Lori Handeland - Marked by the Moon

“Barlow,” she muttered, and wriggled, trying to arch but he had her pinned too tightly.

“Don’t move,” he managed. If she moved right now, if he did, this would be over far too soon; then they would both remember all that they wished to forget. He wanted to avoid that for as long as he could.

She said something that sound a lot like Knull mæ i øret, but in English, and he smiled, closing his eyes, reaching for the strength on which he prided himself.

“Be still,” he murmured, and placed his palm on her belly, letting his thumb slide lower, delving into her tight curls. She was slick, swollen, perhaps as close now as he. He began to move just a little, in and out, flicking his thumb up and down.

“Yes,” she murmured. “Yes.”

And that single word, uttered in a voice he could only describe as woman, made him remember instead of forget.

His hand on another woman’s stomach as they lay in their bed, all tangled in the sheets and each other. Her dreams, his hopes, the argument that had torn them apart, then sent her away.

To her death.

Julian yanked his hand back, and the chill night air burned across his fingers. Yet he could still feel her skin against his palm, and her body drawing from him his seed.

“I can’t,” he croaked.

“You are,” she responded, “and so—” She thrust against him, hard and sure. “—am I.”

Fury flashed, like lightning through the sky above, and in the distance he thought there was thunder. Why wouldn’t the earth shake; why wouldn’t the skies open up and rain down fire? He was fucking another woman, and not just any woman, but the woman.

The one who had killed his wife.

Of course if it hadn’t been for him, Alana would never have been out there alone.

He threw back his head, roaring his fury to the heavens, and she clenched around him, the pulse of her orgasm fueling his own. But in that instant before he spilled everything, a memory sparked.

A boy with his golden hair. A girl with her green eyes. A dream that had become a nightmare through a bizarre combination of love and lies and impossibility.

The thoughts were agony, and Julian snarled again, his beast rumbling so close.

Alex drew his mouth to hers, and right before their lips met, she whispered, “Julian.”

He came in a rush so strong, if he hadn’t had the wall for support he would have fallen. As it was, he lost his grip on sanity, plunging into her, the thud of her spine against the house only fueling the violence within him.

She didn’t seem to mind, clasping him to her, arms wrapped around his back as she took all that he gave, gave all that he took, gasping in his ear, “Again. Again. Again,” to the rhythm of his thrusts.

When he was spent, when she was, he pulled out of her body without meeting her eyes. His hands and feet became paws a mere instant before they hit the ground running as some of the last words his wife had ever said to him rang in his shaggy wolf’s ears requesting the one thing he could never, ever give her.

A child. “Just like a man,” Alex murmured as Julian’s bushy golden tail disappeared into the darkness. “Get what you want, then shift into a wolf and run away.”

She shook her head as she went inside. Talk about irrational, but then she was. What on earth had possessed her to let Julian Barlow do her against the side of the house?

“I didn’t ‘let’ him do anything.” She sighed as she turned the shower to a temperature just short of scalding. “I begged him to.”

Alex sat on the edge of the tub and took inventory. Bruised ass? Check. Scraped back? Check. Burning, slightly blue feet? Check. Self-esteem at an all-time low?

“Double check.”

She’d never begged for sex in her life; she hadn’t begged for anything except—

“Hell,” Alex muttered, and let her chin fall down to her chest. She was right back where she’d started. Not wanting to remember, but unable to forget that night in Alabama.

The werewolf had come right at her. How she had missed killing it, Alex would never know. The whole night had been a disaster from the instant the beast first appeared. Charlie hesitating, when Charlie never did, and because he did, Alex had done the same.

She’d never made that mistake again.

The water was hot; so Alex climbed in and let the beat of it on her face wash away the grainy tracks of her tears. But the memories would never wash away.

The wolf had rushed forward; Alex had fired. But she thought maybe— probably —her hands had begun to shake, and the bullet went wide, catching something —an ear perhaps—because flames shot into the night. However, she hadn’t hit anything vital since the beast kept coming. She’d known she was dead and—

“That was all right,” Alex whispered, as the steam rose all around her.

But instead of slashing her to shreds, the werewolf had knocked her aside, too, and disappeared into the hills. She should have followed; she should have finished him off. Instead she’d dropped to her knees at her father’s side, and as his blood seeped into her jeans, she’d begged him not to die.

Unfortunately, he was already dead.

When the sun rose, so did she. Leaving Charlie’s body behind, she’d gathered his weapons with hers; then she’d called Edward.

He’d arrived within twenty-four hours, and he’d taken care of everything, including her. Alex had become a Jäger-Sucher in more than name that night. She’d been fifteen years old.

Alex gasped, realizing she’d nearly fallen asleep standing up, with the shower still beating on her face, and she felt a little sick. She shut off the water, ignoring the jitter in her stomach, and went in search of clothes.

She settled on another pair of black slacks and a bulky cable-knit sweater, also black. She didn’t bother with a colorful scarf this time. She just didn’t care.

Alex really needed to get to a store and find something that was more “her.” Not that she had any money. Or that there was a Walmart anywhere nearby.

The idea of a Walmart in the middle of the Arctic, servicing werewolves and the occasional Inuit, made her laugh. Which felt really good until she started to cry. What was wrong with her?

She did not cry. What was the point? Crying wouldn’t bring Charlie back any more than begging had. The only thing crying was good for was making her feel weak, alone, and sadder than she’d been before she started.

Her body languid—great sex appeared to have that effect—she decided to just lie down for a minute. The next thing she knew, she awoke—ears straining for… something.

Then, from the depths of the darkness, the scrape of claws across ice echoed. Alex was drawn to the window at the front of the silent house where she peered out upon an equally silent town.

Except for that click, click, click. It was going to drive her mad.

She shoved her bare feet into the horrible boots, which smelled like the burning remains of an old tire factory, and stepped outside.

The moon fell toward the horizon, throwing strange, elongated shadows across the snow. The village looked like a geometrically challenged children’s game—one where colorful plastic squares, rectangles, and the like needed to be shoved into their matching holes before the timer went off and popped them all back out.

The sound of those claws was like the tick of that clock, creating a sense of urgency that caused Alex to head down the steps and into the street.

Alex had thought herself the only one left in Barlowsville after Julian loped off. Just like the previous night, all the werewolves were running beneath the moon.

Alex reached the end of the street that spilled into the town square and caught sight of a tail disappearing around an ATV parked at the edge. She hurried after, wincing as her boots crunched in the snow like newspaper crushed in her hands.