wanted to come and say thank-you," Natasha said quietly.

"You just did," Gemma replied, blinking back a sudden burn to her eyes. She couldn't explain what that simple conveyance meant to her. She felt as though Tasha had just patted her on the back approvingly.

A blur out of the corner of her eye, and Gemma and Tasha both turned their heads to watch a furry, cartwheeling ball of flashing claws and teeth tumble across the flags opposite. Ulf had pounced on Mac. Gemma rose to her feet, mouth open at the abrupt, vicious fight, but her companion reached out a hand and patted her calf, letting out another long sigh.

"They are Alpha natál. They love fighting each other, it's some weird form of relaxation," Natasha soothed. "And they haven't actually seen each other in years."

As if to prove her right, the ball suddenly catapulted apart, both figures panting with laughter while each checked his headlong career across the floor. After a moment of stillness, the pair rose to their feet and shared a grin, identical gleams on identical faces. They stepped in unison across to where their mates waited and folded with synchronous grace to sit cross-legged across from them again, still panting harsh breaths.

Gemma's eyes were darting from one to the other. There must be some difference. But she could see nothing physical, not now that her Mac had honed down over the months of her captivity to the same gaunt figure as his brother. Her eyes burned a little while they rested on her mate.

It was still impossible to mistake which was hers. Both had that lean, relaxed air of a top predator, both were sheathed in the invisible cloak of responsibility, leadership. Ulf was definitely someone you would be insane to mess with. 

But Mac was in a whole different league.

Gemma shifted uneasily, aware that her scent had changed, and looked away quickly from the gleam that lit her mate's eyes. His scent also changed, and Gemma could feel the little hairs along her skin rising to excited attention, her breath quickening.

Stop it, Gemma admonished.

Mac raised an eyebrow, and his scent thickened further. You want me to stop being aroused by you? Dream on, picchu.

Ulf also raised an amused eyebrow to his twin, then shifted his weight backwards to evade an admonitory slap from his mate, who was snapping, "Don't be rude!"

Gemma's cheeks were burning.

Can Ulf hear everything I say to you? she demanded indignantly, stomach churning.

Of course not - as soon as your thoughts turn naughty or private, we both tighten our shields automatically and go one-to-one. Mac's smile across at her was crooked. Tash was rebuking him because it's impolite to overtly notice lust in another wolf's scent. That we can't hide.

"Tor," Natasha's strained voice broke in. "All these long years, all you've given me -." The words were wavering, tone rising while her throat tightened.

"Twin!" Mac interrupted, voice clipped and eyes soft on his adoptive little sister. Ulf leaned forward, closing both of his hands gently around the pair his mate had begun to twist together in her lap.

"Given me," Ulf corrected Natasha softly. "As I would do for him."

Harmony hummed soundlessly between the brothers. There were no words, just a mental affirmation of who they were. Of all that never needed to be said.

"But you deceived your mate, to protect me," Natasha protested. "Gemma thought I was your betrothed."

Gemma shrugged when the troubled gaze turned to her. "I trusted Mac," she replied casually.

Mac's mouth crooked at the corner.

I'm an idiot, she told him privately. She could feel Mac's link with his twin now, the thread twined oh so deeply through her mate, an inborn, unnoticed part of him. She could also feel the block hiding what she was currently conveying.

Gemma's eyes turned to Ulf, wondering how he felt to be blocked out, and he shot her a brief, enchanting smile before stepping forward to enfold Tasha in a hug, turning his attention to her. Gemma swallowed, taking a long breath, trembling when she looked across at her Mac. That smile had shared such a wealth of meaning. Ulf knew. Other wolves speculated, argued or flatly vetoed the idea that a werewolf could be this amazing Alpha's songmate. Ulf knew. And smiled.

She crossed the flagstones, sinking into Mac's lap and feeling his arms close around her, his breath snuffling at her neck. That delighted, welcoming smile from his twin made her tremble so badly. 

Are they songmates too? You said it would have killed them if Nick had succeeded. Gemma asked.

No, picchu. Lovemates, lifemates, soon to be bondmates - they have always been very close, but it is love alone. Love can kill. Love can heal.

Mac tilted up her chin with a gentle hand.

* 

It took some time, later again, for indignant words to penetrate the fog of lust and love enclosing Gemma. The speaker was striding across the foyer: "I know you two are identical, but would you quit with the synchronised smooching, Mac?"



Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 17



However, was she a good enough shot to be sure of hitting foe, not friend? As Gemma glared across the gap, eyes narrowed in assessment, another remembered warning flitted into her mind: 'Wolves lead by example.' Mac's statement.

She dismissed it.

The thought returned, stubborn as the wolf who had shared it. Wolves lead by example: Did she want her pack to start going around shooting their enemies with silver bullets?

Gemma growled under her breath, and looked down at the gun in her hand. She would use it to protect her mate, as a last resort. He wouldn't thank her. She would still do it. She glanced at Mac, clawing through the enemies in front of them, and back at the weapon. She growled again, more loudly: she wouldn't be able to carry it, once she shifted loup, she'd drop it as sure as she still did any piece of clothing; the gun wasn't wrapped around her wrist. Now or never.

This growl has heavy with frustration, while Gemma emptied the clip into the solid wood floor under her feet. Half-way through, she realised the emerging shape resembled the outline of a love heart, and a rueful smile tilted the wereem's lips as she carefully finished her picture.

Little Gem, Warren's voice whispered privately in both Alphas' heads, the tone heavy with dread. The images Warren sent Mac and Gemma conveyed a double layer of meaning. Still cramped on the gantry underneath the distant lights, the faintest click had warned the watching warrior. After a moment of pondering, the wolf chemist had licked one finger, and was now holding the sensitive tip underneath one of the tiny holes perforating the pencil-sized pipe crossing the ceiling beside him. The jet of gas emanating silently from the line was tingling gently on his wet skin.

Simultaneously, his eyes were fixed on the hundreds of newly arrived Faulk wolves, far below. The rebellious ones. Slowly, the tense shoulders were relaxing, the enraged eyes turning dull, and they fell into fighting ranks, stepping cohesively to the insistent voice in their heads.

Gemma and Mac's eyes clashed, a single dread acknowledged between them: you could not force the meld upon even a drugged wolf. But if he or she was already melded? The fix had evidently been administered to all Faulk wolves, and the key was now dragging them into obedience, killing the rebellion Mac had provoked with the knowledge of what their Alfamme was.

We are out of antidote. Gemma's heart was in her throat.

And far outnumbered, my picchu, said Mac.

Gemma closed her eyes. She had had such a little time with her wolf. It wasn't fair.

I can give more blood, he offered.

That would kill him. Gemma's heart twisted in bittersweet love: Mac would prefer to die while giving them a possibility of success. But she shook her head, thankfully.

We haven't the time to make more. We have only minutes, not hours, against this force, she said.

There is more antidote, Jorgen's voice suddenly interrupted stridently, his conveyance painfully loud.

Gemma winced, while Mac grimaced and somehow tuned him quieter for them both while advising dryly, You're out of practice sending over distance, koiru.

Jorgen whispered almost inaudibly: What the hell do you think me and Ellen have been working on? The Alpha pair received an image of their scentless chemists hidden cramped side-by-side in the confines of the lab storeroom, filling lines of pea syringes with liquid.

More antidote.

Opal appeared at Mac's elbow, eyes ablaze with determination and fear.

If I can get to the mainframe, we could disable the dosing system, then replace this key with antidote, the small female faltered. If you will lead me there, my Alfamme. Opal's heart was pounding in dread - the tiny spaces terrified her. But they had to stop this.

Only intramuscular administration will work with the antidote, Gemma reminded her succinctly, absorbed in her thoughts.

And even if they freed them from the drug, the Faulk wolves would still be held by their Alfamme's meld. Gemma looked up at Mac, angrily: Why don't you just crash her?

His eyes were deep pools of quiet warning as he shared a private image, streamed by a solitary scout watching the local wolf airstrip, a few hours' run from the Faulk centre. Gemma's link with Ada was still broken, but through her mate she watched the White wolf look out over the thousands upon thousands of wolves amassed by the field, hearing her thoughts. Since midnight, the waif had been watching this army disgorge from several planes continuously flying in and leaving. A powerful, stocky wolf warrior stood unmoving at the side of the multitude, arms folded as he watched his troops form up in orderly ranks off the strip. Gemma's heart reeled: she recognised him, from Fort Amicable.

Warlord Tzo.

What is he doing here? the wereem demanded.

You said he hasn't the formula for the control drug? Mac replied obliquely.

Gemma almost started hyperventilating. No. The Tzo wasn't allowed to get it. Why the hell is he coming to get it now?

Mac's face twisted with anguish before he snapped it away, toward their foes, eyes burning in fury. Grey was the broker: Tzo didn't know who actually manufactured it, where to find the formulae, before - the Faulk was too cunning, he answered. But Tzo tracked me here, after I followed you. His army will be here by dawn. He evidently is tired of having the drugs doled out piecemeal, at no doubt extortionate prices.

Gemma stared at the back of her mate as he dove recklessly back into the fray, her heart faltering at the feeling he was smothering. Her Alpha had elected, against his Alpha judgement, to come here to rescue his songmate. The Tzo had followed him, to find the Faulk laboratories. Mac's people, their civilisation, the free choice of the wolf to circle, might be wiped out as a result.

What could she say? You can't crash the Faulk? she faltered.

We will need her wolves to stand any chance of holding the Tzo out - the majority have not been a party to this, Gem, do not deserve this taint. Yet if I crash their meld, they will be incapable of fighting again for some days. I will only do so as an absolute last resort. We need to defeat her, alone.

Her mate had conveyed the impression that Fealden Wolflord was also on his way, but with only one air transport, his progress would be so slow. The old Wolflord had teams working around the clock to create enough of Gemma's travel drug for his entire army, but in the meantime, only a few advance warriors were barrelling their way across the country on human transport.

Mac had to hold back the Tzo with the resources he had here. Or die.

He would rather die than fail.

*

Now! called Alan sharply, sending Gemma an image of the adversaries his small troop of fighters were facing in the packed confines of the corridor.

