In the Wolf’s Den

 Chapter 4

 In the Wolf’s Den

The next time I woke up, I was in motion. Gentle, careful motion, but it was enough to make my stomach turn over and my head spin. I sucked in a deep breath, and the scent of pine and fresh, rain-washed air settled my nausea a little. I was outside somehow, but I was still warmer than I had been, and the arms around me were…arms. Around me.

My eyes popped open. All I could see was a stubbled jaw and one ear, surrounded by auburn curls, and beyond that, the deep-green shadows of tree branches against an overcast sky.

“What the fuck?” I managed to choke out.

“Thought you probably wouldn't want to mate in the house that Jerry Garcia built,” Ian rumbled. I could feel his voice as much as hear it, since I was pressed against his chest. Being carried bridal-style, Jesus. There was irony for you. “I know I don't.”

And seriously? Ian had a sense of humor?

Okay, I could worry about that later. So not the point. “Mate?”

“I thought that was why you showed up here looking like a drowned rat and making sad eyes at Matt until he agreed to help you. Sorry, browbeat me into helping you.”

My heartbeat ticked up as the familiar rage Ian always seemed to inspire really got going. “Fuck you, asshole.”

He laughed, but it didn't sound all that friendly. “Other way around, you lying prick.”

Until that moment, I'd been intellectually aware of what I had to do to survive this curse, yeah, but viscerally? Not so much. It hit me like a ton of bricks, and I slumped in Ian's arms, breathing hard and squeezing my eyes shut against the spinning black spots that suddenly filled my field of vision. Different supernatural species had slight variations on the ways they mated, like vampires had to trade blood or gnomes…okay, not even going to go there, because seriously, gnomes were some kinky little bastards. But all the rituals involved sex.

And sex with an alpha werewolf meant one thing, and one thing only: getting fucked six ways from Sunday. Even though p**n wasn't a very good guide to most sexual activities — learned that one the hard way, so to speak, when I was seventeen — I'd seen some knotting p**n with actual alphas that made me wince in sympathy for the guy getting plowed. And maybe, kind of, also get incredibly turned on. I'd just never experienced the real thing.

That was about to change.

“Where are we going?” It came out shaky as hell.

“I have my own place. I don't usually stay at the pack house.” Ian shrugged, jostling me. “Matt calls it my fortress of solitude.”

“Yeah, because Superman's exactly what I think of when I think of you.” I gave that a moment's actual thought. “On the other hand, you have more muscles than brains and constantly fuck things up, so maybe it's not the worst comparison.”

Ian stopped abruptly and his arms tightened, hard. My ribs creaked and I let out a yelp of pain. Ian stared down at me, eyes as cold as glacier ice.

“You get that I'm binding myself to you for life, right? To save yours?” he gritted out.

“You're cracking my ribs,” I wheezed, trying — desperately — to ignore the fact that he was right. Sure, there were magical means to break mate bonds, but those spells were hard to do, involved disgusting components, and came with a risk of insanity or death. I'd missed the part where he agreed to do this, but it finally occurred to me to wonder how Matthew had threatened or bribed him into it.

His arms loosened, barely enough that I didn't think I was about to implode. “I don't give a fuck if you hate me,” he said. “Just shut the fuck up, okay?”

“I don't hate you,” I muttered. Because I didn't. He hated me, not the other way around.

Ian snorted a laugh and started moving again, this time at something closer to a jog. If I'd tried to go that pace carrying a full-grown man, I'd have collapsed in seconds. Ian wasn't even breathing hard.

He did hate me, I knew that. Ever since I hooked up with Jared, I'd been persona non grata. Not that Ian and I had been friends before that, but when we ran into each other we were…cordial. Well, I was cordial. Ian would just stare at me. I was used to that, to be honest. My father hadn't cared how I dressed, or what I did with my hair, or even whom I fucked — he'd even tacitly approved of Jared, probably hoping he could use him somehow. Anyway, I went through some seriously stupid phases with my style. Ian probably remembered the purple buzz-cut, for one. Everyone stared at that.

