“Worse than murdered?”
She explained about the witch, the ritual—and Oscar’s likely doppelganger. Geraldine paled and gripped the edge of the chair. “You’re telling me there’s a spell that will allow a caster to impersonate one of us?”
“Not a spell, nothing that easy. But the end result is the same.” Anna took a deep breath. “So if you see anything that looks like Oscar, kill it and ask questions later.”
Geraldine’s gaze slid to Patrick. Her brown eyes held a chilling brutality her son lacked, even at his most terrifying. Not because Alec couldn’t be vicious, but because the only thing Patrick had done to provoke this woman was exist as a non-wolf.
And because he’d been pinned by that look before, he knew what was coming before the woman opened her mouth. “If more spell casters become aware that it’s possible, no wolf will be safe again.”
“We’re going to stop her before she gets whatever it is she’s after.” Anna’s voice turned to steel. “But this is one person, Geraldine. No one else is to blame for what she’s done.”
At least Anna still gave that much of a shit about him. Not a very fair thought, maybe, but protectiveness seemed to be the only damn thing she’d freely give him. It made him want to poke at her, to stir the feeling and see if something deeper was underneath, waiting to break free.
It had to be. She loved him. Those words hadn’t been a lie. But neither had the ones that followed, all the excuses and fear—
“That’s naively shortsighted, Anna Lenoir,” Geraldine snapped. “Women in our position can’t afford to be squeamish with harsh practicalities, or allow emotional entanglements to blind us to dangerous truths.”
“I’m not squeamish,” Anna countered. “It’s fact. Unless you also think every wolf should have to suffer because of the dangerous indiscretions of a few idiots—in which case, I guess fair is fair.”
“Not
every
wolf.”
Just the mutts.
Patrick didn’t need a wolf-to-human translator to read that subtext. “Do I need to leave the room so you can outline your plan for magical genocide, or should we discuss the fact that Oscar Ochoa could be zombie-shambling through downtown Dallas as we fucking speak?”
Anna shot him a sharp look before returning her attention to Geraldine. “We need to see Jorge so we can warn him. We still don’t know what the witch’s end game is, but I think it’s safe to say she assumed Oscar’s identity so she could exploit it.”
“Jorge’s out of town,” Geraldine replied. “He left for business two nights ago, and isn’t expected back until tomorrow afternoon. The best I can do is have Junior call him.”
“Please.” Anna ground out the word. “Unless this woman shows up somewhere, Oscar’s father is our best lead.”
“Of course. You’ll stay here tonight. I’ll have the guest bedroom prepared.”
Patrick could parse that too. He’d been politely excluded by enough snobs to know how the whole thing worked. Anna could stay, but he should get the fuck out of her pretty little parlor before he ruined the carpets.
“Thanks, but we’re set.” Anna rose. “You have my number.”
There were more protests and cultured, polite offers. Patrick left them behind, retracing his steps through the twisting hallways until he found the front door and fresh air. He drew it deep with slow, careful breaths, amazed his lungs worked so well when his heart was a block of ice.
He half-hoped Anna would stay behind. Stay with her own kind, so he wouldn’t have to look at himself in the mirror and consider whether giving up on her was fair when she’d come from
that
screwed-up world.
Geraldine Jacobson had known Oscar had a mistress, a secret life. She’d known, and she’d condemned her youngest daughter to a miserable life married to him, just for…what? Allegiance? Oscar’s father was already Geraldine’s cousin. That shit was barely legal by human law as it was.
The wolves were still building dynasties. Such a
human
thing to do, and maybe that was why they were all so fucked up. Human customs clashing with their other natures, twisting them up inside until chatting about exterminating spell casters in front of one seemed like a reasonable idea.
Anna was more normal than she had any fucking right to be.
She stomped out of the house, her keys already in her hand. “I hate that woman,” she seethed.
Patrick managed a short laugh around the painful lump in his throat. “She sure is fond of you.”