Not long after she and Opal had left the auditorium, with the increasing numbers of subjugated Faulk falling into ranks of unswerving attack under Madame Faulk's command, Mac had lead his forces out and split them up to harry the advancing enemy in small groups, holding the corridors for as long as they could as the Faulk tried to force their way through to the now disabled control room.

Gemma sprang out of the ventilation shaft behind the two lines of advancing Faulk, her wolf eyes narrowed on the route she had chosen, to keep it clear for her companions. She bounded forwards on a burst of lightening energy, swerving past the legs of their foes, slapping tiny bulb-injectors to each calf. In her periphery she noted with satisfaction that Simone and Mo were faster this time, almost managing to keep pace. Her attention was jerked fully ahead again. Despite the lack of scent to the stealth ambushers, the Faulk wolf in front had been alerted to her approach through his packmates and spun.

But she was too close to him when he swiped at her, he had misjudged both her speed and where she was aiming for. The warrior, like nearly all of them, wasn't expecting his new assailant to simply slap him on the calf as she bounded past, causing a sharp prick of negligible pain. The Faulk wolf completed his spin, dropping to a crouch to shear his rear claws after her but the wereem was already rolling underneath the leaping legs of the defensive wall of her allies, and sprang back to her feet in relative safety behind them, turning swiftly to watch with satisfaction as her two koiru also skidded to safety.

You can't keep doing this - they are becoming aware of your tactics, swore Mac, the last word cut short as his attention was yanked elsewhere.

Gemma gritted her teeth. It had taken her long enough to badger her mate into letting her lead this third ambush squad, only the awareness that they were losing, every wolf rebel having to do everything they could, swaying him at all. And then he had seen her run. He had seemed to calm down for a while, after that.

Gemma breathed out a raw breath, while Ellen ran up behind her, holding out a bag of replacement injectors.

"Here," the stockier female panted. "Lars, 'drea and that skinny Faulk have injected another two dozen too, but Lars was injured. The A says you need a break, to eat and change your tactics - this is getting too predictable. Walter and Shirley are bringing some food"

Gemma snorted. The A says. But she slanted an eye at her two panting packmates and noted the slightly drawn edge to their quivering frames. Sometimes, maybe, she should listen to the A.

Walter? she called the young wolf.

On my way. The Alfamme winced at the eager reply. Nearly all of the younger Little Gems bellowed while conveying over distance; how long was it going to take them to learn that they no longer had to shout?

She brooded, as she calculated how long it would take Walter to make it up here - the image he had flashed had showed him running past the lower cells. OK, the other two needed a break. They were slightly slower than she anyway, she worried about them. But meanwhile, every second passing, more of her wolves were under attack, being driven back by superior numbers. And Rupert's lot were really in trouble: Mini and Tate were both heavily injured.

Gemma sprang and caught the edge of the beam above her head, swinging to kick her legs easily up and delicately spear a hold with her rear claws, before spinning herself back into the void space so familiar to her.

Gemma! cursed Alan.

Wait for us! exclaimed Mo, leaping after her but falling back as his claws missed the tiny hold.

Back in five, she replied shortly to them both. If Walter gets here, don't eat it all, keep some for me.

*

When Gemma cautiously poked her head out of the broken vent above the laundry double doors, her breath was caught by the whirlwind of claws and teeth holding firm some twenty paces away down the corridor. Mac's tawny fur offset Natasha's ice-blonde beautifully, the colours blurring and blending together as they spun around each other in ceaseless, flawless music , holding back the Faulk. Mesmerised by the perfect choreography of their deadly war dance, Gemma watched for timeless seconds, spellbound. The pair were moving as one wolf, two parts of a whole. A memory glided into her mind, of Will Bancroft and his mate Rebecca working together silently, seamlessly, and breathtakingly swiftly to clean, staunch and heal an impossibly punctured Mackeld warrior back at the range. They had moved like this, as though one brain were directing all sets of blurringly fast limbs.

Gem? choked Rupert, blood splattering across his nose as he and Zoe fought to keep the corner clear where a pair of their injured packmates were curled, desperately licking across deep, mangled wounds, but too drained to heal with any speed.

A jolt shot through the wereem and, angry with herself, she shot unnoticed across the corridor, swinging back up into the main parallel vent to take her beyond the wall to where her koiru were struggling to stay alive. This was how she had developed the burst of speed which even Mac had to admit was faster than any wolf he had seen: her sprint as she had transitioned from vent to vent over the past months had kept her undetected by the Faulk guards.

Past the wall and down on the ground again, running, unease flashed across her skin and Gemma skidded silently to a halt just before the last corner leading to the double doors, behind which she could hear the desperate fight between her wolves and Faulk warriors.

Skin prickling, the wereem drew in a long, gasping breath through her half-open mouth. A fragment of metallic, rank scent teased at her nose. A pair of scent-masked wolves were poised, silent, just around the corner, this side of the doors.

Ambush.

Gemma's heart was thudding in despair. She couldn't take on two wolves. Not when they were waiting for whoever ran around that corner, not when they were ready. Mac was right, the Faulk wolves would know by now that the rebel ambushers were scent-masked too.

But Rupert's lot needed help!

I think you may have located Bikhal, Mac cautioned. No-one has seen him for some time, and it is unlike him to keep out of a fight - I wondered where the Louse had sent him.

Bikhal. The Faulk champion. No way.

Both of their hearts were keening, together. The Alpha pair could feel Rupert and Zoe shredding under the relentless onslaught. Arlene, Simone and Pete were running up the side corridor to join the main route behind Gemma, also coming to aid their packmates, but they had little more chance than she to get past the waiting ambush. Bikhal and who?

The Alpha made a decision. He detested it. But he had seen his mate run.

Can you lead the pair down here? Now, so that they will be beyond the turning before our other three reach the main corridor?

How the hell had Mac gotten down to the shower corridor already? Damn her wolf moved fast.

Gemma was already skidding around the last corner to the ambushers, rolling half on her side to slap her palm against the nearest ankle, pushing off in panic as the warrior pounced faster than she had thought possible.

Sharp claws scored lightly across her buttocks as she sprang away, to a pulse of fury from her mate: he had not meant her to try to inject them. RUN! The blast of conveyance punched her into full flight as she heard a second medley of claws screeching across the stone flags where her foot had pushed off a fraction of a second earlier.

The panic in her heart took wings, and tears were streaming from her eyes at the speed with which she was hurtling loup through the grey corridors. But she couldn't shake her pursuers, she didn't do sustained speed. Terror helped: the pounding footfalls closer, closer, the harsh pants seeming to breathe down her neck. Gemma's alarm congealed as the top of the stairs arrived too early; she tried too late to halt her all-out flight and ended up tripping down them in a breakneck roll. A dark shadow was soaring over her, sailing down the short flight, and her surging pulse burst her into another leap sideways around the corner as long claws raked deeply through her flank, shearing ribs.

She had lost one of her pursuers, only Bikhal was still with her.

Only.

Gemma's heart was thundering frantically as she sprinted on, trying to keep to her peak pace. Too much time had elapsed: the antidote must have kicked in by now, but there was no change in the intent behind her. This damn Faulk wolf was not coerced into his sadism.

Her breathing was becoming frothy.

Frothy with the panic in her veins? Gemma's mind was tumbling faster than her feet.

Then they both caught the hammer scent of the Alpha ahead, powering towards them.

With a screech of stone, her pursuer raked his claws deep into the wall to halt his headlong plunge, spun, and dove away back the way they had come.

Heart bursting in anger, Gemma spun and pounced, ripping her teeth across his exposed hamstring then snapping back out of his range. Too late. Claws raked excruciatingly through her nose and eye even as she yanked painfully away. Gemma blinked, unable to see past the blood pouring from her eyes and muzzle, swinging blind towards the burning-furious Alpha scent which burst upon them.

Safe.

She rolled into the corner of the wall and the floor, trying to keep from screaming at the agony in her head and ribs while the grunts of the combatants sounded behind her. The noise ceased. Then the frightened, angry scent descended, looming over her, and she heard a gruff, Hold still and keep that eye closed, before a rough tongue began to lick lightly over her nose.

She whined and licked her tongue out to swipe over his.

There was an angry grunt and the next second Mac's heavy weight flattened her into her corner and one palm was between her ears, holding her head immobile while he licked her head wound closed.

Will you never fucking do as you're told? he asked.

If it means I'm not allowed to kiss you? Duh, let me think, she said.

Once the pain of both wounds subsided, the heavy weight pressing her into the stone floor rearranged, and Mac's arms closed uncomfortably around her loup form. Gemma shifted to match him, spooning back into the curve of his hips, sighing in a happy moment of contentment.

"With all your runners' work, the Louse's meld is wavering," Mac growled in her ear.

Gemma felt a leap of hope in her veins, which swiftly died. "But she is still holding them. And we are nearly out of antidote," she replied.

"We need to shock her, personally. I believe they would then burst the meld, while her resolve wavers."

"Shock her?"

"Shock her into personal fear - some deep instinct, so her shield may vacillate. I have been considering options, but can't see the best way. There is only a slim chance it might work, because the self-before-pack instinct is trained out of an Alpha."

I somehow doubt that training really gelled with the Louse, Gemma thought caustically.

What didn't? Alan suddenly joined the conversation, and Gemma realised she had broadcast her sarcasm. She shared Mac's planning, asking her second what Louise Faulk's weakness was - arachnophobia? Small spaces? Perhaps -?

Disfigurement. Gemma was shocked by the venom behind Alan's terse interruption.

I will fling silver nitrate in her face, he declared. Nothing is more important to her than her own perfection. The rancour in his thoughts curdled in Gemma's mind

You cannot let him live that wish, picchu, Mac advised sombrely, privately. Revenge is a toxic weapon, the stain ineradicable. It is not a tool with which a wolf can build a road to true freedom.

Gemma agreed. You are holding the Faulk back from the lab, she reminded her second quietly. We need you there - they cannot be allowed to gain access to the remaining stocks.

The rebels hadn't been able to break through into the vault to destroy those drugs either, so now they had to guard the vaults from the Faulk.

