Wild Wolf (10 page)

“What are you doing?” Her whisper came out a croak.

“What does it feel like I'm doing?” Graham slid in a second finger.

His fingers were large, stretching her. Misty
drew in a breath, prepared to tell him to stop, but the words didn't come. She didn't want him to stop. For months she'd craved his touch, and now he was giving it to her.

Misty wormed her fingers under his waistband, finding his slick, warm hip. Graham yanked her hand out again.

“Not yet,” he growled. “Feel
me
.”

She couldn't
not
feel him. Graham slid a third finger into her, and Misty groaned. Her legs opened of their own volition, wanting this spreading, his large hand inside her. He was going to think she was no better than a Shifter groupie, begging with her body for the touch of a Shifter.

Who cared? Graham kissed her again, his mouth a place of goodness, while his fingers gave her pleasure. Her breasts were bare, pressing against his torso, and Misty pulled him closer. When he eased off kissing her, she reached up and caught the skin of his neck in her teeth, leaving her own love bite.

“Oh, yeah?” Graham's smile flashed, his eyes wicked.

He moved his fingers in and out, easy with how wet she was. Doing with his fingers what he'd never done with his cock.

Misty clung to him while she rose against him, wanting to drag him inside her. His hands awakened the desires she'd constantly pushed aside, telling herself she was happy with only his company and his kisses. What a lie.

Her desire built and built until it broke. As with the icy wave in her dream, Misty's climax rose over her and swept her away on a black tide.

She heard her own voice ringing until Graham silenced her with his mouth. She suckled his tongue, needing him inside her, squeezing his fingers that thrust into her.

Graham kissed her while she rode out the wave, then he increased the speed of his thrusts, sending her up into climax again.

Three times he took her there, and three times he held her while she went wild around him. In the end, Misty had no idea where she was or when, and she didn't care. She only needed Graham, and he was in her arms.

She hung on to him until the spinning stopped, then she fell back to earth, his large body coming down on hers. He didn't crush her, he only covered her with his warm length, shielding her against the night. Graham stroked Misty's hair, lips touching her face, the line of her hair, her lips. Incredible gentleness from this rough-edged man.

For a long time they lay together, stretched out on the ground, absorbing the warmth of the darkness. Graham said nothing, only nuzzled her cheek and lightly kissed her. He'd given Misty all the pleasure, demanding nothing in return.

As moonlight brushed his skin as he kissed her, an idea that had been tapping before Graham had driven her thoughts away started knocking for attention again. Misty looked into Graham's face.

“The spell cured me,” she said. “I'm not thirsty anymore. But it didn't work on you, did it?”

Graham regarded her another moment, his gray eyes steady. “No,” he said, voice quiet. “It didn't.”

N
o, Graham wasn't cured. And that was going to be a problem.

He staved off the thought by brushing his lips against Misty's, but for the first time in his life, he faced the question—
What do I do?

Graham always knew what to do. If he didn't, he made something up. Yelling at one of his Shifters or knocking them across the room usually helped. But this time, brute force and bullying wasn't going to work.

Thirst pounded through him. Kissing Misty calmed it, but as soon as he released her, his mouth grew parched again. He needed to drink.

Graham also knew, though he wasn't sure how he knew, that his gunshot wound was only temporarily healed. Fae magic had closed it up, but Graham would bet that, if the Fae chose, he could rip it open again. Shifter metabolism being what it was, Graham would still heal from the shot eventually, but he'd have to go through the agony of its infliction all over again. And maybe the Fae would keep reopening the wound, just to punish Graham.

Misty, though, was free. Somehow the stupid little spell with the roses and tequila had burned the Fae water out of her. Possibly the tequila alone had done it; humans were weak when it came to alcohol. Maybe that was the same reason it hadn't worked on him—Shifters had a high tolerance even for the strongest liquor.

“Graham?” Misty touched his face.

He loved this—Misty in his arms, a moment of peace.

Graham had left his mark on her. The dark love bites on her neck and breasts stood out in the moonlight. His mark, his brand.

He closed his fingers around her wrist and held on. “You can't tell anyone it didn't work. Swear to me.”

Misty blinked in concern. “Why not?”

Graham didn't answer for a moment. He kissed her again, savoring her taste. He thought about moving his fingers back between her legs, where it was hot, sweet, slick. He could bring her to climax one more time, forget about spells and Fae. Only Misty was important.

“Graham?” Misty's voice was soft, but insistent. “We'll need help to figure this out.”

