Dana Eberharter - Shadow of the Wolf

He sighed. “Long ago, Andrew Beckett, my ancestor, managed to piss off a witch.”

Uh-oh.

“The long story short? He’d agreed to marry her, then backed out when another, more ‘suitable’ woman appeared.” The way his fingers made little air quotations was kind of cute. “The witch, angry over being jilted, cursed the entire Beckett family.”

“Why?” His story sounded sort of familiar. Where had she heard it before?

“Who knows why witches do anything? She chose to curse the entire line, and to this day, Becketts turn into the wolf.”

“It doesn’t seem like much of a curse to me.” She took another sip of chocolate.

“Andrew ate his bride six months after she gave birth to their son.”

She made a disgusted face. “Ew.”

“His son, knowing what had happened, tried to break the curse.”

“And?”

Christopher shuddered. “Let’s just say we’re lucky he procreated first since the spell, instead of tearing the wolf from him, sort of tore his insides from his outsides.”

“Double ew.”

“ His son was determined to find a way to live with the beast. He discovered that, under the right circumstances, he could control the change. Gradually, with each generation, the curse became something different until we could live together with the wolf in peace.”

“So the curse became a blessing.”

“But not without a price.”

“What kind of price?” She yawned, the warmth of the fire and the decadence of the chocolate lulling her. Even the storm, so loud an hour ago, had subsided to a pounding rain, soothing her senses.

He took the mug from her hand. “Sleep. Perhaps in the morning you’ll be ready to hear the remainder of the story.”

Sleep sounds … good…

Christopher caught her before her head hit the carpet. A simple sleeping draught mixed with the late hour and the strain she’d been under had done its work. It would be morning before she could leave his side. He just hoped whoever she called was willing to leave her in his care.

He couldn’t let her go. Not yet. Not until he’d made her his. Definitely not before he’d dealt with the threat Cole represented. He barely knew her and already he would sacrifice his own life to keep her safe. She would learn that she could trust him with her very soul.

He picked her up, marveling at the warm weight of the woman in his arms. The scent of apples was now mixed enticingly with the scent of the chocolate, calling to him, seducing him more thoroughly than he’d ever been seduced by the practiced wiles of other women.

He carried her up the stairs, laying her in his bed, careful not to wake her. The last thing he wanted was her fear. He covered her carefully, kissing her forehead before heading out of the room and back down the stairs. He picked up her jeans, poncho and shirt, planning on washing them for her. She’d need something to wear in the morning.

And that reminded him. He went back upstairs and stripped the still wet underwear from her body, glad for the darkness. He wasn’t ready yet to see her completely bared for him in full light, or even pale moonlight. He wasn’t certain he’d be able to stop himself from taking her if he did. He carried them downstairs and threw them in the wash with the rest of her clothes. He leaned against the washing machine and hoped he’d done the right thing. She’d been shaking with more than cold; what he’d thought might be arousal was actually fatigue. She needed rest after her scare in the woods, and he was determined she was going to get it.

He got her purse from by the glass door and carried it into the great room. Opening it he dug out her wallet, determined to know the name of the woman fate had decreed should be his.

Alannah Evans.

The name shot through him with the force of an electrical shock.

It couldn’t be. It shouldn’t be.

But there it was in black and white. Evans. Everything she’d said about wizards suddenly clicked into place.

He picked up the phone and dialed.

“’Lo?”

The sleepy voice on the other end reminded him how late it was, but this was too important to let go. He had to know if he was right. “Gareth?”

“Do you know what fucking time it is, fucktard?”

Christopher sighed. “Alannah Evans.”

There was silence for a moment. “What about Alannah Evans?”

The wary caution in Gareth Beckett’s now very awake voice was enough to drive Christopher to his feet. “I need to know if she’s a member of the Evans family.”

“Give me a sec.” He could hear sheets rustling, knew his brother was climbing out of bed. “Right. According to The Registry, Evans … where’s she from?”

He checked her driver’s license. “Philadelphia, Pennsylvania.”

There was the sound of rustling pages, then the creak of an office chair. “Dude. The Evans family practically rules Philadelphia.”

Christopher groaned. “Wonderful.”

“Hey, at least she’s not a warlock.”

“Right. I need a mate who distrusts my kind, not a mate who tries to feed me to demons.”

There was a pregnant pause. “Did you say mate?”

Christopher gritted his teeth, cursing himself silently for the slip of his tongue.

“Yes.”

“A witch.”

“Gareth.”

“You? You mated a witch? ”

Christopher hung up the phone. Gareth could laugh his ass off all by himself, thank you very much.

Christopher woke to the feel of a rough tongue on his cheek. He opened one bleary eye to find Alasdair staring at him and purring.

He lifted his head. His workshop. He’d fallen asleep in his workshop. It wasn’t the first time he’d done that, and he doubted it would be the last. He looked down at the book spread out below him, The Registry of Wizards, Witches and Warlocks , and groaned.

Alannah Evans . A witch, not a wizard.

Well. That will teach me to be careful about how I phrase my summoning spells.

He’d rechecked the runes, the copy of the paper he’d burned that night a month ago, and slowly realized his error. He hadn’t specified a wizard mate, just one of an older lineage, someone who was born from power, with magic to complement his own.

Apparently the Lord and Lady had seen fit to send him a witch. Joy.

And it was beyond too late now. His wolf was completely delighted with the woman upstairs currently curled up in their den, leaving her scent behind on his sheets and pillows. He wanted to go up there and wallow in that scent, have it wash over him until he couldn’t tell where he ended and she began.

And that was only the beginning. He wanted to lick every inch of her body until all he could taste, would ever taste, was her. He longed to thrust inside her, pulling climax after climax out of her until they were both limp and sated, then do all of it all over again.

He buried his head in his hands and groaned. Now what do I do? Witches and wizards tended to avoid each other, and with good reason. The precise way wizards performed magic was the antithesis of the breezy way witches performed the same tasks.

The hours spent carefully crafting spells would drive any self-respecting witch insane.

The way witches tended to pick up seemingly random objects and blithely cast a spell that garnered the same results drove wizards nuts. Add in the resentment witches felt about how wizards could do things they couldn’t do, and the contempt some wizards openly showed towards witches, and you had one hell of a mess destined to give one tired, grumpy wizard a serious migraine.