I'll do it, then, cut in Andrea. The barbed eagerness motivating even this most gentle and sensible of her wolves sent a shiver down Gemma's spine, and her blood chilled further as a chorus of offers from other vehement volunteers bombarded her mind, each demanding she let them do it. Her pack all wanted revenge. Understandably.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 17



No, she overruled them all. Yes, she also wanted revenge on her brother's mordeuse, but not like this. Yet Alan was right - the deepest, most abiding emotion shown by the otherwise chillingly detached Faulk Alfamme was self-adoration. Gemma was almost deafened by the strident arguments rising from her pack, barks slammed at her from all sides during short gasps for breath as her warriors fought desperately in the tight corridors.

No, she repeated more forcefully.

'Silver corrupts both foe and kin', growled her mate in agreement, reinforcing her conveyance as he rose swiftly to his feet, pulling his mate up after him, and the dissidence subsided with a few grumbles. The resentment in Gemma's pack's thoughts was edged with a faint tingle of relief and shame, coloured by pride. It took a strong Alpha pair to overrule the whole pack. They needed a strong Alpha pair. They had them.

Mac drew their private shield tight, quivering with the need to run back to the aid of their beleaguered warriors, and suggested an amended plan to Gemma. It required someone small, with an incredible burst of speed, so she would be best to do it if she promised not to get too close.

Gemma's head ached. She lay in the broken duct looking down at the Faulk, trying to still her breathing, trying to see an opening. Her mate was so closely melded to her that she couldn't feel the seam, and she waited, trusting him to spot the moment and move her limbs. This had been the only way to get close enough.

The look in the Faulk Alfamme's eyes was clinical as she coldly commanded her troops closing in on the laboratory stores from the main corridor. Louise Faulk joined in the fight herself at times, but desultorily, cutting down any stray member of the motley group of rebel allies without actually putting herself out at all. Madam led from behind.

Mac was down in the lowest level defending the top security cells from the poisonous gas attack which the Faulk wolves kept trying to flood into the small area to wipe out the powerful wolves still imprisoned there. Opal hadn't yet been able to break the codes to open the cells, and the doors had naturally withstood claws and teeth. But the Mackeld was ensuring that the enemy couldn't reach them either, to kill the inmates - the in-cell vents had been disabled with the dosing system, but the Faulk were still trying to break through with mobile canisters.

Her mate had explained twitchily that he would have to stay distant - the Faulk would be too wary, if he was within scent range. Gemma had soothed him, reminding him just how seamlessly they had melded last time. He had pretended to be soothed.

Her mind open, Gemma was almost startled when suddenly she dove from the gaping vent. Three springing bounds from leg to leg wove her beyond the two foes standing guard by their Alfamme, the enemy too slow to react to the scentless werewolf in their midst, and she was facing the angry, sneering face of Madam, heart steady.

Gemma flung the contents of the glass laboratory beaker she was holding straight into her enemy's startled expression.

As Gemma leapt away, Louise screamed, a shrill note of terror, and instead of lunging for the werewolf, frantically swiped the liquid off her face. Collective anger surged and Gemma felt a wince shudder through all the nearby Faulk wolves. Chaos descended in the tight pack beyond the Louse, Faulk fighting Faulk.

The Faulk battle meld had shattered.

Gemma skidded to a halt and spun back to watch as the dark Alpha allied to her and Mac charged past with a troop of scentless rebels. The Louse had stilled, her nose an inch from her wet hand, and she wasted a split second glaring at the wereem as realisation struck too late.

Did you see her face? Alan broadcast, sharing his glee with his delighted packmates. Brought down by a glass of water.

Brought down by her own corrupt mind, Andrea corrected with satisfaction.

The Louse turned and disappearing behind the small core of Faulk wolves still fighting to defend her.

*

Nearly an hour later, Gemma was massaging her scalp as she stumbled wearily around the last corner of the stairway down to the foyer in front of the main doors to the auditorium. The change in the atmosphere sweeping through the wolves packed underground was electric.

She was weaving through a tide of Faulk and ex-Greys. Their former enemies had nearly all circled to Mac and herself, those who hadn't had either been killed, or exiled, depending on their complicity. Now the warriors were regrouping, slightly dazed, eating the cold remains of the festive foods prepared for the show guests hours earlier, before wearily making their way out of the underground complex to take up positions along the Faulk centre perimeter wall and try to sleep as they awaited the arrival of Warlord Tzo with his army. Alan nodded politely to her as he passed at the back of the group of Faulk wolves who were grimacing slightly at the piquant headaches, looking shamefaced and slightly sad.

Gemma stared after him, startled and a little disturbed. Alan being formal was - unsettling.

Standing in the doorway at the back of the stalls, her eyes were distracted by the chaos of wolves teeming in all directions, and the piles of ungainly, unmoving shapes scattered around the vast room. One dark puddle of limbs slumped between the corner of wall and floor not far to her right was Nicholas Grey, the handsome face seeming to stare straight at her, incredulous at his own death.

He looked so small.

Her eyes lifted. She stiffened. A stream of fighters were evacuating through the far door by the stage. Standing just a little out of their way, a tall, tawny-haired figure was fiercely hugging a smaller figure to his chest. An untidy tangle of platinum blonde hair was just visible around the bulk of Mac's shoulders. Natasha was pressed as close as she could get in his protective arms, her face buried against his neck. They were both completely motionless, although the fierceness of the embrace made clear how strongly they felt.

A flash of rage shot through the wereem.

She stomped on it.

Natasha had been through hell. Gemma was planning on hugging her own brother later. Grow up, she admonished herself. He is just offering her comfort.

After a long, silent moment, Natasha's head lifted from Mac's neck, her eyes met his, and gently they began to share little, loving kisses.

Gemma's eyes shot wide in shock. Too much comfort!

Her mind was incredulous, the disbelief battering in waves against the truth of what her eyes were telling her. But it wasn't true. Mac loved her, Gemma. This was wrong.

Through the dinning of blood in her ears, Gemma could vaguely hear a wolf behind her murmuring something. Then the scent caught her - what? Who? - and she managed to tune in to the words he was rumbling.

"... watch you do that to someone else without ripping his head off."

Mac's voice was behind her right shoulder.

Gemma spun from where she was leaning weakly against the door jam, her suddenly wobbly legs almost giving way, and was supported by a steadying pair of hands. Furious, she swiped them away.

It was Mac.

Dazed, she twisted her head to look back across the room, and an automatic snarl escaped at the sight of her mate kissing the dishevelled-yet-devastating platinum blonde so passionately that he lifted her off her feet.

Correction: her mate's double.

"I'm sorry, love, I couldn't tell you until Tasha was safe," Mac said, voice subdued. "The key to her resistance was that Nick did not know that all these years, despite the many times she was moved, Ulf has always been able to quarter Grey range and close the distance enough to meld with her. To donate his shiele - and mine, bolster her strength before Nick could break her and force her to bear his cubs. Twin has been hiding in Grey range, hunting for her ceaselessly, helping her."

Mac sighed, half a growl, and continued: "Had he known, Grey would have moved Tasha far, far away, where we would not have been able to support her. It would have killed them both had Nick succeeded." His voice was a thread of apologetic sound.

Stunned, Gemma glared up at the tawny-haired wolf looming over her, his features sombre as he looked over her head at the entwined couple. She twitched wide eyes across again to the tawny-haired wolf still wrapped around the Vanilchov sjeste.

Tor and Ulf Mackeld.

Identical twins.

"You're dead," she breathed, voice hoarse and eyes wide. Tor Mackeld.

Mac closed his eyes and sighed, "I was afraid you'd take it like this."

Gemma snorted an angry huff of breath and punched her mate's arm: That comment wasn't a prediction! Yet.

I'm just as dead as you, Mac challenged. Although, unlike you, I had been slowly poisoned with chronic doses over months, so it was a tiny dose which cut me off, killed all connections.

Gemma's heart curdled in anguish, her skin alight with anger and pain: Mac had been experimented on by Nicholas Grey and his father. He had obliquely referred to this before, but she had never thought - months? Little by little, day by day. What she had seen in here -.

Connections. Her mind jumped away from the thoughts that were pulling the berserk fury into her mind, and latched onto a safe point of anger: So were you ever damn well betrothed to her?

The green eyes were swirling in a mixture of contrition and amusement as they reopened, and Gemma's heart jolted again, almost bursting on a sudden surge of joy: he was hers. No rivals. He always had been. Bastard!

"Gem, I never said I was betrothed to her..."

"You fucking implied it!"

"... just explained why the Mackeld Alpha couldn't be seen panting after another female," he clarified. "Ulf is the true Mackeld Alpha, I was just filling in."

This time she really punched him. It made him smile.

"You're not the Mackeld Alpha?" she snapped. "You're the Aster Warlord! You let me think you were Mackeld Alpha. Everyone thinks you're Mackeld Alpha - including your own damn pack!"

"I was just pretending." He wrinkled his nose at her. Damn, she wished her thumps would wipe that grin off his face. Every time she thought of extending her claws to cause some real damage, his happy scent would catch her, together with twitches of conveyance, and she found herself, infuriatingly, melting. Mac had hated keeping this from her, knowing that it was causing her pain. The insouciant relief he felt now was burning off his skin. Together with a deep, melting pride that she had trusted him.

She was an idiot.

"No-one could know who I really was, in case it got back to Nick," Mac explained further. "Luckily, me being dead, the possibility never even crossed most of their minds."

Irritating reason marched across Gemma's seething mind: as a human, she had been desperate to turn into an easily-controlled werewolf. Since she'd become one, one of her mordeurs had been Nick's son. Who knew what the kid would've been able to read in her head without her even knowing?

But oh, she was still mad at him.

"How much were you pretending?" Gemma hissed. "Tor Mackeld - how much of what you've been feeding me can I actually believe?"

He stilled, and the conveyance he shared in reply was different. It was like when she had reached behind his battle shields earlier, and seen the angry vengeance riding him. Except this was deeper. And voluntary - no words, he just showed her the place in his heart where his picchu lived. Complete empathy, conveyance without words.

She could feel how raw that area was, how the edges were ripped and cracking, ulcers leaking pain into so deep love. Gemma tightened the arms that had somehow crept around him and snuggled closer, sighing as his scent tickled her nose

Her wolf. He was here. He was hers. She would have plenty of time for to be mad at him another day.

A twinge of worry hit. Hopefully.