“No,” Graham said, his voice harsh, though he softened his hold on her wrist. “If my Shifters think I'm Fae-touched, they'll fall apart, and take me with them.” They needed him, and that wasn't just arrogance. Most of Graham's Shifters hadn't adjusted to living in the city yet, with Shifters they didn't know. Most hadn't adjusted to living in a Shiftertown, period, even after twenty years. They'd have all gone feral, or died, or curled into little balls of whimpering fur if Graham hadn't done some of the shit he'd done. “If they know I'm under a Fae's power, they could turn on me, take me out—kill me—and maybe Dougal too. I know that's not allowed, but my Shifters are pretty wild and don't care. So, they can't know. No one can.”

Misty gave him the startled look she always got whenever he told her how violent Shifters were. Why did humans think Shifters had been tamed? Making them wear the shock Collars was like putting a tiny bandage on a gaping wound.

“There must be someone you can talk to,” Misty said. She caressed his face, as though she found something she liked in the scarred, harsh mess of it. “Reid, maybe?”

“I said, I need to think about it.” Graham gentled his impatient answer by kissing the inside of her wrist. “This is the kind of problem a Shifter takes to his leader. Except I
am
the leader.”

“Eric, then,” Misty said. Sweet lady; she was so naive. “He's your partner.”

Graham snorted a laugh. “Right. Don't think so.” Eric had wanted Graham under his thumb since Graham's Shifters had been forced to move into Eric's Shiftertown.

Misty didn't look convinced. Graham kissed her again, letting the kiss turn lingering. He loved that the terrible thirst slaked a bit when his mouth was on hers.

He wanted to stay kissing her forever, the fragrance of the flowers she loved wrapping around them. Misty's scent was even better than the flowers', her soft body under his worth every second of his agony.

Graham had to fix this, and fast. And then figure out what the hell to do about his growing mating frenzy for Misty. He'd not be able to stave it off for long, and if the frenzy consumed him, it would be as dangerous to her as any Fae spell.

 • • • 

G
raham stayed the night at Misty's, which entailed more pizza. The cubs ate most of it.

Reid departed before the pizza arrived, borrowing the book from Misty, intrigued by it, he said. Graham knew Reid's real reason to leave was his ache to get back home to the bear Shifter, Peigi. It had been more than a year since Peigi had been rescued from an insane, feral Shifter in Mexico who'd kept her and other women in a basement, more than six months since Reid had moved in with her. And still she and Reid weren't officially a couple, for some reason.

Graham stayed with Misty not only to protect her but also because it was clear Xavier wasn't about to leave. Xav might claim he was just doing his job, and had three other DX Security men stationed outside the house, but Xav was inside, with Misty.

In spite of her apparent recovery, Misty was still reluctant to go to bed, afraid to dream, but Graham eventually talked her into it. Misty needed her rest—she'd had a hell of a time. The cubs, as wolves, dashed into her room ahead of her, leapt up on her bed, and curled up on the foot of it. Misty let them, kissed Graham good night, and shut the door on him.

Good thing. If Graham went in there, he'd want to hole up with her and never come out. And then everything in the outside world would go to hell.

Thinking of Misty's scent, her warmth around his fingers, the taste of her when he'd touched his fingers to his lips, made him not care about the rest of the world. Let it go. Mating frenzy was more important, right?

He made himself turn away and leave her alone.

Graham didn't blame Misty for fearing to dream. Still under the spell, he didn't want to sleep either. He talked to Xav. He walked around the house on the outside, sticking to shadows. He checked the backyard; he checked on Misty and the cubs. Matt and Kyle were curled up on her feet, fast asleep, and Misty was breathing evenly, her face relaxed in slumber. Watching Misty lying there made Graham want to go curl himself up around her, but again, he closed the door and let her rest.

Graham watched Misty's TV, running through the three hundred or so channels he didn't get in Shiftertown. He looked through Misty's DVD collection and her downloads after that. As he already knew, Misty liked chick flicks, each of which featured a pretty heroine who blundered into embarrassing situations, had wacky best friends or zany coworkers, and fell in love first with the wrong guy—the bad boy who broke her heart—and then the right one, the nice guy who'd been there all the time. Graham had argued with Misty that females in real life wouldn't settle for the beta and would keep trying for the alpha, but Misty had rolled her eyes and told him he didn't understand romance. Well no, he didn't. Not the kind of romance in those movies, anyway.

But what the hell. Graham decided to give one a try, desperate to stay awake.

It was his downfall. On the heroine's third fumbled conversation with the geeky-looking nice guy—who didn't deserve to end up with her—Graham fell asleep.

He woke in the cave with the spring and the fountain.

“Shit.” Graham scrambled to his feet. His side throbbed, and he looked down to see blood soaking through his T-shirt.

“You'll die of that.” The Fae didn't enter with a bang; he was just
there
, when he hadn't been a second before. He gestured to Graham's wound. “You should tend it.”

