Marked by Moonlight (12 page)

She lifted her gaze, her brow creasing. “What boyfriend?”

“Your teacher friend.”

“Cyril?” She grimaced and waved a hand in the air. “We had one date. Besides, I don't think he would like the new me.”

He smirked. “He did from where I stood.”

“Maybe on the outside. But he likes his women—” She searched for the right word, fingers pinching the air as if she could grab hold of it.

Gideon readily supplied it. “Wimpy?”

“Yeah,” she confessed, nodding. “You could say that.”

“In my experience, wimpy guys only go for two kinds of women: wimpy or bossy. There's no in between.”

“How do you figure?” She set her drink aside and leaned her elbows on the table. It had been a long time since she had had a stimulating conversation. Even longer since she'd been with a stimulating man.

“Wimpy men like women who make them feel stronger. Or they like the bossy types that can tell them what to do. It's lead or be led.” He tilted his head, cool green eyes assessing her. “Like with lycans.”

She frowned. “How so?”

“With lycans you're either an alpha or a beta—a leader or a follower. One pack, one alpha.”

So he was saying Cyril liked her because she was spineless and could be led? Claire had spent a lifetime watching her father bully her mother. Had she turned out the same way? As submissive as her mother? Attracting men like her father? Ready to impose their will on a woman so that they could feel stronger?

Shaking her head, she bit out, “How do you know Cyril didn't like me because I was the other way? Bossy?”

He seemed to fight back a smile. “Just a hunch.”

Her nape grew hot and she lifted her hair to let air cool her skin. “You're wrong. I'm not a wimp.”

“Not now,” he allowed.

“Not ever.” Not entirely true, but she didn't care. It would never be true again.

Their food arrived then. Claire grabbed her foot-long cheese steak out of the basket. The waitress barely pulled her hand out of the way in time. Sinking her teeth into it, she groaned at the explosion of moist steak and gooey mozzarella in her mouth. Hot juice dribbled down her chin. She wiped at it with the back of her hand and took another bite without having even swallowed the first.

Wide-eyed, the waitress left, glancing over her shoulder, clearly amazed at the speed with which Claire devoured her sandwich.

Lifting her gaze, she watched the slow movement of Gideon's well-carved lips as he chewed his dinner. A different kind of hunger sparked in her blood.

“What about you?” She set the remains of her sandwich back in the basket, her voice low and sultry in a way she had never spoken before. “What kind of woman do you like?”

“Me?” The question clearly caught him off guard.

“How do you like your women?” she repeated. “Someone you could easily lead? Or do you like a woman to take charge?”

Suddenly she saw herself unzipping his jeans as she had at the lake house. Running her thumb over the engorged head of him. Except this time she was lowering her mouth, playing her tongue over him…

Their eyes clashed. The air sparked with electricity and she knew he was seeing the same thing, too.

“Not wimpy,” he said at last, voice strained as he broke eye contact and leaned forward to grab a chip from his basket of food.

“I thought so,” she murmured, picking up her sandwich again.

He wanted her. As much as she wanted him.

Only her satisfaction was short-lived.

Because the reality of it was that Gideon March would never give the
true
Claire Morgan the time of day. When all this was over and the curse was broken he'd forget all about her.

Staring into her glass, she studied the melting ice cubes and felt a frown pulling at her mouth. She didn't want to revert to the mouse again. The submissive. True, she could have continued through life timid and afraid, without ever knowing what she missed. But now she knew.

She knew what it felt like to stand up to her father. To take control of her classroom. To go after what she wanted. Now she knew, and she could never go back. Didn't want to go back. She smiled wryly. Although she could do without the loss of her soul and feeding on humans every full moon.

He stared at her from across the table, his eyes hard, shrewd, almost as if he could read her thoughts. “Don't get too comfortable, Claire. You can't stay like this.”

Of course not. She knew that.

Not if she wanted to live.

Yet a small voice rose up inside her.
Were you even alive before you became a werewolf?

A pack species, dogs are social creatures.

—Man's Best Friend:
An Essential Guide to Dogs

N
ow what?” Claire asked, eyeing the long length of weathered bar—stained and sticky from unidentifiable fluids—for its dish of complimentary peanuts.

“We wait,” Gideon replied, scanning the room without glancing her way. He thrust a beer into her hand with a terse “Drink.”

Wrinkling her nose, she looked askance at the beer in her hand. She never drank beer. Occasionally, a glass of wine. But never beer. Her father drank beer. By the truckloads.

She stared at the bottle in her hand as if it might sprout teeth and bite her. Looking up, she caught the hulk of a bartender leering down her cleavage from behind the bar. He smoothed a hand over his forest of a goatee and blew her a kiss.

Stifling a shudder, she turned and watched Gideon take a swig from his bottle. Growing up, she usually closeted herself in her room when her father sat drinking in front of the television. A safe place to avoid the path of his red-eyed gaze. Of course sometimes not even the barrier of her door protect her.

