Rebecca Zanetti - Twisted

The men continued to glare over her head.

Jase settled his stance. “Who the hell is she?”

Terrent’s nostrils flared. Slowly, he turned his head until his gaze pierced Maggie’s. “My mate.”

Maggie ran.

Pure and simple, she turned tail and dodged through the house and out the back door. The smell of huckleberries hit her first, the glide of a waning sun next. She cleared a rough stone fence with one hurdle, running into the cool forest.

Thank goodness the guest mansion was near the trees.

Even in human form, Maggie’s wolf genes allowed her to see the world flashing by vividly. Bright colors, muted tones, life.

Her toe caught on a rock, and she barely kept from falling.

Windmilling her arms, she regained her balance. She ran until her breath panted, her knees ached, and her mind cleared.

Mate?

No way. The idea alternatively intrigued and terrified her.

Mated to Terrent Vilks?

No. Not possible. She knew her body, and there was no marking on her skin. No bite marks to show she had a mate . . .

that she belonged to somebody.

She didn’t belong to anybody.

And damn if that didn’t hurt.

Maggie halted and allowed the sun to bathe her. Several deep breaths sharpened her focus. A lumbering rippled through the woods behind her.

So she did what any self-respecting animal would do. She scrambled up a tree.

Bark cut into her hands, and pine needles jabbed into her hair, but she made the climb toward the top. From her vantage point, she could track the man jogging her way. He’d ditched his shoes. Interesting.

Terrent loped to a stop, his head upturned, his nostrils flaring. Slowly, he angled to the side of her tree and peered up. “You’ve been living with cats too long.”

“I live with vampires.” Sure, her best friend was a feline shifter, and they had lived together for some time in NOLA, but now she lived with the fanged.

He shook his shaggy head. “Wolves don’t climb trees.”

“I just did.” She wiped her stinging palms on her shredded jeans.

He kicked loose bark away from his bare, very masculine feet. “You made a mess. A feline wouldn’t have left evidence.”

What the heck did evidence matter? “You can smell me, wolf. Tree bark and trails don’t matter.”

“You can mask your scent.” He eyed the lower branches.

“Just like the three wolves back at the house.”

She stilled and then grabbed the nearest branch for balance. Leaning out, she surveyed him. “What?”

“Come down and I’ll tell you.” Low, deep, his voice wandered under her skin to her sex, settling right in.

She swallowed twice. Her nipples hardened and threatened her pretty pink bra. The man was dangerous on too many levels. She never should’ve agreed to this mission. Not even for the king. “No.”

“Don’t make me come up and get you.” The order held bite.

“You’re not my mate.” The branch below her cracked.

A deep growl rumbled from Terrent. He yanked a picture from his back pocket.

Even from a distance, Maggie could make out the photo-graph of her and Terrent smiling into the camera, their arms around each other. Her hair was a lot longer then. She swallowed. They looked close. “So we knew each other.”

“Yes.” He reached for a branch, only to drop it and grab a different one. His mouth twisted in a pained grimace. “Come down. Now.”

Wait a minute. She bit her lip. Was the big, bad wolf afraid of heights? “I think you should come up and get me.”

He stilled, his gaze piercing through the night. “If I have to come up and get you, little wolf, you’ll regret it.”

She levered out to sit on a thick branch, swinging her feet back and forth. “I’m waiting.” Her singsong voice filled the forest.

“Get back closer to the tree,” he snapped. Red swept across his cheekbones.

“Make me.” She scooted farther away from the trunk, her legs dangling, her hands on a branch above her head. This was the most fun she’d had in too long.

“Damn it, Maggie.”

“Tell me the truth, or I’ll start swinging from branches.”

To prove her point, she bent her knee and ran her foot along the branch.

“I should let you fall on your damn stubborn head.” He tugged on a lower branch, testing his weight. The thing snapped in two.

Maggie laughed and guided her other foot into place so she could stand. “Why did you lie?”

“I didn’t lie.” He reached for a higher branch and growled as it ripped from the tree. “You agreed to be my mate.”

“Were we in love?”

“Absolutely.”

Not likely. “I may not know a lot of wolves, but something tells me we don’t contract to mate. If we were truly together, which I’m not sure about, then any mating would’ve occurred quickly.”

“You calling me a liar, darlin’?” His voice lowered to a softness that slid danger into deadly.

The hair pricked up on the back of her neck. “I haven’t decided.”

“Let me know when you do.”

Her branch shuddered and then splintered apart. With a soft cry, she jumped and landed on a branch several feet down. Pine needles flew, and bark crumbled, but the damn thing held her.

He smiled. “Close enough.” Bunching his legs, he leaped.

The wolf hit her mid-center and tucked her into his hard body. She screamed as they sailed through the boughs. He rolled them several times in midair, wrapping long legs and arms around her.

Gravity yanked them down like the powerful force it was.

She landed on top of him and lost every bit of oxygen from her lungs. Maybe her muscles. Hell, maybe her brain.

Her chin thunked against his chest. Taking several deep breaths, she went boneless on him as she took inventory.

Nothing really hurt.

“Are you all right?” he rumbled, both hands flattening against her lower back.

Her entire lower back.

She lifted her head. “Fine. You?”

He grimaced and shifted his weight beneath her. “I’m good, though pine needles may have pierced my spine.”

All of that incredible muscle rolling into place against her body flared nerves to life. All sorts of nerves . . . in all sorts of places. She pushed against his chest to get off.

She didn’t move.

He exhaled. “We need to talk.”

“Then get your hand off my ass.” Yeah. He’d copped a feel.

His grin flashed strong white teeth. “Sorry. I’ve missed this ass.”

She lifted an eyebrow. “Apparently not. It’s not like you tried to help me remember.”

He pursed his lips in what could only be termed a wounded male expression. “I figured the memories were so good, you’d remember on your own.”

Her eye roll made her dizzy. “Whatever.”

“Plus, I’ve been a bit busy fighting werewolves, demons, and Kurjans the last decade.” His jaw firmed. “As you know, the werewolf population exploded, and I needed to fight. The king promised to keep you safe. I hoped you’d remember while you healed. You’re damn stubborn, sweetheart.”

“You think you know me?”

“Yes. In fact—” he ran his fingers along the bottom of her buttock, where ass met leg—“I believe there’s a very nice, properly small, fang mark right . . . here.”

Fire blasted through her. She swallowed. Twice. “I thought that was just a scar.”

“It is.” His fangs dropped low. “See?”

Yeah. She saw. “Put those away.”

The sharp points retracted. He settled into the rustling leaves, both hands again pressing against her back. “Your name is Maggie Malone, you’re a wolf-shifter from Vaile Island, you’re being hunted by demons, and you make the sweetest sound of need right before you come.”