He had the look of all Fae—tall, pointy eared, white haired. He was dressed in silver chain mail, with a sword at his side, as though ready to run off and do battle with something. Over the mail he wore a shimmering silver cloak draped across his shoulders.

Graham deliberately did not press his hand to his wound, as much as he wanted to. “You know why the Shifters rebelled from the Fae?” he asked. “Your crappy fashion sense. You've been wearing the same clothes for a thousand years.”

“Time moves differently in Faerie.”

“Good for Faerie. Who the hell are you, and why are you stalking me?”

“You may call me Oison.”

Not his real name, Graham knew. Fae had a thing about true names. “I don't care about calling you anything,” Graham said. “Get the hell out of my dreams.”

“I can't,” Oison said. “You have been chosen.”

Chosen
. Fae loved to say crap like that. Anything dramatic. “So,
un
-choose me before I kick your sorry ass.”

“I cannot do that.”

Graham started toward him. Oison watched him come, unworried.

Stupid-ass Fae bastards.
This Oison had hurt Misty, had tried to enslave her, and for that, he'd die.

The cave's floor was slick like glass—no, it was polished obsidian. Graham slipped, the gunshot wound hurting him, but he refused to fall.

The fountain burbled incessantly. Fat vines snaked up the walls and across the floor, turning the rock cave into a jungle of flowers. The scent was thick. Graham thought of Misty's small garden where the much sparser growth had smelled clean and sweet.

Graham reached Oison. The Fae was tall, like Reid, with the same eyes that tried to bore into Graham's skull. But Reid had proved to be smart, reasonable, and helpful, despite his Fae-ness, and he had a true fondness for Peigi and the cubs he'd helped rescue. Somewhere inside Reid was a heart, and feelings.

This
Fae had used Misty to lure Graham to the desert, then tricked Misty into feeding Graham spelled water. Oison had caused Misty to be hurt, terrorized, and trapped. Therefore, he had to die.

Graham roared, shifting as he attacked. Who cared if it hurt like hell when his clothes fell from his bloody side? This was a dream.

Graham loved the look on the Fae's face as two hundred and some pounds of snarling wolf landed on him.
Eat this, shithead.

Oison went down, scrabbling to draw his sword as he fell, but Graham ripped into him with teeth and claws. He met the metal of the mail, but it peeled back like tinfoil, and Graham tasted blood.

Oison struggled, the sword falling to the obsidian floor with a clank. Graham opened his mouth wide, clamped his teeth around the Fae's throat, and ripped. The Fae screamed, then the scream died to a gurgle in an eruption of gore.

Graham tasted lifeblood pouring into his mouth. He snarled his victory, raking open Oison's skin to find bones. Oison's coal black eyes fixed, then filmed over.

Graham scrambled off him. He sat back on his haunches, lifted his bloody muzzle, and howled. He'd defeated his enemy. He'd saved himself and Misty from the Fae's clutches and the damned water spell.

Sudden pain cut off Graham's breath. The echo of his wolf's howl bounced from the cave's high ceiling and evaporated.

Graham's Collar had come alive. Dormant while Graham had attacked the Fae, the Collar was now a hot band of metal, shocks arcing around it and straight into Graham's body.

He howled again, this time in pure agony. His body shifted of its own accord from wolf to his in-between beast, his strongest form.

The Collar's shocks increased, blasting him with hot pain. Graham clawed at the Collar, desperately trying to make it stop.

He saw movement out of the corner of his eye. Through his blurring vision, he saw the Fae, bloody and torn up, rise and draw his sword.

Fae swords were works of art. They were fashioned of bronze or silver—iron and steel were poison to the Fae. This one looked silver. As well, Fae swords were almost always full of spells. The Swords of the Guardians had been made by a Shifter centuries ago, but woven with spells from that Shifter's Fae mate.

Oison held his sword battle-ready as he made his way to where Graham fought his Collar. Graham reached his huge, clawed hands for Oison, ready to kill again—as many times as it took to put the asshole down.

Oison swung his sword, stopping when the tip contacted the Collar. Graham's agony increased. The Fae held the sword against the Collar, spells on the blade feeding into the Collar and then into Graham.

Graham was being baked alive. He roared, hands going for the Fae's throat, which still ran with blood.

Oison shouted at him in a Fae language, but Graham somehow understood it.
Monster, created of filth. I hold you. By sword and by Collar, you are mine. You will give them to me, the battle beasts, and Fae again will walk the earth.

Graham tried to jerk away from the sword but Oison was merciless. Graham saw runes shimmer across the sword's blade, heard whispering:
weakened, enslaved, obedient
.

“That's what the Collars are,” Oison said, his voice clear, no matter that his throat was a bloody mess. “Chains that will bring you back to us. You have enslaved yourselves.”