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CHAPTER 4

B eatrix

There is silence in the car, mostly because we are not alone. The man who bought me is the leader of this pack, a true alpha in the animal sense. The others are not introduced to me. I suppose this isn’t the time for cheerful intros.

I look over at Armand. There’s a muscle twitching in his cheek, as if he’s either very angry and holding himself from going off on me, or trying not to laugh. I don’t think it is the latter. I think he is furious. I think I have shocked him, appalled him, and angered him. That is what I do when people realize I am not what they thought I was. My true self frightens and disgusts most.

Why not him too?

Just because he is an alpha, just because he is my mate, that does not mean I cannot antagonize him. Doesn’t mean he can’t regret having met me. I am sure he regrets all that money he spent. There will not be any refunds, not for me.

We get back to the carriage, the bedroom and bathroom that are still so fine, all so nice. Too nice for us wild, muddy creatures.

“Don’t do that again,” he says. “Don’t ever make me watch you hurt yourself.”

I try not to mention that my legs are killing me. They bit me when I was running, nipping roughly enough to draw blood. I have not carried those wounds overtly into my human form, but I still feel those hot, predatory bites.

I can feel his annoyance with me. There is something new between us, not just displeasure. I know what it feels like when someone who thinks they’re in charge realizes that they can’t control me. There’s something else too, a strange and undefinable distance. That’s what I feel now.

“I’m not hurt.”

He gives me a sidelong glance, his blanket shifting over his shoulders. I find myself distracted by his chest, the muscularity and hairy roughness of it. He is very much male, more intensely than anyone I have ever encountered.

“I think you have been hurt many times before,” he says. “And I think you are hurt now.”

I go quiet. I don’t want him to know that anything hurts. I especially don’t want him to know that I can feel his annoyance with me.

“I will bathe you, and you will accept it because you cannot be trusted out of my sight. Come here. Now.”

We both step into the bath and Armand uses the showerhead to rinse most of the mud off the both of us. Standing naked before the man who has declared himself my mate, I try not to give into the shame that is creeping through my veins.

Being this close to a naked, virile man in the prime of his power—or perhaps not the prime. It is possible there is even more to come for him and that is an incredible thought because he is all muscle. When he is clothed he doesn’t look overly bulky, because he’s not. He’s built for power, for speed, for hunting me down with his pack and capturing me in the middle of a muddy field.

I am devastatingly aroused, not just physically, but mentally. I never met anybody who was capable of catching me before. When I ran in the past, they would sometimes drag me back, but that took whole teams of men, and though Armand brought his pack with him, he really didn’t need to. I felt his strength. I saw it. He could take me down dozens of times over. And he’s mine? How could that be?

He avoids any overtly lewd touches, but he does not allow any crevice to stay caked in mud. He turns me around and rinses between my cheeks, the warm flow of water running down what used to be a private place as he holds one of my cheeks apart to allow himself access.

“You mucky little pup,” he lectures, his voice rough but soft. “A dirty girl who should know better than to track all this filth inside, who will learn not to run from me ever again. I will teach you many things, Beatrix, things you clearly need to learn.”

I know I am not permitted to move without him saying it as he turns me back around and lets the water flow down my front, purposefully directing the water low and intensely between my thighs.

“Stay still,” he murmurs when I move slightly in response to the feeling of that warm water drumming against my clit.

“I can’t,” I whine.

He grips me by the back of the neck, his naked body pressed close to mine, his cock hanging thick between his thighs and rising against his belly as this particularly twisted little moment unfolds between us.

“You can,” he purrs. “And you will, because I do not intend to give you any choice. You are mine, and this is what I intend to take from you.”

He’s not taking, though. He’s giving. He’s giving me pleasure, indirect pleasure not from his body, not even from his fingers, but from the drumming water that plays around my clit until my hips swing with unrequited need.

Armand grips the back of my neck even more firmly. He holds me in place, and he ensures that I do not escape a single one of those teasing droplets. He makes me take it, this pleasure that does not feel like pleasure so much as it does domination and command.

He is showing me that I am his. He is proving that I am sensitive and soft and that something as innocuous as a showerhead can undo me completely if he wants it to.

“Are you close to climax, Beatrix? My sweet little runaway? My rebellious she-wolf? Do you want to orgasm and be relieved?”

His questions come in that elegant tone. He is completely in control, and I am getting increasingly out of control. He brings the showerhead closer, makes the sensation more intense, holds me in place with his hand sliding around my neck to clasp at the front of my throat. There is no escaping this erotic discipline.

“Answer me, little wolf.”

“Yes,” I admit, a flush of hot shame rushing through me as he rotates his wrist, making the water dance between my sensitive legs.

“You will come soon enough,” he says. “But not yet. Not until I am satisfied you understand your place with me, and why doing something so reckless as leaping out of a moving fucking train is the worst idea you ever came up with.”

The water moves, but only because two thick fingers are sliding slowly inside me. He is careful, almost as if he is testing me, not going too deep, and not going too fast. I feel his moon-silver eyes locked on my face, gauging my every reaction.

They slide inside me, slowly going deeper and deeper, my inner walls coating him with my own wet lubrication until the heel of his palm presses just above my clit and he rubs me there, not quite touching, but making the entire region move according to his will.

I am close to coming again, but I can see he won’t let me, not that easily. He’s determined to teach me a lesson in obedience. I’ve never been taught this way before. Maybe it will work this time.

“Tell me how this feels,” he growls against my neck. “Tell me how you feel right now.”

“I don’t know…”

“Yes, you do.”

“I want to come, please,” I whimper.

“Do you feel how much control I have over you? Do you feel how your body quivers when I touch you? How I could make you feel the most incredible pleasure, or the most terrible pain?”

His fingers twist, and his thumb presses against my clit, rubbing me firmly and insistently until I am on the very brink of climax, then pulling it away right before I can reach any kind of satisfaction.

“Fucking, oh, my god, you’re so fucking…” I complain as he denies me what he already told me he was going to deny me.

“You took your wolf form without permission. You jumped out of a train without a thought for what could have happened. You acted as though you only belonged to yourself, but you belong to me now, Beatrix. And you will be careful with yourself because you are mine.”

He emphasizes that point by letting his thumb ghost over my clit for a moment or two before letting go of my neck and using that hand on the showerhead. Fingering me, teasing me, rubbing me, and letting the water run over my clit in between sessions of stimulation until I feel as though my knees are going to give out completely.

He doesn’t let me fall. He leans me back against his body, holds on with arms wrapped around me, and uses his agile fingers to drive me to the brink of not only orgasm, but sanity. My mind is devoid of thought, filled with chemical impulses of arousal and need. I want to come more than I have ever wanted anything in life. I want to come like I want to fucking breathe. There is no part of me that wants anything other than orgasm. I would fucking die if only he would let me come.

I don’t know how he keeps me on the verge like this, how he seems to understand what every jolt of my hips and shudder of my breath means. It is like I am a book he has already read, and he is like a movie I have never seen, larger than life and full of more charisma than I can handle.

I do not know how long he keeps me like that in the shower, holding me in thrall to my own desire, but I know that when he does finally let me come, I do so screaming and begging and writhing on his hand. And I know that afterward, I am absolutely exhausted, from the auction, from the shifting, from the running, and especially from the coming.