“I hate beer,” she muttered, her father's slurred insults echoing in her mind. Her nose twitched, almost smelling his foul beer breath hissing in her face.

“And why's that?”

She shrugged. “When my father wasn't working on a job, he was home. Drinking.” She nodded. “And that was pretty much it.” She snorted, a pained smile curving her lips. “God, we couldn't wait for him to leave.”

Silence fell between them, filled by the din of the bar. She wondered what had inspired her to bring up her father. She never talked about him. Not with anyone. Not even with her mother.

“Was he a mean drunk?” The question fell hard from his mouth, almost startling her.

“Mean better describes him sober. Drunk, he's something else.” Something worse. “I learned to stay out of his way.” She crossed her arms, rubbing flesh that suddenly felt chilled as she remembered the times she had not escaped his notice. “For the most part.”

He stared out into the bar, the rigid line of his profile resembling carved stone. Suddenly, he said, “The timid little mouse suddenly makes such sense.”

Heat crawled over her cheeks. Their conversation at dinner flooded back over her. “I'm not a wimp, remember,” she snapped. “Not a mouse.”

He turned his gaze on her, eyes a cool and steady green.

Dropping her arms, she met his stare directly, challenging.

“If you are—were,” he amended, gaze flicking over her, taking in her shiny halter top, slowly roaming over the swells of her breasts, “it sounds as though you had good reason.”

“To be weak?” she growled. Vulnerable? Submissive?
Her mother?
She shook her head fiercely.

“No,” he countered, eyes burning as they drifted back to her face, drilling into hers. “To be human.”

Human
. Something she could no longer lay claim to either. At that moment, he must have realized the same thing, too.

His eyes changed, the green deepening, assessing her with a burning intensity. The air between them altered, grew charged. Hunger pumped through her veins and her nipples hardened against the thin, satiny fabric of her top. The muscles along his square-cut jaw knotted and she scented his reaction to her—visceral and immediate, earthy, a spicy musk on the air.

He tore his gaze from her and looked out at the bar again, severing the moment.

She gripped the cold, wet bottle and did her best not to shatter the glass in her hand. Studying him, she tried to steady her breathing and suppress her annoyance that he no longer looked at her, that he had clamped down hard on the desire flaring between them, snuffing it out like a flame between his fingers.

Leaning his elbows back on the bar, he took another long swig of beer. Casual. Calm. She watched, mesmerized by the play of muscles in his throat. God, he was…incredible.

Tearing her gaze away, she tried to shake off this damned attraction for him. In a very short time, she'd either be dead or wimpy again. In either case, Gideon didn't fit in to the equation, so there was no sense getting worked up over him.

The Eagles crooned “Take It Easy” in the background, mocking her tension. Taking a delicate sip of beer, she wet her lips and asked, “What are we looking for?”

The small sip of the Texas-brewed Shiner rolled down her throat in a bitter trail. She tried to hide her wince, wanting to appear tough, the kind of woman who hung with the guys and tossed back a few bottles. The kind of woman he might like.

He scanned the smoky bar steadily filling to capacity. Attention trained on the room, he pointed his bottle at a distant table. “Look, I'm going to sit over there—you sit there.”

She looked at the two tables he indicated—so very far apart. Her stomach clenched.

“Why?” she asked, alarmed.

“They're more likely to approach if you're alone.”

“How do you know they'll even approach me?” She forced a sip of beer into her suddenly dry mouth, surprised to find that it didn't taste so bad anymore.

He looked down at his boots. The action was almost guilty—if she could ever apply such an improbable emotion to him, which she couldn't. There was nothing the least repentant about him.

“They will,” he answered, still avoiding her eyes.

Claire studied him as he rubbed the back of his neck beneath his hair. She got the feeling he hadn't told her everything.

What was he hiding? And what made him so certain they would approach her?

Shaking her head, she asked, “Why would they waste their time if I'm not in their pack?”

“They will. Trust me.”

She eyed him uncertainly, but accepted his answer. She had wasted too much time already refusing to believe him.

Another question burned on her mind. “How do I know whether someone's like me?”

“Their eyes will be the first giveaway, unless disguised, but even then you should sense them.”

At her frustrated look, he elaborated. “It's not something I can explain. I only know that lycans seem to recognize each other on a primal level.” He smiled wryly. “I've never experienced it myself. Maybe you can fill me in later. When you're back to normal.”

Back to normal
. After she encountered her first werewolf. After they killed the alpha. After this was all over and she returned to her old self.
The mouse
. While that didn't exactly excite her, the prospect of staying alive did. Just hearing him say those words so calmly, so confidently, reassured her that she was going to come out on top.

Gideon stepped from her side, and she resisted grabbing his arm.
Don't be a coward. Just tap into all that newfound confidence
. That bolstered her for the barest second. Until she realized these other lycans would be confident too, and aggressive, and experienced. Not to mention they had strength in numbers, since, according to Gideon, they traveled in packs.

She knew he did this sort of thing for a living, but how could Gideon contend with multiple creatures possessing unnatural strength?