There was one stab of hurt within him that she could assuage now. Gemma growled into his fur, the words soft: "No-one. I was rising to mate at Halloween, yes, but the poison smothered it." I carry only one scent. Only you.

The tremor inside him deepened, and he lifted her up so their faces were level, swirling eyes searching hers for confirmation, hoping, more fearful of her scarring than mere contaminating male rivals, he could wipe their taint out.

Gemma rolled her eyes. "I'm not a liar," she taunted. Relief flashed in Mac's eyes and his lips dove in to shut her up.

Aren't you supposed to be busy? Gemma asked hazily some moments later as his head lifted slightly and kisses began to drift, exploring her soft skin.

I've given my orders. Everyone knows what to do, to prepare, Mac replied. Her mate began to nibble tender little bites down the side of Gemma's neck. He added virtuously, And it's important for a warrior to get what relaxation he or she can, when he can. The tremble inside her was increasing to match his.

Later again, Mac was sitting on one of the guard's seats just outside the auditorium doorway, stroking his tongue sensuously inside the mouth of the melting wereem perched on his knee. They were ignoring the wolves coming and going from the siege preparations in the auditorium, wholly intent on each other. Pack kept walking past, although few of them were rash enough to stop. And none idiotic enough to interrupt.

Gemma yanked her hand back from where it was sneaking down toward that bulge pressing against her thigh. The violent movement broke their latest kiss and, mind swirling, she tried to haul herself under control, latch onto anything except the feel of him pressed against her, the scent of his rising arousal, the tingling awareness of the power of him dragging at her shimmering skin. Power.

"What do you mean, you're not Mackeld Alpha?" she gasped once more, straining to drag her mind out of the This-Might-Be-Your-Last-Chance fire surging in her blood. "Aren't they cloven to you?"

Mac tilted his head and nuzzled her nose lovingly, licking lightly over her lips. Yes. But we don't really know how - we were a bit surprised, ourselves.

They clove to Ulf after I died - well, you know what I mean, he said. When he enlisted me to take his place during his exile, so he could guard Tasha, he held the links for me at first and they just kind of - morphed. All the Mackelds had, after all, been cloven to me before the bonds ripped, apart from a few of the youngsters, and the links just re-established. Healed. A bit like ours. They are cloven to us both - like to Alpha and Alfamme, but they didn't know that, there was never any secondary pull to confuse them until Will came and forced me to shunter to Twin.

Gemma sighed and leaned her face into his shoulder fur, smiling as she breathed in his rich, delicious scent. Another wolf word to learn.

Her mate kissed her gently under her ear, chest rumbling on a half laugh.

Shunter: one of an Alpha pair passes the battle meld to the other, he explained. Only one can lead it or it will shatter if they think anything different, but with a tight-bonded pair, if the Alpha's about to collapse, he shunters to the Alfamme, and vice versa. Because of the distance I was from Mackeld pack, Will came to help by forming a bridge to Ulf. Once you are trained, Gem, you will be able to take that burden yourself, at need. That's what an Alpha pair does. So you can stop being so grouchy at Will.

Gemma lifted her head back and stared balefully at her mate. "Will was being grouchy at me," she corrected.

Mac sighed, reached down a claw and pronged a cube of meat from the savoury bowl of stew by their feet, which Gemma now vaguely remembered Andrea bringing to them some minutes ago. He offered it to his mate. "They were upset that I had another pack, especially seeing how - overstretched - I was."

Gemma almost crossed her eyes, focussing on the fragrant food presented in front of her lips, and wrinkled her nose. "Did you wash your claws?"

Her mate glared at her, popped the piece of meat into his own mouth, then made a show of scraping clean his extended claw with his very sharp teeth, sucking noisily at it. He pronged a second piece and presented it to her. Gemma grimaced in disgust and refused to open her lips.

You never really got my hygiene standards, did you? she said.

"Gemma, wolves don't have fragile stomachs - that includes you, now," Mac said, exasperated. "I've told you before, very few poisons affect us. We eat our meat raw off the forest floor. And a warrior has to eat."

Stupidly, she shut her eyes as she pulled an even broader grimace of semi-real revulsion, tongue protruding between her open lips as she savoured the pleasing familiarity of arguing. A second later she clamped them closed, biting down on her mate's fingertip as the piece of stew was forced through onto her tongue. Her damn blunt teeth had never regrown, all she was doing was chewing on the end of his finger. Her eyes opened on a glare.

In trying to wrench herself free of his grip, the wereem somehow only ended up on her back on the floor by their chair with her mate plastered down on top of her, his head bent and tongue thrusting the food further into her mouth. Gemma struggled under his heavy weight, trying not to burst into giggles as they played their old, familiar game of futile wrestling. Futile from her viewpoint.

It ended as it always did, with Gemma stilled, heaving short pants under the weight pinning her to the ground. Ignoring his arousal, Mac lifted partially onto one elbow, and dipped his right fingers into the bowl of warm, soapy water that Ellen had just placed at his elbow, rolling his eyes at his mate. She rolled hers in return, chewed, and swallowed, before intoning with suitably sarcastic solemnity, if a little short of breath, "Thank-you, oh my most beloved Alpha."

"Oh-oh. Don't you dare mock that phrase, little mate," Mac grinned.

Later still, her Alpha pulled himself away, declaring gruffly that they had to eat. After a quick scrub, sitting cross-legged opposite each other they used the chair seat as an impromptu table, savouring feeding each other what remained of the large bowl of stew.

Gemma's mind started whirring again. "So when Will came to our place in the city, he made you hand over the Mackeld battle meld to Ulf?" she asked, smiling as she posted the last morsel in between her mate's lips.

Mac nodded as he chewed, his eyes darkening. He and Twin between them pulled them from me.

"And since that shunter, the Mackelds have known who you are?"

The pack would never betray either of us, Gem. Yes, they've been in shock, and a little angry, but also - jubilant.

A little smile curved her lips. She could bet. But Ulf always knew you weren't dead?

Not at first, no - like you, all ties were ripped apart. But Twin - he thought he was going mad at first, when he started hearing me in his head again, years back. Mac scraped the chair out of the way, leaned forward, and bit her shoulder gently, sending a shiver down her spine. Then he began to kiss her better.

That's what gave me hope, picchu. I know you're as strong as me, and I just - hoped against hope.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 17



The kiss moved to her lips, becoming deeper, serious. Mac pulled her onto his lap.

It took some time, later again, for indignant words to penetrate the fog of lust and love enclosing Gemma. The speaker was striding across the foyer: "I know you two are identical, but would you quit with the synchronised smooching, Mac?"

The familiar voice shot a jolt through the wereem, and she almost got whiplash as her head snapped around. Gasping, Gemma struggled to free herself from the arms holding her, ignoring the lips nibbling at her neck. As well as she could.

Her younger brother was jogging nonchalantly across the bespattered floor towards them, his lean figure looking tired but alert, a filthy grey baseball cap tied over his hair shading his over-lined face. At his side was a short, lean don't-mess-with-me looking wolf.

Adam's grouchy voice continued as he approached: "The others can't track the Louse, now she's masked herself. But I have found where she has escaped the perimeter, out into the forest."

Mac jerked his head up from where he was nuzzling Gemma's neck. Blazing eyes met those of the approaching werewolf.

"She got OUT?"

"Scent masked and secret passage. Nils wouldn't let me track her further without letting you know, and he said you weren't listening." Adam's tone was distinctly disgruntled as he stopped beside them and glared at the wolf accompanying him, who shrugged and rolled his eyes.

"I volunteer for this hunt, Mackeld," offered the short, lean wolf at Adam's side, terse and keen.

No. Gemma was uncompromising, and she turned Mac's face back to hers with a gentle, insistent hand under his chin.

This is my hunt. Gemma was sliding off her mate's knee as she said it, turning to hug Adam fiercely. They both knew the probable fate of her brother. And whose fault that was. Besides, only she or Adam could track the scent-masked Louse.

The Alpha paused briefly. He was hiding some thought from her, while he pondered her demand.

"Hunt, yes, but - ideally, we should capture her and bring her to trial. You are not skilled enough to subdue her yet, picchu," he replied aloud.

She half-smiled at the word 'yet', despite the tingle of suspicion at the ease with which Mac seemed to have acquiesced to her leading the hunt. She swung back to face her mate, her eyes burning into his.

I do not wish to subdue her. I wish to bring her to justice: lead those to her who can subdue her.

Mac's eyes narrowed suddenly, and she caught the edge of his worry before he whisked it out of her sight. Too late: her mate did not want her chasing the Faulk. But even less did he want her to remain here, with the Tzo advancing.

The Aster Warlord stood up, sending out an arrow of a call without lifting his eyes from Gemma's. The hum of preparation of the wolves surrounding them meshed into gear in his head, and he began to catch, consider and resolve the stream of questions and reports that poured in from all side. Back to work. He stood still for a long moment, then sighed and nodded quietly to her.

"Both werewolves would be better," the Alpha said.

Their dark Alpha ally was approaching behind Gemma, from the auditorium.

At times I may need to draw your focus to the fight here, to help me, Mac said. So Adam will hunt also, and take the lead when I need you. Yet if she somehow gets hold of him - or that cap disintegrates - he still would not be able to break her mental hold, so we cannot leave him to lead it alone. We have to stop her. The Faulk cannot be allowed to escape, to spread this poison elsewhere.

Gemma nodded quietly, eyes burning. Adam sighed.

"You two will find her. Lee will subdue her. I will allocate three more warriors, to be on the safe side," Mac finished quietly. The silent Alpha to whom Gemma had administered the antidote downstairs nodded, once, as he stopped at her right shoulder. Lee.

Gemma's eyes crinkled sadly as she looked up at her mate. She had to leave him yet again. Leave him to this war, to keep Tzo from breaking in until Fealden Wolflord could arrive with reinforcements. Her lips were swollen from his kisses, eyes burning. She so wanted to share peace with her Alpha. Long, long years of peace.

But this tactical parting was different. The Alpha would stay to lead the battle. The Alfamme would hunt the fleeing enemy leader. There was a fluent surge of bittersweet joy and pain in her veins as Mac bent and kissed her full on her soft lips, a lingering kiss.

