Linda Robertson - Wicked Circle

“Indeed.”

His gaze conveyed seriousness but not pride, like that of an official whose new responsibility brought with it a dose of loathing. On the plus side, he didn’t look like he was suffering from a swollen ego. On the minus side, he didn’t look happy at all.

At first, I expected Johnny to ask him what bribe he required. The former Rege had candidly stated he would not confirm Johnny as Domn Lup unless Johnny gave him something—namely me. He’d learned of my ability to perform the spell that enabled wærewolves to retain their man-minds while in wolf form. While that deal-making had occurred in private, this Rege had his peers present to witness the proof of Johnny’s power. He’d also had them vote and had had the stones tallied before everyone so he could consider his peers’ opinions before making his decision.

As the silence wore on, I was glad Johnny didn’t inquire about that bribe. This Rege’s thoughtfulness proved he was quite different from his predecessor. That could be good. Or it could be just as bad in a different way.

On-screen, the new Rege tapped his fingers on his thigh and said, “I confirm you, John Newman.”

As the assembled Cleveland pack members showed their enthusiasm by howling and applauding, Johnny struggled internally to keep his poise. Always before when he transformed, even for the few noncyclical complete changes, his beast had roused and paced within, growling, but safely caged.

Not this time.

This time, his inner wolf had burst into sentience with such intensity that all his previous transformations suddenly seemed semiconscious by comparison. Though his man-mind had remained, the instincts of the beast ambushed him, enveloped him in vehement desires so powerful he could barely keep the impulses from becoming actions.

It was so overwhelming that he’d willed an immediate reversion to human form.

The wolf had withdrawn into human flesh, but it did not slumber as before.

On the screen, the Rege called for silence. “Let us talk soon about the date of your coronation. I need to assess the schedule I have just inherited, but I would like to move forward with the ceremony sometime next month. I will make the announcement later today and, afterward, make arrangements for your press conference in Cleveland on Saturday afternoon.”

“Agreed.”

“My Lord.” The Rege gave a bowing nod and gestured. The screen faded out to the wolf rampant and shield, then faded to black.

Again the crowd howled. Gregor leaned into Johnny’s ear. “Someone was spotted coming up the steps. Kirk has gone to investigate.”

“Good. Where are my pants?” Johnny wanted nothing more than to vacate the room and have a few minutes alone to gather himself.

Gregor gestured and a valet hurried up with a long, thick robe. He held it open for Johnny.

Johnny didn’t budge. Rage boiled up inside him instantly—in his mind he knew he wasn’t even angry, but the rash, hot rage begged to be unleashed. His forearms itched. Only desperate resistance, like clenching some mystical muscle, kept his fingers from sprouting claws ready to slash Gregor for his mistake. “Dude. I said pants .” It was a struggle to keep his voice even.

Gregor snapped his fingers and the valet scurried away. “Forgive me. As you are confirmed now, I assumed a robe would be more . . . kingly.”

“I don’t wear robes,” Johnny snapped.

Gregor tipped his head. “It will not happen again.”

The crowd quieted into the white noise of happy chatter, and The Dirty Dog—the pack’s official bar—was mentioned repeatedly. Some were leaving already.

The valet hurried back with black denim jeans. Johnny grabbed them from him. “As long as I can still bend over and put my legs into my pants, I wear pants.” He wouldn’t admit that donning jeans in public felt distinctly undignified. “Besides, the new Rege didn’t call me king.”

“He won’t until after your coronation. But here, to your pack, you are king already.”

Johnny zipped the jeans. He wanted everyone gone. He wanted to be alone and get a grip on what was happening to him. He flung his arms up and shouted, “To The Dirty Dog!”

As expected, cheers rose and people converged on the exit. It was the quickest way to empty the room and buy himself a moment of privacy.

However, as the pack massed at the doorway, the air of the room shifted, and a distinctly not-wolf smell filled his nostrils again.

Red.

Johnny deserted Gregor, inexorably drawn to Persephone’s aroma. It always made him want her, but tonight, because he hadn’t seen her in days, her scent was new all over again. That newness made his reaction stronger. He was getting hard just thinking about touching her.

When she came into view, the wide neck of her sweatshirt slipped and his attention stuck on the pale skin of her bare shoulder. Her dark hair lay against soft flesh and he brushed the tendrils away and reached behind her neck. His fingertips buzzed with a vibration he knew was her energy—he’d never noticed this gentle and enticing sensation before.

Must be a perk of unlocking my tattoos.

She was always beautiful, but more so when all her skin was exposed and the smell of her sex mingled with his. Add this little electric feeling . . . if it was amplified when their bodies were entwined— God I can’t wait to fuck her. He leaned down for a kiss.

Shouts rumbled at the doors.

He turned.

Voices raised in complaint as someone pushed into the room, impeding the flow of those leaving the room. In a heartbeat, his top guard appeared, towing Zhan behind him by the arm.

“Guess who thought she could sneak into the den,” Kirk said as he approached. “An Offerling.”

Zhan said to Persephone, “You didn’t text.”

“There’s no reception in here. I tried. Johnny was in the middle of the ceremony, and I couldn’t ask for access to a landline to call. Sorry. But I did tell them to expect you.”

The distinct scent of ginger lingered around Zhan, with a hint of death sealed into the marks given her by Menessos. They all knew the Asian woman was Seph’s bodyguard—and that his own Asian guard had ulterior motives. “Let her go,” Johnny said.

Kirk gazed deeply into Zhan’s eyes. “What if I’d rather hold on?” His question was seductive and inviting.

“I don’t respect any man who won’t follow orders.” Zhan jerked free.

“I’m not after your respect, China Doll.”

Johnny smelled the desire radiating from both of them—even Zhan, though she would have denied it. He didn’t care if the Offerling seduced his guard or vice versa; he trusted Kirk not to reveal secrets that would get back to the vampire. What he did mind, however, was how their attraction fed his own urgency for sex.

“Red, this way.” Without delay, he led her from the room. Those still shuffling out paused to allow them through the doorway. The pack members were all heading down the stairwell to their cars, but he led Seph up the stairwell.

“Where are we going?” she asked.

“You’ll see.” He was uncomfortably hard in his jeans. In an effort to counter this intense response, he asked, “How’s your mom?”

Seph groaned.

It wasn’t so different from the sounds she made when he was bedding her. “That good?” he asked. His voice sounded strangled even to him.

Seph didn’t seem to notice. “Yeah. Ask me again later. What’s this?” She patted the steel square to the left side of the stairwell.

“Gates. They run along the tracks,” he replied as he pointed at the metal track across the entry top. Then he pointed at the floor, where a similar track was embedded in the floor. “It’s like the barriers they use in shopping malls. The Omori just had it installed. We can seal off the floors individually if we need to.”