He must have sensed her anxiety because he turned back to her, pale eyes glowing in the smoke-thick air. “Don't worry about knowing who they are. They'll know you.”

“That's what I'm afraid of,” she muttered as he walked away and left her at the bar.

Once he took his seat at the designated table, he sent her a wink. A small comfort considering how suddenly, terribly alone she felt—like a dingy cast adrift from its mother ship. She moved slowly to her table.

The bar attracted a young crowd, and she hoped she didn't run into any students but knew it likely. Gideon had last seen Lenny here, after all. She'd heard students mention the place before. Apparently the management didn't care too much if they allowed minors inside.

“Hey there.”

She looked up at a guy not a day over twenty, his face blotchy with acne. Claire scrutinized him intently, opening her senses for a sign, anything that would tell her one way or another.

He glanced over his shoulder to where a group of equally unappealing guys mouthed encouragement and sent him indiscreet thumbs-ups.

“Hello,” she returned, darting a glance at Gideon, sitting with a sudden alertness in his chair.

“Can I buy you a drink?” he asked abruptly, his manner that of a man unaccustomed to picking up women.

Clearly, the question was intended “to pave the way,” considering she held a three-fourths-f beer in her hand. She snuck another glance at Gideon and caught him shaking his head no. Apparently he had reached the same conclusion. This guy wasn't a werewolf.

“Ah, no thanks.” She lifted her beer in the air. “Already got one.”

“Uh, like some company, then?”

“I'm waiting for someone.” Not exactly a lie.

“Sure,” he mumbled a touch resentfully before returning to his friends.

A glance around revealed several eyes focused on her. Many of which belonged to pimply-faced prepubescents like the one she ran off. Any of those eyes watching her could belong to a lycan, she reminded herself. Ageless eyes, disguised in a youthful shell. Still, she found it hard to remember this when—

Whoa, there. A man walked her way. Not a kid. Claire leaned forward as he approached in all his black-leather-pants-and-turtleneck glory. She rested an elbow on the table and set her chin in her palm, her body warming and tingling as he approached.

“Where've you been all my life?” he asked.

God, guys actually said things like that? Sadly, it didn't sound that bad coming from his lips.

Flipping her hair over her shoulder with a flirtiness she never knew she possessed, Claire patted the seat beside her and opened her mouth, ready to invite him to sit down. Then she remembered her purpose tonight. Darting a glance across the room, she met Gideon's unhappy gaze head on. His eyes glittered dangerously. Swiping one finger swiftly beneath his neck in a cutting motion, he indicated she should end the conversation and set this one loose.

With a sigh of reluctance, Claire repeated her earlier excuse, “Sorry, I'm waiting for someone.”

With an odd sense of frustration simmering inside her, she watched him walk away. She turned a glare on Gideon. He stared back at her with a glare of his own, shaking his head side to side as though disgusted.

What's wrong with basking in the admiration of an attractive man? She wasn't getting any attention from Mr. Lycan Hunter over there. At least not the kind her body craved. She was the one looking death in the eye. If she wanted one last hurrah, who was he to stop her?

 

They walked silently through the parking lot, their feet crunching over loose gravel, the distant thrum of Aerosmith beating steadily behind them. The air was thick and balmy, the loss of the sun doing nothing to ease the stifling humidity.

“We'll try again tomorrow,” Gideon said.

She nodded and forced a smile despite the defeat lodged deep in her chest.

Her skin began to hum, prickling with awareness. Her smile slipped. They were in a particularly dark part of the lot, the last security light several feet behind them. Her feet skidded quietly to a stop. She scanned the parking lot, her vision adjusting to the night, flitting over the hoods of cars and trucks, seeing well despite the darkness.

Gideon stopped ahead of her, apparently realizing she wasn't walking next to him any longer. He turned to face her. “Claire?”

She wet her lips and inhaled deeply, smelling…something.

The tingling in her skin intensified, the tiny hairs on her neck standing on end. Turning her head left and right, she peered at the shadows lurking in the far end of the lot, feeling the eyes that watched her every moment.

They weren't alone
.

Then she heard it. Feet flying like wind across the parking lot. Gaze flying to Gideon, she opened her mouth to cry a warning. Before she had the chance, a dark blur flashed between them, knocking Gideon down.

A clammy hand slammed over her mouth, smothering her scream. She tasted the warm saltiness of sweat and animal over her open mouth. An arm snaked around her waist and lifted her off her feet.

She struggled, kicking, jabbing, thrashing as she was heaved higher off the ground.

Gideon's grunts and curses came from somewhere below her kicking feet.

Her captor was strong. Too strong. Far stronger than she. And intuitively she knew.

He wrenched her around to face him. He was young. And yet not. The way his gaze scoured her face and body, so knowingly—it was as though he knew her intimately. That look spoke of years lived. She had never seen him before, yet she knew him. Just as he knew her. As a species recognizes one of its own. In one startling instant, she realized just how well she knew him.
She was him
.

“Claire,” Gideon shouted.