Page 51

Wolfe

T his was not how it was supposed to go.

Wolfe had only wanted a little taste of connection, a chance to meet his future mate in a low-risk environment, get his eyes and hands on him properly, most likely compel him to forgetfulness afterward.

And it had started out just as he’d intended. It had been easy enough to compel the masseuse into taking an unexpected day off, then to compel the front desk girl into thinking him a replacement for the day.

It had all been a bit of fun, a way to pass the time until he could come up with a proper courting strategy.

It wasn’t that he couldn’t stay away from the delicious human—that sort of helplessness would be absurdly out of character—it was just he didn’t want to.

And why should he? Why should he resist such a choice opportunity to feel out fate’s intended match for him?

And his beast had been all for it—any excuse to be close to their mate.

And then, with his handsome, muscular human under his hands, so responsive to Wolfe’s touch, to his very scent, he hadn’t been able to resist a different sort of taste.

The doctor had refused his sexual advances; that was fine.

But his beast had wanted a little sip. Blood of our mate , it had urged.

Bound to be sweet. So sweet. And really, Wolfe had been just as eager.

They’d have a little drink, compel the doctor to forget, and plan their next move.

All part of the chase. Part of the fun.

But now here he was, wrestling his damned beast for control.

Stop drinking , he ordered in his head, his mouth too full of blood to speak. You’re draining him.

But the stubborn creature wouldn’t cooperate, just kept filling their mouth over and over with the rich, coppery blood of their intended mate. Their hands were on the smooth skin of their mate’s broad, muscular shoulders, holding him in place now that his body had gone slack.

This had never happened before, this loss of control. First, the wretched thing wouldn’t compel the doctor properly—and never since his earliest days as a vampire had Wolfe ever failed at compulsion—letting him panic and struggle needlessly. And now it wouldn’t stop drinking.

Ours , it kept repeating, the mantra ringing through Wolfe’s skull like a bell. Our mate. We’ll have him.

Wolfe had always thought, if it came down to it, he would have the ultimate control over their body.

He was the one with the restraint, the resolve, the humanity (however pared down his personal version of humanity may have been).

But he’d never had to test it. Not really.

He and his beast were usually in harmony.

They both enjoyed a bit of bloodshed, the thrill of the chase, but the beast usually listened—even if it didn’t agree—to Wolfe’s insistence on discretion.

But now it wouldn’t stop drinking . Wolfe could smell the first real frissons of fear coming from their mate—Dr. Monroe had been more confused than properly afraid before—now that he was losing consciousness fast.

You’re going to kill him.

Going to turn him , the beast countered.

And what else could Wolfe do but agree? It was too late to take any of it back, even if he had wanted to (and did he really want to?).

He lifted his head from their mate’s neck—his beast allowed it now that it could sense his capitulation, of course—and bit into his own wrist, dribbling the blood into the doctor’s slack mouth. He held the human tight as he began whimpering with the pain.

“Shh,” Wolfe soothed. “Shh. It will be over soon.”

What was done was done. His beast purred its satisfaction.

Our mate.

It was a matter of minutes, compelling the front desk girl to forget— now you’re cooperating , he grumbled to his beast—and carrying the limp form of the doctor to his car.

He’d wrapped him in a robe he’d found in the small massage room, grabbing his clothes for later—no time to struggle with dressing an unconscious man right now.

It was a good thing he’d put such a rush on finding a house, now that his timeline had moved up considerably. There was no telling how long it would take for the doctor to wake, but at least Wolfe had the guest room set up, as the painters for the main bedroom wouldn’t arrive until the next day.

Wolfe buckled their seatbelts—no sense in getting pulled over by some bored, small-town cop and having to waste precious minutes compelling his way out of it—and took the opportunity to study his unconscious passenger up close, in the bright light of day.

He really was a handsome creature, his full lips soft and almost pouty in sleep.

And the way he’d stared into Wolfe’s eyes, cock hard and cheeks flushed with embarrassment, so clearly tempted to ask for release, even from a stranger.

Delicious, every bit of him: his face, his body, his blood, his poorly hidden eagerness to be handled.

Yes, fate had chosen well. Just as Wolfe had always desired.