“Because of what she thinks I represent.” She yanked open his car door first. “Geraldine wants things to change, but only in the ways that benefit her. Women having more power of their own, that kind of thing. She doesn’t give a shit about everything else that’s wrong or unfair.”
“That makes her pretty typical.”
“Yeah? Well, I don’t like it.” Anna stalked around the car, slid behind the wheel and slammed her door with a growl. “It’s going to be some big fucking deal to get an audience with Ochoa, and I’ll owe Geraldine for making it happen. Christ, I’d rather eat dirt.”
She’d slid right back into partnership, just like she had a dozen times before. That was how they worked. They fucked up, they got pissed, they hated each other—but they got the job done.
He wasn’t living up to his end.
It pinched, trying to cram himself back into that role. It was as claustrophobic as the passenger seat in Anna’s ridiculous car, but he tried. Bit down the pain, clenched his hands on his thighs and faked it for all he was worth. “If Ochoa’s not back until tomorrow, Alec will be here. Let him deal with his mother.”
“Yeah.” She slid the keys into the ignition and gripped the steering wheel. “You don’t have to do this.”
He pretended he didn’t know what the hell she was talking about. “Do what?”
The line of her spine went rigid. “Okay, then.” Tension rolled off her in waves as she started the car and slammed it into gear. Silence filled the space between them, and he let it. Let it grow and stretch, weighing more every second.
If it went on long enough, maybe it would swallow them both whole. Oblivion sounded pretty damn good right now.
The silence hadn’t killed him, so Patrick applied the second-best remedy.
They were in another strip motel in another shady neighborhood, but at least this one had a liquor store within easy walking distance, and now Patrick had whiskey. Whiskey and numbness, which put him two steps from starring in his own damn country song.
He made it through half the bottle before Anna pounded on his door, and it
had
to be her. No one else knew he was here, and that was why he didn’t bother with a shirt before he opened the door.
Like it would be that easy. He really was impressed with himself.
He found Anna leaning against the jamb, bleary-eyed and disheveled, reeking of smoke and beer and all the scents he associated with dive bars and roadhouses. “I locked my key in my room. Need your lockpicks.”
The wind caught her scent and blew it in his face, and under the smoke was something else—cologne and perfume, two things he’d never associated with Anna.
His fingers tightened around the door until the cheap metal creaked in protest. “Did it work, whatever you did to scrub me off your skin? Do you feel better now?”
She rolled her eyes and shoved past him, into the room. “I didn’t
do
anything. There was a horny couple at the bar, looking to spice things up. Guess they thought I’d be a good time.” That made her laugh, brutal and forbidding. “I should come with a warning label.”
It dragged a laugh out of him too. “You warn anyone who gets within ten feet of you. We only have ourselves to blame.”
“Why?” He’d thrown his shirt over a beat-up chair, and Anna lingered beside it, barely touching the fabric. “Did you think I was exaggerating? Or did you think you could fix me?”
“You don’t want to hear the answer, Lenoir. You really don’t.”
She spun around, swayed and braced both hands behind her, on the back of the chair. “I’ve always told you the truth. You owe me, damn it.”
She
wasn’t
going to like the answer. She never liked anything that made her feel loved, and right now, with as much whiskey as blood pulsing through his veins, he didn’t fucking care. “I thought you were worth it.”
Naked pain flashed on her face, gone in a heartbeat. “Now you know better.”
“No, you’re still worth it.” He crossed the space between them and leaned past her to thump the bottle down on the desk. It crowded her space, cornered her against the chair, and he didn’t care about that either. He just didn’t. Fucking.
Care.
“Now I know
I’m
not. So thanks for that.”
Anna squeezed her eyes shut. “Stop it.”
He braced his other hand on the desk, trapping her between his arms. “What, Lenoir? You can take it, but you can’t dish it out? Too bad. You don’t have to say I’m not worth it. You made that crystal clear when you walked away.”