"May your hunt be successful, my Gemma."

Despite his calm reasoning, she could feel the urge still raging within her mate to just throw all this damn responsibility over and run off with her: keep her safe.

He was the lead Alpha. The Aster Warlord. Not a chance.

Gemma tilted his head down and returned a full, deep kiss.

"May your home be at peace, my love."

Mac replied forcefully, tormented eyes burning into hers: That is you.

She smiled and promised: I will track her only. I will stay safe.

The firm mouth crooked faintly. Your idea of what constitutes safety doesn't always coincide with mine, Gem.

Gemma rolled her eyes: I'm not a big hairy liar.

She got another kiss.

***

The Zaban pack were keeping as quiet as possible as they strained under the rising sun to manhandle several pieces of trebuchets through muddy woodland in the wake of Tzo's army. The heavy war machines had been built at Marshmont, then disassembled and flown in pieces after the army, to be ported through the forest and reassembled at the new siege site.

The pack's silence was not due to fear of enemy scouts; the wolves could sense the turbulence in their Alpha.

Loyalty, Zaban Liu was brooding. At what point does loyalty become blindness?

He knew why Warlord Tzo was keeping Zaban pack in the rear. The Tzo mistrusted his loyalty.

And yet - if mistrust were the sole reason for the disquiet that was creeping along his spine, Zaban would bear the shame. No, this unease had been growing steadily over months. Growing as he had witnessed the darkening tactics Warlord Tzo had been embracing in his obsession to lever wolves into war with the humans.

Today the disquiet had solidified into full turmoil: the Tzo had marshalled his forces, every last one, to force an entry at all costs into the Faulk complex. For what purpose? The Warlord had not told them.

The scouts reported that the Mackeld was at Faulk. He had marshalled any forces he could, down to the last sjeste, to defend a range not his own against the Tzo's vast army, and was standing resolute with a weak string of wolves who could not hold, but would not move. What were they defending so desperately?

All Zaban Liu had was his knowledge of both wolves: knowledge gained from years of following the Tzo, set against one single encounter with the Mackeld. Now he feared, he very much feared, that he was on the wrong side.

Yet what was right? Loyalty was paramount to his wolves: true wolves. The Zaban had fought alongside the Tzo for centuries, and the Warlord had led them to a new home after their ancient range had been destroyed, building pride back into a scattered, homeless people. Without the Tzo they would have nothing.

The Chinese Alpha wavered in doubt as he paced slowly alongside his straining warriors. His pack were tasked with deploying the catapults only. They didn't transport the ammunition with which the trebuchets would be loaded. Zaban's hackles had been ruffled since he had realised. Where was the ammunition? What was it?

The stocky warrior straightened abruptly, turning his eyes toward where a slender grey loup was gliding silently down from the trees opposite. A feral glow lit his black gaze - Yun Yun was limping. She halted before her Alpha, shifting wolf and wincing silently as she extended her trembling left hand, palm open, so that he could see where the fur had burned away all around her fingertips and down along the front of her fingers. The underlying skin was blackened, shining in the weak sunlight.

You found the ammunition? Zaban asked as he ran a finger lightly over the cold, tight scarring on his niece's skin. He suppressed a shiver at the light residue of silver tainting the glossy surface.

Small barrels, still at the airstrip, Yun Yun clarified with an image, I managed to break into one without being seen, thinking to bring you some of the contents. She shivered, conveying the scorching feeling of dipping her hand into the liquid, yanking her fingers back out as the acidic, icy touch had sizzled agony through her skin.

Well done for keeping silent, her Alpha conveyed. The small sjeste straightened proudly. You are sure no-one noticed?

I pushed the lid back on again, with the nails. The young sjeste was shivering as she replied, she couldn't seem to halt the tremors, and cast a doubtful look up into the face of her uncle.

Death rain, thought Zaban. Not seen since the fire wars, when according to their clouded history, wolves had nearly wiped themselves out. The Mongol Alpha was no longer brooding, his mind clear with purpose, the unease crystallised into angry revulsion. This was abhorrent. He knew now which side a true wolf should fight on.

The barrels are at the airstrip? Zaban demanded, mind sifting through possible tactics.

They were, Yun Yun's eyes brightened in relief, but they were being strapped to carry poles, for portage. I can track them, she volunteered, shifting loup on the thought, bounding one pace backward to give herself space to turn. Yun Yun stilled as the fierce, sad eyes of her uncle caught hers.

You will carry a message to the Mackeld, Zaban corrected her. The Mackeld had to trust him, or this would never work: that he sent his sister's child as messenger was the best hope he had of gaining that trust.

*

Gem? Mac called.

Well before sunrise, Gemma had escaped the Faulk lair through the secret passage Madam no doubt thought she'd left undetected behind her, leading her motley little crew of fellow hunters: a werewolf, three koiru, and an Alpha. The Louse's trail was burning in her nose and easy to follow.

Mac had called twice since, once to ask where her notes on the composition of the wastewater lagoon were, and once simply to ask if she could remember if he'd been wearing his wristlet of drug phials when they'd shared their meal. The latter had made her snort: Mr Alpha had the memory of a sieve. She'd sobered quickly on recalling that his mind currently was a sieve, pierced into tatters by the grasps of the thousands of wolves cloven to him.

This call was different: his mental voice combusted in her mind, stubbornness gritted against the rage rising through him, rage fuelling a violent, all-possessing urge to kill. Gemma was smothered with what was pushing at Mac; the tactics the Tzo had attacked with just after dawn were base, vile and working. An answering surge of violent, all-encompassing need to retaliate, slaughter the Tzo wolves indiscriminately was pulsing more and more strongly through her mate with each death in his small force.

Gemma slammed to a halt. Adam, immediately behind her, ran into her hind legs, toppling her to the ground, and causing a ripple of coughing through the small hunting pack as the wolves tried not to laugh.

The Alfamme felt no such urge. Mac was drowning in the black, unthinking rage. Help me, he called.

Instinctively, copying what he had done for her oh-so-many times, Gemma opened her awareness, lifting it away from the immediacy of the Louse's trail. Mac was so closely linked with her he could feel the ripple of the wind in her fur, scent the clean birch and grass and the little, fluffy birds in the branches.

Mac drew a deep, unsteady breath, the rising storm in his head wavering in face of the peace in hers.

Dimly, Gemma was aware of the large, black-haired Alpha running past her, muttering quietly to Adam, "Take the trail," as he nudged the werewolf to his feet. The others followed.

Gemma rolled onto her own paws and absent-mindedly loped in the wake of the galloping line of hunters. Rays of pale sunlight cut almost horizontally through the bare branches, gleaming through twinkling spiderwebs and ice-veined leaves. The frosted beauty recalled a memory of their last night on the boat, before she'd pounced on her wolf. The starlight on his white fur had been so beautiful, haloing the powerful physique, light-painting the graceful lines.

Don't get distracted, admonished Mac with grim humour. There was a fierce, burning rip in his right bicep but he was fighting magnificently, racing to bolster warrior after warrior along the sparse line defending the Faulk walls, while fighting the berserk fury rising in his blood.

Gemma's paws padded on the slightly crisp, frosted grass. There was a tingling coldness on her nose, but her thick pelt sheltered her against the frozen air. A whiteness ghosted above the trees that dropped away into the valley to her right, pulling her eyes to the beauty of the barn owl coasting silently into the treetops, away to roost.

Thank-you. Her mate's mind had stabilised, she could feel his will solidifying, the keen strength of it building controlled blocks of the rage and using it to shore up the desperate, diminishing group holding off the Tzo's forces. Mac leapt sideways on the rampart above the side gate, pitching one Tzo warrior into a second, the combined weight causing the ladder with which they had scaled the walls to teeter just as Mac's rear claws sheared free the strut holding the ladder firm. A small group of his koiru hurtled forwards to thrust it backwards towards the ground while Mac landed on the last two Tzo who had reached this part of the rampart.

Keep in touch, picchu. Mac pulled his focus wholly back to the battle.

The second wolf had fallen too swiftly, before his claws had touched her, and Mac slashed a hind claw down at her throat, only the ingrained pulse of thousands of hours' training recognising her stance and pulling the blow just before he sliced off her head.

That pose.

The small female at his feet was in full submission, throat exposed, but more, her teeth were bared in a grimace to expose the gap where her left upper incisor was missing. The Warlord's eyes fell automatically to the blood-smeared tooth proffered in her open palm. The young wolf waited, shivering.

Blood tooth. A truce offering.

Was this just an attempted distraction?

Who are you? the Alpha demanded harshly, yanking the female up by the throat as he turned to tear back along the wall to the latest call. With his palm closed around her throat, he forced her human, less of a threat.

In reply, she opened her shields, and Mac dropped her, stunned at the message from Zaban Liu. His heart blanched in dread as he glanced out over the rampart, away into the forest where the deadly rain was slowly advancing towards the defenders. On autopilot he shredded the ladder top which landed just to his right against the stonework, and noted that the Zaban sjeste had killed one of the three attackers who had landed with it.

The sjeste returned to stand beside him and extended her hand, palm up, still holding the tooth she had pulled out herself to prove her sincerity.

Twin! Ulf barked the harsh demand, and Mac closed his hand around the Zaban sjeste's palm and towed her after him full speed down the stone steps behind the main gate. They reached ground level, and Mac watched his natal bound up the opposite steps toward the west side. No longer needing to defend himself, the Warlord sank into the meld, bolstering the communication between his disparate pack, tuning their limbs with his own fire.

It was only the short northern stretch of wall that they truly had to defend. The western and southern faces were built out into Lake Shona, foundations deep under the water, where ladders were impractical. Mount Aratop formed the eastern flank, a sheer rock face looming several hundreds of yards above the white buildings of the hospital. The hospital was the ostensible reason for the defensive structure: the specialists here treated dangerously unstable 'people', so the grounds had been built to enable them to enjoy fresh air and sunshine without endangering the outside population. And the wide wall had been designed with a walkway, so that the inmates could enjoy the view.

Absently, Mac smiled at the challenging howl his natal emitted when he reached the rampart. A shudder of fear rippled through the front ranks of Tzo invaders who had fought their way over the parapet. Ulf spun under an attack and tore with terrible fury into the enemy wolves, who flinched back: was the damn Mackeld inexhaustible?