A fierce spike of possessiveness ran through him as he looked at that handsome face, and his lips curled almost against his will. Wolfe had him now. His mate.

Now he just had to figure out how to keep him.

He sighed, slotting the key in the ignition and turning his focus to the road. He didn’t often (if ever) feel real regret, a fact for which he was grateful—a useless emotion, really—but now he did feel a certain…irritation that things had gone this way.

“You know he’s going to wake up frightened,” he mused out loud to his annoyingly content beast.

Our mate.

“Christ on the cross. If it were physically possible, I’d wring your neck.”

Wring your own neck , it countered smugly.

“Now you have a sense of humor, do you?”

The drive was over quickly, and Wolfe was so busy fighting with the voice inside his head that he missed the figure standing in his new driveway until he’d already wrestled the doctor from the passenger seat into his arms and was heading toward his front steps.

“What did you do ?”

The growling accusation caught Wolfe by real surprise, and he turned with a start to see a tall figure glowering at him. Black hair, fierce blue eyes. One of Johann’s new friends, Roman.

Wolfe quelled his shock quickly and nodded in greeting, repositioning the limp doctor in his arms. He had his human’s clothes pressed between them, and he didn’t want any of it to fall onto the dirty ground.

“Good afternoon. I’m afraid you’re on private property. I’m going to have to ask you to leave.”

Roman was staring in horror at Wolfe’s precious cargo. “You were meant to be helping us. And now you killed a human? In our town?”

“I’m sorry, are you the mayor of Hyde Park?

” All right, Wolfe could admit his response was utterly childish, but he was quickly becoming so incredibly irritated .

And possibly a little high off the adrenaline of what had just occurred.

It may have been terrible timing, but that didn’t make it any less of a rush, feeding from his mate for the very first time, watching the human life drain from his body, readying him for his transformation.

To his credit, Roman didn’t quite roll his eyes at Wolfe’s words, but he came awfully close. “You should know better than that. This is our territory.”

Wolfe sniffed. “And you should know better. He’s not dead. He’s in transition.”

“A fledgling vampire wreaking havoc. Even worse.” Roman reached out his arms, stepping forward when Wolfe stepped back. “Hand him over.”

Just like that, Wolfe’s beast was out, and a growl escaped his throat, ringing through the afternoon air. “Do. Not. Touch. Him. He’s mine . My mate.”

Roman looked appropriately startled, his dark brows reaching almost to his hairline, which was the slightest bit gratifying given he generally had an unflappable air to rival Wolfe’s own, when he wasn’t letting his protectiveness over his mate get the best of him.

With considerable effort, Wolfe pushed the beast back, hoisting the doctor’s slack body up so his head was resting on the curve of Wolfe’s neck.

The scent of wisteria filled his nostrils.

There, that was better. He nodded to Roman.

“So I think you’ll find, by our kind’s customs, I have full rights to him. ”

“He has a choice in the matter.”

Not if Wolfe had anything to say about it. But he inclined his chin in false agreement. “Too true. But as he hasn’t woken yet, he’s under my protection until he does.” He turned on his heel. “Good day.”

He strode to his front door, pleased that the other vampire didn’t try to follow him. He wanted his doctor safely in bed before he attempted any physical altercations—or better yet, to avoid them altogether. It wouldn’t do to jeopardize his mate’s safety while he was still in a delicate state.

He locked the door behind him—a matter of principal rather than real protection—and brought his mate up to the spare bedroom before placing him gently in the center of the bed.

He folded Dr. Monroe’s clothes neatly and set them on the bedside table.

Then, after a moment of thought, Wolfe slid the man’s underwear up over his hips, under the robe.

Humans could be very particular about modesty, and Wolfe didn’t want Dr. Monroe thinking anything untoward had happened during his transition.

He’d need to make a quick phone call to Tobias, officially letting the den know of his change of loyalties and that Johann was no longer an easy target.

He’d been putting it off long enough. But it wouldn’t do to have any lingering complications hanging over his head to deal with, not when his freshly turned obsession would be needing his time and attention.

The good doctor. His mate. And, as they were now intimately acquainted—after all, what was more intimate than an exchange of blood?—perhaps it was finally proper to be on a first-name basis.

“Eric,” Wolfe said out loud, tasting the name on his tongue. “My Eric.”