But after the night Jared and I first had sex, Ian stopped talking to me. Stopped looking at me, either, even though I could always feel the prickling sensation of someone staring when I had my back to him. That was probably my imagination.

Or maybe not. Maybe he hated Jared being with a warlock so much that he tried to kill me with the force of his alpha glare, who knew.

The trees gave way to a clearing, and I had an unobstructed view of the sky. A little bit of blue was starting to peek through the clouds, but it was only a matter of time before it started raining again. This time, at least I'd be safely in bed getting hate-fucked instead of out in the woods dying.

Silver linings and all that.

Ian slowed down at last. I turned my head a little, and saw we'd reached a house. Well, house was generous — more like the sort of cabin where a van-load of teenagers would bet each other to stay the night during the opening scene of a horror movie. It wasn't dilapidated, exactly, but the sides were vivid green with moss and the porch sagged in the middle, like it had given up.

“More like shack of solitude,” I muttered.

A low vibration rumbled from Ian’s chest, a sub-audible growl. He crossed to the cabin with quick, angry strides, kicked the door open, and dumped me on a bed in the corner of the main room. I bounced a couple of times on the mattress and clung to the sheets under me with clawed hands, swallowing hard as I tried not to throw up.

The door slammed hard enough to rattle my teeth, and then Ian was standing over the bed, stripping his clothes in quick, jerky motions. His leather jacket hit the floor, his shirt went sailing over his shoulder, and then he was shoving his jeans down, somehow kicking off his boots as he went.

My mouth went dry. He was more impressive out of his clothes than in them, and that wasn't true of most men in my experience. Broad shoulders dusted with freckles, broad chest dusted with dark red curls, powerful thighs, and between his thighs — I swallowed hard. Fuck. Okay, the rumors about alphas weren't exaggerated. At all.

The jeans got tossed aside, and he stalked toward the bed.

“What the — Ian wait —” And then he was on me, tugging at my shirt and then just ripping it straight down the middle with an impatient growl. “Seriously,” I choked out, “just — fucking — wait!”

I managed to grab his forearms, squeezing as hard as I could. He stilled, staring down at me. I knew it wasn't because I'd overpowered him. I couldn't do that on a good day.

Ian's eyes were glowing, just a little, a trace of that golden werewolf magic bleeding through the blue. “I'm not going to rape you,” he said, very levelly. “But we need to fuck, and we need to get it over with. You're dying, Nate,” and the sound of my name, spoken almost kindly, nearly broke me.

He was crouched over me, his thighs bracketing my hips, his massive torso curved over me and filling my vision. This close, he smelled like the pines outside, with an undertone of something rich and strange. Werewolf magic, but not like Jared had. Deeper, and more enticing.

Knowing that under other circumstances I'd have wanted him, badly, nearly broke what little shards of me were left. I'd had a hell of a day and night, and for once, for fucking once, I longed for something I'd never had: the simple comfort of touch from someone who cared about me.

“I know we need to get it over with. I know. Just. Not like that, Ian. Please.” I could barely get the words out. I sounded pathetic, and I hated myself for it. Ian would hate me for it even more. I doubted he even knew the word weakness. “I'm — please.”

For a second, one single second suspended like a tear about to fall, I thought I saw him soften. Just the faintest gleam in his eyes, the slightest part to his lips.

And then his lips tightened and his eyes went cold, and that was that. It was the Armitage pack enforcer gazing down at me, assessing and emotionless, not Ian. Not the man I'd caught glimpses of, when he interacted with someone he liked. Anyone who wasn't me.

“I won't hurt you.” There wasn't even a trace of inflection in his voice. “Let me get you undressed, turn over, and I'll make it as easy as I can.” And then, as I nodded shakily and let go of his arms, he muttered something that sounded like, “For both of us.”