Mac's eyes were shimmering with the thoughts tearing through him as he painfully cleared a tiny corner of his mind, feeling his side beginning to knit, and turned to the young wolf at his side. "Does the Zaban have a plan?" he queried, need pushing aside exhaustion.

The dim winter light was beginning to fade again, the wind dying, when the Tzo withdrew his attack force, to form up in ranks on the far side of the road.

Grimly, from the battlements, Mac observed the enemy wolves wedging ballast inside the base of the last of the reassembled trebuchets, lined up behind the warriors on the cleared stretch of ground between the high defensive wall and the forest. The buckets of all but the last of the catapults had already been winched to full stretch, and two impassive Chinese wolves were jogging forwards over the uneven ground toward the second to last, hefting a wooden barrel strapped between two poles laid across their shoulders.

Stationed along the top of the wall, the sparse line of remaining defenders had also reformed. They watched, expressionless, as the barrel was carefully loaded into the bucket. Behind his left shoulder, Mac heard Jorgen's hoarse tally. "Eight. One third exactly."

Faulk laboratories had shipped the deadly caskets to Warlord Tzo almost a month ago, when he had been besieging Marshmont. Now they had come home.

From a small huddle at the edge of the forest, a stocky, powerful figure was slowly pacing forward, followed by an honour guard of four tall wolves. Warlord Tzo stopped on the roadway winding around to the gate and looked up at his enemy impassively. The Mackeld had stymied him again and again over the past months, but still.

"Will you not withdraw, Ulf Mackeld?" the Tzo said. "You have your wereem, and this is not your range - not your fight. I have no wish to destroy you - I have never wished to fight wolves. Go freely, taking your companions. I guarantee you safe passage."

In the stillness that followed, the air seemed to press heavily.

"Not my fight?" replied Mac, pondering the phrase.

His voice began to thicken with anger. "Not my fight?" he demanded again. "Kiang-Lu was torn to pieces at your side in Amicable, forced into an ambush against his will. Should we not fight against being enslaved to you?"

The wolves surrounding the Tzo remained motionless, but Mac sensed a flicker run through one of them.

"You no longer wish to fight wolves for supremacy?" the Mackeld bit. "Of course not: you are here to take by force the drug to ensure that no wolf could ever fight you again."

A ripple, swiftly quashed, ran through the forces stationed below the wall.




Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 17



"But true wolves will fight, to the last breath, to defend their very right to fight."

The air was still, waiting.

Then a heavy wolf snarl rolled from the Aster Warlord's throat: Mortefio, the challenge for single combat, to the death.

Eyelids flickered among the Alphas flanking the Chinese Warlord. Tzo responded with a swift, angry stride forward.

"Do not so honour yourself, whelp," he barked harshly. "You fight merely to protect the wereem pet with whom you're besotted, and her people." Mac's fighters drew a hissing breath, although the Alpha remained impassive.

"You, defend wolves?" Tzo said scathingly.

"You stand by while humans pollute our rivers," he accused. "You fight for legislation to protect them while they pass legislation that will destroy us."

Tzo's voice was thundering with equal passion: "Patio, Montanore, nanoparticles: do you feel no shame at their steady poisoning of our people? You stand back and allow that. Now stand back and allow me to defend wolves," he ordered, power resounding in his voice.

A murmur of unease ran along the walls, the defending wolves shifting uneasily.

Mac waited in silence while his allies quieted, staring down at his enemy. The remaining defenders had volunteered, and they knew what they were getting into. Both what they were standing against, and standing for.

He had also known that the Tzo would not accept the mortefio. The Chinese Warlord had the longer claw, and would be a fool to hazard his advantage in a one-to-one fight. Yet Mac had so hoped to keep his wolves out of this.

"What is in those barrels, Tzo?" he asked, his quiet voice easily audible in the waiting silence. "Over three thousand years have passed since Xerclides, when the Four gathered on the wasted battleground with the remnants of our people, and vowed never again."

More than eyelids flickered among the Alphas surrounding Tzo this time, one of them so far lost his impassivity as to glance sharply at his Warlord, seeking reassurance.

"Move aside," growled the Tzo. "I have no wish to do so, but if you force me to, I will fight with all I have," he vowed. "To defend the freedom of all wolves. Do not seek to deny me, Mackeld. I will fight for the right to defend them to my last breath."

Mac hissed out a frosted cloud in the chilled air. "As will I," he said coldly. "You would enslave their minds, to protect their bodies."

"You would destroy them all, with your love of humans," the Tzo replied. He turned and stalked back beyond the line of loaded catapults, his entourage trotting uneasily in his wake.

The line of defenders settled with a sigh, casting wordless glances between themselves. Some were shivering, but all stood firm.

Twin? Mac's conveyance was simply an affirmation. The arguments had been shaken to death and smothered hours since, well before Ulf had left through the hidden tunnel, leading his small scent-masked force. Mac absorbed the pulse of raw feeling that was punched back at him from his natal. Words were superfluous, they had shared sense and emotion long before they had known how to describe them.

Natasha tentatively laid her nose across Ulf's bristling neck. He didn't shake her off, and Mac let out a quiet breath. Twin.

The rope creaked as the bucket of the last trebuchet was secured, and quietly Jorgen intoned, "Nine," when the casket was carefully lowered into the sling.

Silence frosted along the wall.

Gemma? Mac's voice was calm in her head. He was so calm. So adamant. Tears were rolling down her cold cheeks as one last time he sank into her awareness, sharing the crispy chill of the snow den in which she lay curled, feeling the flakes melt on her nose. The dread within her was colder than the snow, unbearable, but this was who he was.

This was who she loved.

Wood splintered. Mac's full focus wrenched back instantly to the walls he was defending as silvery liquid scattered across the nearby defenders from the casket shattering on the Eastern gate turret above him. His arm was drenched and he jerked backwards with a mangled yell, the limb hanging useless, fur smoking and skin turning black. Jorgen caught the full douche and dropped with a scream, rattling a hoarse breath before lying unmoving on the parapet. More barrels were breaking on all sides, the howls of the allies deafening, wolves screaming as they fell to the ground, fur smoking, skin blackening.

Mac struggled to clear his head, to hold the few still standing together and broadcast the images for all: Fealden, his packs, his allies. This was the Tzo. He ran back toward the stair, shouting orders. Relief seared through him as Walter and Andrea dropped into shelter behind the far turret, fur sizzling on them both, but only small patches. Then a second casket shattered at the feet of the Aster Warlord, showering him with its icy contents. Mac crumpled with a howl of pain, rolled to the edge of the rampart and fell like a stone to land motionless on the gravel driveway behind the gate.

A wave of revulsion from the ranks of watching Tzo wafted over the battlements, but the Chinese Warlord barked several orders and his Alphas held their warriors firm.

The deluge was over. The screams died. A deafening quiet followed, even the birds in the forest seeming shocked into silence.

Eventually, the Tzo called a gruff order and several sets of feet paced forward heavily. After several hard blows with a ram, the gates gave and were pulled open, framing a scene of smoking devastation. Impassive, the Chinese Warlord stepped up into the gap and surveyed the sparse smattering of blackened, twisted wolf bodies littered behind and atop the walls. His eye lighted on the charred heap of tawny fur lying face down in the gravel away to his right.

Carefully the Tzo stepped beyond the high wall, his eyes cold. Despite the heavy rubber boots encasing his human-form feet, he could not prevent a quick glance down, to ensure protection from the damp earth as he walked seemingly at ease toward the still-smoking body of his enemy.

Behind him, in their own protective footwear, half of his warriors began to march, stepping their way across the soaked ground just as cautiously, heading straight toward the vast lawn that stretched between the hospital, the lagoon, the beech grove and the wall, beyond the fall of the death rain. Carefully, none of the warriors looked left or right, although many scents were mangled with guilt. Reaching the grass, they kicked off the heavy boots and strode swiftly on to escape the scent of burned fur and flesh behind them.

One quiet order from the stocky warlord looking down at the blackened fur of the Mackeld, and his own pack detached and reluctantly fanned out to search for survivors among the fallen, those in the healing coma who had not yet died of the poison. Reluctant to touch the drenched bodies, they nudged them over onto their backs, bending to listen to the rattling breathing of those slowly dying in merciful shiatz, rounding up three heavily wounded, dazed survivors.

Zaban pack had been ordered to remain outside the walls to defend the trebuchets, together with almost half of Tzo's forces. The excuse was a fabrication: with the scouts in the woods, Fealden Wolflord would not be able to approach without warning being given. Besides, with only one or two aircraft, he would not arrive in any numbers for days.

Unbidden, Zaban stepped under the tall stone archway. The Mongol Alpha choked a shallow breath, bitter anger burning in the polluted air. He halted, and closed his eyes in revulsion.

The Tzo was standing over the remains of the Mackeld, his fingers flickering in the salute of honour.

I have never felt shame to be Tzo before, the Zaban broadcast, his mind heavy with the vile scene his eyes had witnessed. Resolutely, he reopened them. He was here to bear witness. How can you be a party to this? What can justify this? he addressed all within his range, savagely.

Unease rippled through the wolves marching in ordered ranks onto the clean grass, and Zaban saw the Su Alpha lift his head, his shoulders pulling back against a blow.

Tzo's head lifted sharply from his contemplation of Mac.

Zaban pulled free of the Tzo alliance, saying fiercely, I cannot. There is no justification which will wipe clean this smear. I would not wish to be wolf, with this smear. His eyes met his former Warlord's across the wasteland, anger boring into cold resolution, yet making no impression.

Tzo nodded. I do not rejoice, he said stiffly, and turned to follow the last of his warriors now marching barefoot across the clean grass toward the hospital complex. The front ranks had nearly reached the car park surrounding the white buildings. Make your way as you will.

A faint, mechanical click echoed under the steady footfalls of the advancing army.

Encircling the perimeter of the lawn, a line of hundreds of delicate jets hissed into the air, sprinkling a delicate barrier around the advancing ranks.

The Chinese Warlord halted, a command to his Alphas stopping the half of his force, those within the wall encircled by the sprinklers, while the Tzo frowned at the clear liquid tracing the air between himself and his warriors.