“You never had a problem walking,” she whispered. “Vanishing for months on end, almost getting yourself killed. Did you think about me at all?”
The words spun him. He hadn’t thought about anyone during those tense months, only Ben’s lifeless body and the revenge burning a hole in his gut. Parts of it he barely remembered. Most of it he didn’t
want
to remember.
He sure as hell hadn’t wanted Anna to see him like that. Stripped down to nothing but impulse and rage, one step away from being that kid who’d murdered his own father and disposed of the body so completely no one had ever found it.
And yet here he was, stripped down to something worse. Lust and pain, twisted need and furious hurt. He could feel her all along his body even though they weren’t touching, and he wanted to be touching. He wanted to close the distance and rub against her, rub away all those other scents so that she had to feel
him
, not merely on her skin but under it, overwhelming every sense, clinging to any part of her he could touch.
She should be shoving him away, not staring up at him, deceptively soft and so achingly beautiful. “Why are you here, Anna?”
“I don’t know.” Desperation spilled into her voice, left it trembling. “I
tried
tonight, I did, but it was just like all the other times. I don’t want anyone but you.”
He lowered his head until he could taste the liquor on her breath. They could get drunk breathing each other in, but there were better ways to numb this pain. Better ways to say goodbye. “So take me.”
Anna froze for a heartbeat. “It won’t help,” she murmured, but slid her hands up his chest with a shudder anyway. “What if this is it? If I can never let anyone else touch me because no one else is you?”
Then he’d win.
Oh, it was a horrible thought. It came from that dark place, the one where human reason didn’t exist. The one he’d always pretended he didn’t have because he wasn’t a shifter, wasn’t vulnerable to the tug of otherworldly instincts and possessive insanity.
But maybe humans could feel it too, because nothing was as good as sliding his hands under her shirt and imagining all that skin being
his
. No one else touching her, no one else kissing her. It was sick and wrong, the saddest kind of victory, and right now, he’d take it.
Christ, he was broken too.
He tugged her shirt over her head. Anna’s hands clashed with his, as if she couldn’t bear not to help him, then dropped to his belt.
Patrick caught both of her wrists and jerked them aside, because nothing would be okay until his bare skin was pressed against hers. He grabbed her ass and hoisted her up against his chest, and when the chair got in his way he imagined it gone, imagined it
vaporized
—
Power raged through him, and the chair turned to dust.
Anna wrapped her legs around his hips and pulled his hair—hard. Their mouths collided, open and frantic, and she moaned when he shifted her higher, rubbing her nipples against his chest.
He swept the phone off the table and took a lamp with it. Both crashed to the floor, a reminder of that first motel, that first time, and that was a fitting bookend. This thing between them could kindle and die in the wreckage of cheap rooms designed to be temporary.
The desk wasn’t deep enough for him to lay her back. Her shoulders collided with the wall, leaving her slumped, half-reclined, but if he could get her out of her pants, he could work with that.
He went for her belt without releasing her mouth. Her shoes hit the floor, and she wrapped an arm around his neck, arching off the desk so he could drag her jeans off her hips.
“Tell me to do it,” he grated out as he ripped open his own belt. “Tell me to fuck you so hard you feel it tomorrow.”
Panting, she met his eyes—nothing held back or hidden. Just Anna, in all her fucked-up glory. “Do it. Fuck me so hard I can’t forget what you feel like.”
He was already pushing inside her before he admitted the truth—he wasn’t saying goodbye. He was daring her.
Walk away from this.
Walk away from me.
Her legs were already high on his hips, but he caught her calves and dragged her ankles up to his shoulders. She let him, let him bend her in half, grab her wrists and pin them to the wall, so there was nothing to stop him from driving deep and hard into the gripping heat of her body. Nothing to stop him from riding her fast and selfish. She’d always been stronger, but with magic pulsing in him, answering every urge he couldn’t control, she couldn’t be sure she could get away.