Lori Handeland - Marked by the Moon

Her shirt fell open, one side covering a breast, the other revealing it. Ella’s black pants gaped at the waist, exposing her navel, a round, perfect well, and the stepping-stones of her ribs drew his gaze to the smooth curve of her waist. He wanted to lick her from the tips of her toes to the top of her head, then start over again.

She lifted her hand. Her long, clever fingers furled back toward her palm.

Come to me, they said, echoing the invitation in her eyes.

He tossed shirt and jeans into a corner, then knelt, removing her boots—God they were ugly—her socks, the rest. He placed his mouth to her arch, running his tongue along her sole, nibbling at the fine bones of her ankle.

He touched her as if she were spun crystal, tasted her as if she were the finest of wines. She shivered when he skimmed his palms over her; she shuddered with his every breath.

Her legs were long, the muscles hard beneath the softest of skin. Her inner thighs trembled when he kissed them, as did her fingers in his hair.

The bones of her hips were like blades in a sheath. He tested them with his thumbs, ran his nails down her flanks, cupped her buttocks, then he feasted. By the time he moved on, his name on her lips had gone from curse to caress and back again.

He couldn’t wait; he didn’t want to, rising up, then sliding home. Her arms came around his shoulders, her legs around his hips; she held him close, she welcomed him in, yet still he didn’t feel their connection.

He perched on the edge; she did, too. Deep within, he felt her tremble. He clenched his jaw to keep from coming.

It wasn’t right. Not yet.

Please, not yet .

Sweat broke out on his brow as he tried to think what was missing, what he needed, what she did.

She clenched, clamping down on him, squeezing him from within, and her hand drifted across his chest, meandering right and left, thumb scraping one nipple, then the other, before coming to rest at his waist.

She stroked the sensitive flesh where his thigh became his hip, and he tensed. “Alex,” he growled, both a wish and a warning.

Her eyes opened, and something caught in his chest when she whispered, “Julian.”

He thrust one final time; then he was coming; then she was.

Two simple words. Her name and his. A recognition. An admission.

A vow.

It was enough.

Alex waited until Julian slept; then she crept from his arms, his bed, his house.

What had she done?

Sex was one thing…This—

She glanced up at the window of his room. This had been another.

He’d touched her with such gentleness. He’d gazed into her eyes with—

“Faet!” she muttered, clattering down the steps and striding around the side of the house.

He’d gazed at her with love. And what had she done?

Loved him right back.

Alex stepped into Julian’s yard and had a little talk with herself.

She did not love Barlow; he did not love her. They barely knew each other, and what they knew they did not like.

Just because their blood couldn’t stay in separate petri dishes, and their hands couldn’t keep to themselves, didn’t mean they were meant for each other.

Then again, maybe it did.

She’d thought him a monster; he’d thought her one. Had they learned differently, or merely come to accept that beneath the surface, everyone had a little monster inside?

“No one’s perfect,” she whispered. Especially Alexandra Trevalyn.

Julian had never lied about who he was, about what he was, about what he planned to do.

Unlike her.

She was a spy; she’d come here to kill—both him and one of his wolves. While she might not kill Julian—

“Won’t,” Alex said to the night, and sighed. “I won’t.”

She would kill the werewolf that had killed her father. As soon as she found it.

Once she did that, she would not be able to stay. However, when she left this place, Edward would find her, and he’d insist she reveal the location of Barlowsville.

Could she really bring the most feared Jäger-Sucher of them all down on these people’s—and they were people, she knew that now—heads?

He’d kill them. Killing was what Edward did best. It had once been what Alex did best, too. It had once been what Alex lived for. But here, she’d found so much more to live for than death.

If she didn’t tell Edward what he wanted to know, he’d either kill her or stick her in a cage for the rest of her very long and furry life.

What the hell was she going to do?

She could solve her problems by staying. Alex let her gaze wander over Barlowsville. She liked it here. She thought she could grow to love it.

Once the thought of being a werewolf had horrified her. She’d have eaten the last bullet in her gun to avoid losing her humanity. Now she understood—

She hadn’t really been using it anyway.

A door opened. Alex’s breath caught as she turned toward Julian’s house. But the place remained silent, and her heart fluttered and stilled.

“Psst! Alex!” Cade hung out the back entrance of the lab. “You want to run with me tonight?”

Alex glanced once more at Julian’s. They needed to talk, but it didn’t have to be right now. Besides…

She turned toward Cade and waved. She could use a little cheering up. Julian awoke to a pounding on the door. He reached for Alex, confused at first that she was there, then equally confused when she was not.

The moon poured into his bedroom, making him yearn. He’d find her, and they’d run together, just the two of them. But first he had to force whoever was at his door to shut up.

He found his pants in the corner with his shirt, but Alex’s clothes were gone. He checked in the bathroom on the way past, the kitchen too, but she wasn’t there. Considering he wasn’t clasping his stomach and writhing in agony, she hadn’t gone far.

Julian yanked open the front door. The man on the other side nearly knocked on his nose.

“Knut.” Julian jerked his head back just in time to avoid the huge, hamlike fist.

“Neil,” the man corrected with a scowl, lowering an arm the size of the logs in Julian’s cabin walls.

Neil did not appreciate being called Knut, and Julian couldn’t say that he blamed him. But it was difficult sometimes for Julian to remember. They’d grown up together, fought together, lived as werewolves together. He’d known Knut as long as he’d known Cade.

“Joe said you were searching for me.”

Not actively. Not yet. But he would have. If he could keep his mind on the issue at hand and his hands out of Alex’s pants.

“Where have you been?” Julian asked.

“Fishing.”

“For two weeks?”

“I like fish.” Neil drew himself up to his impressive height of six-five. It did take a lot of fish to fill up Neil. “Since when do you care what I do?”

“Since Inuit have been dying daily.”

Neil’s wind-burned face creased. “Why would that have anything to do with me?”

“Perhaps I should have said dying nightly.”

Neil caught the innuendo right away. “One of us is doing it.”

“Unless you’ve caught a whiff of an unknown werewolf in your travels.”

“None.” Neil’s pale blue eyes narrowed. “You thought it was me.”

Many had made the mistake of believing that Neil’s calm demeanor and large stature meant he was slow, in both body and mind. They had died badly at the end of his sword.

“You were gone,” Julian said, “and they did die.”

Neil drew in a breath, glanced to the side, then back at Julian. “Who died first? Was it the wise woman?”

Julian blinked. “How did you know that?”