Silhouetted against the silvery waters of the lagoon, four indistinct figures unfolded shakily among the bushes edging the lawn, from where the quiet whirr of a pump now emanated. Two were in human form. Two were wolf, their fur blackened and smoking like their fallen comrades, with patches of burned skin shining bare and stark among the sizzled hair. Four sets of eyes flared in angry disbelief, one pair highlighted by the white-and-black mottled, mangled skin disfiguring his face.

"I never thought that you would really do it," said the female wolf. She didn't raise her voice, but a lilt of shame wafted from the sea of wolves between herself and the Warlord, a sea shifting uncertainly as though stirred by a violent gust.

The Chinese Alpha standing on the lawn nearest to the four grunted to an order in his head, and strode quickly toward the scentless survivors.

"The lagoon water contains silver," the young, silver-maimed male wolf warned, his voice deadened as one hand indicated the line of sprinkler jets. "Be careful."

The Alpha stopped perforce, hearing a hiss run through the army behind him.

"I do not rejoice," repeated the Tzo, answering the sjeste as he stepped back carefully from the tinkling line. "Had the Mackeld backed down, we could have -."

The young male cut in, his raised voice damning, " -enslaved you all without the need to first commit this atrocity? Here you show your true colours, Dingo."

"I never thought any wolf could do it," said the female, her voice uncertain, quavering. Her eyes had dropped to stare at the shiny, stretched scars already formed on the back of her hand, some seeping at the edges where they had cracked when she had stood up.

Abruptly, as one, almost a fifth of the encircled wolves dropped to sit cross-legged on the grass. The short, wiry Alpha beside them cast one expressionless glance across their bowed heads to the Tzo, then folded gracefully to sit in silence with his pack.

For the first time, a spark crossed the Chinese warlord's face, but all he said was, "Turn off that pump."

"No," answered the human-form male. His eyes mocked, anger lifting one corner of his mouth.

The Tzo pack who had been checking the bodies reformed around their Alpha. Co-ordinated, they dropped into loup with their leader, and began to run swiftly around the perimeter of jets. They had almost reached the trees when a deluge of images plunged into the Warlord's head, and he skidded to a halt.

Far out in the forest, Tzo's hidden, scentless scouts were under attack. Synchronised ambushes dotted around the wooded hills where pairs of other scentless wolves leaped out from the undergrowth. Xingchau caught glimpses and scent of a dog, holding back in the bushes behind the pair of wolves attacking him. Then the Tzo's attention was wrenched sideways by the last image Sha-Po sent, of the Mackeld, enraged, diving upon her. Impossible.

Tzo spun.

His eyes lighted, incredulous, on the empty patch of gravel to the left of the gate, where he had left the smouldering body of his enemy. His gaze lifted and swept across the battlements: also empty. All but the two bodies huddled by the west tower were gone.

The heavy gate underneath the tower clapped shut. Hunched figures of the blackened, dishevelled defender wolves were piling boulders from the nearby rockery against the feet of the broken panels to hold them closed, while at their back the tall, powerful figure of their leader turned with slow menace to meet the eyes of his enemy.

A murmur of disbelief swayed through the ranks of wolves on the entrapped grass.

Mac was trembling: anger, fatigue, grief. Emotions tumbled through his mind of unanchored, weightless recoil. He no longer carried the knot of a single wolf, having released them all to their Alphas or seconds, in case one of the barrels that hit him had been live. At the last moment, he had shunted the Gems-and-Faulk meld to his mate. He was floating on anger. All that held him down on the gravel was the touch of Twin, and Gemma.

Yet the power still itched, beating against him. He brushed frazzled fur from his arm, glancing down at his blackened skin peeling off in tiny flakes where the new growth was coming in. He had released them all, but they hovered: loyalty proffered, ready, power shrouding around him despite his disinclination to grasp it. This was what the Fealden wore, a cloak of powerful, shimmering loyalty. Mac shook his head as though irritated by gnats, and flicked more dead skin from his face.

Jason Allison, released last night from the deepest cells, had had the knowledge to enable this trap for the Tzo. Long ago the old Faulk, Louise's father, had had his enslaved chemists reinvent the silver rain. The old Faulk Alpha had only employed it once, to subdue a riot in the canteen, after which no prisoner had dared to push their overseers that far again, for decades, until the memories had faded.

Yet that riot had been smoke and mirrors, staged. Jason had been compelled to devise the decoy rain, and a selection of Grey wolves, who none at Faulk would recognise, had impersonated new inmates for some weeks before putting on their show of rebellion. The decoy that had been used to 'subdue' them was poison to a wolf, frazzling hair, and blackening and scalding skin in a reaction similar to silver. Yet although the conflagration was agony, a wolf would heal.

So much of the Faulk centre had been built on lies.

Jason Allison's chemical knowledge had been too valuable to destroy, yet the Faulk had had to prevent knowledge of the fake rain from spreading. All the long years since that riot, the chemist had been isolated from the other prisoners, both with walls and Argen, hidden in a suite of cells in the high security block, until his release the previous night. He had spent one whole day with his grandson, Rupert.

Mac cast a stricken glance at the two bodies fallen at the base of the west tower. Rupert.

The Little Gem lab rats had worked feverishly all day to produce enough of the decoy barrels. But the Tzo was cunning. His own pack had been the bearers of the ammunition through the forest, sets of eight warrior carrying four caskets spaced at random distances throughout the army - never all of the poison in one place. Pairs of warriors had ported the barrels, lashed securely to two poles carried across both shoulders.

There had been one vulnerable position on their route, where they had had to manhandle the poles over a boulder field and up a short rockface, overhung with trees. Crossing that field, the bearers had been preoccupied with placing their feet securely and keeping their burden from hitting the rocks, passing the load from one to the other or resting it on ledges as they had manoeuvred around and over obstacles. There had been several places where the barrels had been out of sight of both bearers and guards among the branches and rocks.

Tor and Ulf Mackeld had both been trained in tree-diving by Senshal N'Gula. Throughout the long day, they had both found satisfaction using the skills their mentor had taught them to confound his killer, taking turns away from defending the wall to race through the forest to the boulder field and substitute the silver rain with the fake. Setting this trap.

Between them, they had substituted all but four barrels. Four. The defenders who had volunteered to stay on the wall had known the odds: four of the twenty-four barrels had been live. Nine of those twenty-four had been loaded in the trebuchets. They had all accepted the risk.

One of those deployed had been real. Mac glared across at the Chinese Warlord who had violated a three thousand year old treaty with the silver rain. Rupert and Tate. Walter and Andrea would heal, if they survived this conflict.

The Tzo inhaled a sharp breath, calling his wolves still outside to renew the attack. His fulminating eye now landed on the Zaban pack, uncoiling from where they had crept to lie on the ramparts inside, now standing to line the parapet, facing down at their former allies. They must have entered while he had been leading his pack around to the pumps. The Chinese Warlord exhaled slowly, raging at the memory of his own words to the Mongol Alpha: Make your way as you will.

Tzo drew himself up, black eyes burning across at the Mackeld. "A wolf should know when he is dead," he said, chill darkening his voice.

"You will," growled Mac.

Gemma sighed in relief as Mac reached to melt his mind back through hers. She was lying curled in her snow den, eyes blind with the excruciating headache grinding at the inside of her skull. Softly, link by careful link, he eased the mesh of the Faulk and Gem battle meld up off her. She had kept them calm, he murmured in pride. The Tzo wolves hadn't suspected - her koiru had played their parts perfectly, soothed by their Alfamme.

Mac had explained why he had had to shunter their pack, why they couldn't just disband the battle meld and regroup after the attack. When a pack disengaged from the meld, each wolf began to heal immediately. His analogy had been a human taking a shoe off a swelling ankle. A good Alpha will carefully unpick the laces holding his wolves, ease his hold off as gently as possible, but once the minds had ballooned with healing it would still be nearly impossible, and intensely painful, to force the meld back on again until they were healed. The Faulk wolves had only just healed enough since breaking out of their meld with the Louse to be able to meld with the Mackeld. Had he crashed the Louse, yanked that meld off, there was no way they would have been able to.

Gemma was drifting among her thoughts, watching what her mate was doing through a fog of pain. It was like he was trying to ease gauze off a wound without tearing open the scab, or breaking the fragile mesh. She was trying to let go her grip, heed his gentle instructions, but it was hard, she didn't know how. It hurt.

Abruptly, they were gone. Her mind creased in a new sharp pain as it soared free, dizzyingly unencumbered, sliced bare but clear.

A thought brushed over her cartwheeling mind like a kiss as her mate withdrew with the meld back to the battle. Gemma lay aching, her heart pounding in steady dread. The pain was too great, she couldn't reach out to kiss him back, couldn't extend her thoughts, and so curled in on herself and prayed, faintly comforted by the scents of her sleeping brother and fellow hunters curled asleep behind her in their snow den.




Pawn Among Wolves



The pleasure of the female's silken sheath milking his cock as he bit her washed over Mac, and he felt the rising swelling of his own approaching orgasm. He released her neck and snarled his pleasure as he forced himself a little deeper and pushed her shoulders down to the floor to hold her as he ground his hips, spurting copiously, filling her, spurt after spurt, deep, panting, satisfied, excellent. Sated, he sank heavily on top of her, breathing harshly, feeling the rippling aftershocks of the final drops releasing as he slowly relaxed. Basking in the pleasurable aftermath, sinking slowly, something flickered across his mind, but before it could take hold, he drifted out.

Gemma lay under him, shuddering. Just shuddering. No. Yes. No. Wow. Ow. What the hell happened? Wow.

Wow.

She had never imagined such intensity existed. Such. Just so much. That you could feel like that. Or like this, now. A small smile drifted across her lips as she lay, breathing heavily, underneath his weight, held down with pleasure, satisfaction purring through her still gently shuddering limbs.

Wow.

Ow.

Her awareness slowly came back into focus, and she felt a frisson of apprehension feather down her spine again. You are imagining things. That is not fur across your back, she told herself as firmly as she could.

Something was just wrong. Don't get hysterical. The trouble was, there was a strange brushing sensation on her currently hypersensitive skin as the unconscious - man - lying half on top of her breathed deeply. She didn't really believe it. Fear shadowed through her again as she switched her brain away from disbelief to another awareness - of the rising ache within her shaken limbs and her sore, sore pussy. Savaged neck. The pain was beginning to surface and she began to tremble in a different way. Okay, so that may not have been the loving, gentle introduction to sex you hoped for, but he did tell you to get out, she reminded herself.

Gemma found tears were leaking quietly down her face onto the rug. She smothered them as best she could and realised with a jolt of her pulse that it was far easier to do when she became aware they might wake him up. Oh god no. Afraid. Then she stuttered in a staccato gulp and the tears were rolling again as she remembered his playful threatening that morning when she'd swiped one of his pieces of toast on her way out. Her friend Mac. She couldn't have imagined being afraid of him. Then.

The trouble was, that glitter in Mac's eyes when he'd warned her to go had reflected the same wild, feral light as the eyes of the terrifying creature who'd ripped her clothes off and thrown her across the room. Effortlessly. The same shadow of power in both. Her brain stopped dead, and she drifted for a moment, thought free.

The pain started to pull her back. Her blood was congealing, and the memory of the pleasure with it, while the rawness in her limbs was ramping higher and higher as the haze of lust faded. Automatically, she smothered her panic.

You're not afraid of him. The thought calmly strode into her mind. You're just afraid of this ever happening again. You just don't want to know. The lust she had felt for six months, whenever she saw or pictured his body, was gone, blocked behind a wall of coldness, fear - he'd grind her into mulch if he ever did this again.

If we ever did this again, she reminded herself tautly, he did try to stop you in the first place. Tears leaked again, embarrassment at her own actions, her inability to stop herself, hold back the desire. Memory of that false promise to herself of "just one kiss", when she had known - had felt him trembling in his effort to hold back. To get her to leave. Trying to escape her thoughts, Gemma's blurred eyes opened, focussing instantly on the huge white paw lying in front of her face. She scrunched them shut again immediately.

Hallucination. Hallucination. Hallucination.

Her eyes opened again, and the paw was still there. And she was still warm, despite the cooling sweat on her body, the nearly dead fire, and the broken window. Come to think of it, her brain was slowly filtering in information, half of that gang jumped out of a third storey window. No. They must've ... her brain just kept stopping and retreating into fog and tears.

After some time, she drifted back to awareness again. She was warm. Warm because there was a bloody wolf lying half on top of her. No, impossible, answered her brain instantly. Hallucination, you're understandably stressed from the evening's happenings and not thinking straight. That started the tears leaking again. Bloody wolf. Bloody stupid sexual fantasy this is.

Bloody.

Slowly, Gemma realised that she could feel the patch of warm stickiness against her back was still growing. Slowly, slowly. That meant - Mac was still bleeding.

Good, the pain made her snarl internally, but her heart clenched in a different way at the same time. Her brain flipped to that wonky chocolate cake he'd made for her birthday, despite the fact that he hated chocolate. The night he'd gone out to hunt down her bus pass when she'd dropped it on the street, the happy croon from the bathtub as he drenched the room in hot water.

How can a person have so many stupid tears in one head? Gemma asked herself angrily.

Ah, her brain whispered carefully after another long pause, that much blood loss might also mean that he can't wake up -- he's unconscious, not asleep. Gemma felt a glimmering of hope. If she could only get out of here before he did come round, she could forget this had ever happened, forget she'd ever made up this weird fantasy where she'd been hardcore fucked by a wolf... werewolf. She lay trembling for another minute, considering, as her brain drifted in circles, possibilities. The one thing she was certain of was that she couldn't bear to look into his eyes. So.

Gingerly, Gemma stretched out a hand past his - paw - and began to shift her weight onto her palm. Her breath hissed in a sharp gasp as every single muscle in her torso and thighs screamed, her neck spasmed in agony, and she felt a searing, raw pain where the root of his cock was buried unmoving inside her. She collapsed back with a whimper, shuddering against him on the floor. Her muscles felt like she'd been pounded all over with a hammer, and her vagina and neck -- oh my god, now that the adrenaline had worn off, they felt absolutely excruciating, ripped, torn by - don't even think about it. Don't move. Don't move.

Gemma huddled for a long while, trembling under his fur until she'd calmed down and the pain receded. Slowly she felt all emotion seeming to drift out of her brain. She was an analyst. This was a problem. Emotion was useless and distracting. Balanced precariously in constructed calm, internally cold, she started pondering the problem. If he bled to death, would that free her from his cock? Or would it happen normally? Would he wake up? Her mouth twitched in a brief smile as an irrelevant thought surfaced -that all the stories about men falling asleep instantly after sex were obviously true. Back to the problem. He hadn't woken when she'd jerked back into him against the pain just then, and she knew he was usually a light sleeper. So let's assume he can't wake up. But I can't get free.

Anger spiked briefly in memory of pain, at being tied to that monster. I could cut it off. Nausea rose in swift counter to the thought. No. And besides, she realised, I don't want him to die. He was a good friend. Was. So what if being in his presence ever again was an absolute no, that didn't mean she wanted him to die. Didn't mean she had to turn into the kind of person who wanted him to die. It wasn't like he didn't try to get you to leave. Yes, but I just didn't realise what staying meant, that he'd ... her mind echoed emptily in more circles, avoiding memories before she hauled it under control again. Stop snivelling, girl. And admit that even if you're sore as hell, you also begged him to drive you into ecstasy and he did it - his own way. You always thought he was too much for you to handle. He is. Deal with it.

So, she should stop him bleeding before he died anyway. Gemma looked around for his shirt, and reached cautiously across the carpet with her toes, crinkling them up to hunch it towards her. As she moved again, she realised both that the pain in her limbs was sinking to bearable, and the pain of his cock stretching her was slightly less. He felt slightly looser. The only really bad bit was her neck, and she could be careful how she moved. Very careful.

Gripping his shirt, which was ripped anyway, she worked slowly to tear the body and sleeves into long strips, pulling the collar and cuffs loose for pads, without jarring her own body into pain. A distraction. She had to knot the strips together to make a makeshift bandage, and as she did, she hunched up slightly and felt a wave of pain and relief as his softened cock slid, finally, out of her. The interminable tears started to flow again, keeping pace with the slow leak of cooling moisture down her leg, but she ignored both. Carefully, she crept out from under him, and shivered in the cold night air. She thought about getting clothes first, but decided she didn't want to come near him again, so impassively pressed the pads to his sluggishly bleeding, furry back and chest, and bound them on tightly with the rest. Then she slowly, agonisingly, got to her feet and stood, swaying slightly, looking down at the bandaged, huge white wolf comatose on her tatty old fireside rug. Weird.

Feeling cold, empty, and very, very old, Gemma shuffled carefully through to the bathroom and gently sponged the blood off her hands, neck and thighs. In her room she wriggled very carefully into warm, non-abrasive layers before squashing a spare set of clothes and her wash kit in a backpack. Numbly, she picked up her purse in the hall, not even glancing towards the living-room doorway as she let herself quietly out.

*****************************

Mac was finding it strangely hard to pull himself awake. He was a wolf, for god's sake, what could... his eyes shot open and the fur ruffled down his back. Nicolas. Here. And then - Gemma. Oh god, Gemma. He bounded to his feet, driven by instinct before memory had fully surfaced, then staggered, and growled as his head span and his legs seemed to shake under him. What the hell? Blood. So much damn blood, thick scent in the air. Most of it his, some from that cur he'd swiped as they fled, but some -Gemma's.

Shit. No, not Gemma.

His heart accelerating with fear of what he would find, Mac padded swiftly, shakily through toward her room, following the scent. Where the trail doubled in the hall he realised that she'd left, and felt a whine of bitter shame reverberate inside his head. Left, still deeply marked with his seedscent and her own damn blood. Gemma, little human caught in the cross-fire. That he'd thought he was out of.

At least she could still walk. Just about.

Slowly, he became aware of the rage that had been rebuilding inside him since he woke. Rage was too gentle. Damn Nicolas, damn him for setting this up so that the shame of raping the girl was on Mac's own damn head. Damn himself for not damned well having better control over his own damn wolf. Damn the whole fucking grey tribe, and the warlords. They were so fucking going to pay for this. Mac was already shifting human by this point, yanking on clothes in his room over his infuriatingly unsteady limbs. The bandage unravelled and fell to his hips as he twisted, and he stared at it, and the rough, already puckered-over scar on his chest.

She'd fucking bandaged him? After he'd...? He could smell the kid's fucking blood on his own fucking cock, and some of it was virgin blood, and yet she'd still ... Angrily he ripped the final shreds of his ex-shirt off and pulled on a T-shirt, then stomped into some trainers and grabbed a packet of ham from the fridge, wolfing it down as he jogged unsteadily down the stairs following her scent.

He lost her at the airport. She'd been first to the late-night pool, and damn, that was either clever or very lucky, because it was impossible to sift her individual scent out under the stench of chlorine clinging to everyone who'd walked out of there. Probably, Mac admitted to himself, she'd gone in because she'd needed to feel clean and hadn't wanted to stick around in her own flat with him there. He growled quietly, hating the wash of guilt. After the pool, he'd wasted a lot of time trailing around tracking the twelve individuals who'd been for a late night swim, and eliminated all but the four of them who had gotten on the down town bus and then separated off in the diesel stench at the bus depot. One of the bus crowd had headed out into town, one was in the station cafe, and the other two had caught other buses on.

Then the scent staining the ground where she'd waited at the aircoach stop - his own seed, mixed with her blood and vaginal fluid - had made him clench his jaw, and directed him to follow out here to the airport. But with no new scent to find, god knew which flight she'd caught. It's not like she ever had enough money. Damn. Exhausted, blood loss and silver poisoning shaking his limbs, Mac scanned the timetable, but couldn't work it out. At least, if he couldn't, no-one else would be able to scent follow her either. Nicolas couldn't, he named in his mind, and felt his wolf growl silently. His rage had banked down to a steady, implacable fire and he'd decided what to do. Find the girl. Protect the pack. If the greys wouldn't leave him alone, well, so be it, let them deal with the consequences. He would deal with the wolf. He could feel Peter already responding, startled, to his mind nudge.

I'm back, he called. Come get me.

#####

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