Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 02

"I will enjoy this," he murmured in pleasure.

Abruptly, shocking in the reprieve, the feral, predatory intruder snapped alert, spun, and launched himself in a fluid, impossible leap across her bed towards the doorway. He was caught midair by a snarling body hurtling in through the open window, and the two figures landed together with a resounding crash on the mattress.

"I don't think you fucking will, Nick" Mac snarled into the face of the man pinned under him.

Mac.

Gemma's heart leapt as she relaxed out of the fear- slumping back relieved, elated against the wall. Safe. He was here. Wet warmth surged into her aching pussy at the brief, clear glimpse of him she caught before the bodies tangled on the bed exploded into a hurricane of impossibly swift movement. His taut muscles were covered in sweat, chest heaving with the deep breaths of extreme, pushed-to-the-limits exertion. He was flushed, with tangled, windswept hair- and he was unutterably irresistible. Her frozen blood ignited at the sight of him, seeming to strain towards him, every pore, every atom eager, ecstatic, and searing with abrupt arousal, with thanks.

And she was furious with herself. How could she react this way? After all the pain, heartache and worry of the last three days, the strain and unanswered questions - still unanswered - yet her body was practically singing, the shimmer on her skin and in her blood so tangible, so vibrant, so alive. It was idiocy. It was embarrassing. It was irrefutable. Damn.

Safe, her heart sang.

Shut up.

Backed into the corner, hugging her arms in a tight grip around her torso, she tried to hold steady against the incandescent feelings rocketing through her body at the memories suddenly invoked. She remembered, re-lived in technicolour surround-sound imprints, the feel of him: in her, on her, scent and limbs surrounding her , pushing her higher, higher, through, further, implacably-.

Stop it. She screamed the order inside her own head, and twisted her neck violently, trying to shake the images, the sensations from it. Her incautious movement wrenched the wound under the gauze into raw, weeping pain, and agony spiked over the arousal, reason cutting back in with it. Remember that you half-wit?

Eyes half-closed, she leaned back against the wall and fought down the irrational delight, the desire, purposefully twisting her neck slightly to shock herself. Eventually, exhaustingly, she hauled her emotions back in line and tamped the lid down tightly on them, neck tilted slightly to the right to maintain the pressure and the painful reminder. Then, inexorably, her eyes were drawn by the fight.

The dark predator - Nick - was so fast, breathtaking, his skill and lean power apparent in every feint, every block, each snarling, sinuous attack. She couldn't follow half of the movements, they were so swift that her eyes just couldn't seem to refocus at that speed; all she could track was the rough blur of tumbling, retreating and entangling bodies around the room.

Yet he was totally outclassed. It was like watching an adult control a hysterical, flailing child. With an almost lazy air, Mac was shadowing and containing his every move. Nick was not allowed to hit Mac, not allowed to leave, definitely not allowed to approach the corner where she stood. Gemma watched, spellbound, her other impulses distracted by the sheer effortless mastery of Mac fighting. He'd always been so gentle - concealing this, this graceful dance of power.

And Mac was carefully, seemingly idly, stripping his opponent of all his clothing. For a moment Gemma wondered if this was a power play, revenge for what Nick had done to her, to them, but then she realised that Mac must have another purpose. Despite the violent, increasingly frantic struggles of the half-dressed figure, there was not a single drop of blood staining the pristine white shirt now revealed. Or the skin underneath that. The clothing was not being viciously torn, but stripped in careful, controlled packages, each flung into her corner. And the desperation in the attempted escapes was growing.

Part of the intruder's trousers - with the right front pocket - flew further toward her, something small and hard inside the cloth pulling the material to fly further, before bouncing on her stomach and landing in her fist as she unthinkingly caught it. She gasped, her eyes, which had started to drop to the cloth-wrapped object in her fist, jerking back to the fight as abruptly Mac twisted in an impossible- to-see blur of movement and smashed the other figure backwards across the room to slam hard into the wall. Mac's attacks multiplied tenfold, with a speed and unleashed ferocity that brought Nick's fists up in protective block after protective block as his hopeless, despairing attempts to dodge, to divert, to escape each furious blow became increasingly ragged, sluggish. Panicked.

No holds barred now. Gemma found she was smiling a little grimly. It wasn't nice, but damn, it felt right.

Then a gleam of hope shot across Nick's face, and six wolves erupted through the window in a sea of fur and teeth, leaping onto Mac. He snarled and threw them off easily, eyes glittering black anger as he dived after their ragged, semi-naked leader, who was scrambling frantically out the way that his pack members had come. One of the wolves jumped towards Gemma, jaws agape and eyes gleaming enmity, and she let out a gasp as she slammed back into her corner, trying to dodge.

Mac made an impossibly swift about-face with a hand on the frame, and whirled back towards them, snarling. He smashed her attacker to the floor uncompromisingly, creating an inanimate heap which he didn't even stop to monitor land as he spun to face the other five. They made no bones about their undignified, panicked scrabble to escape out of the window after the vanished figure of Nick, each fighting to crowd through first. Mac just watched, standing in an easy, protective wall in front of Gemma, breathing deeply, then he picked up the unconscious body on the floor and slung him casually after the last escapee.

Gemma sighed. She relaxed further, and felt the gentle shimmer of the muscles under her skin releasing the final strands of tension, letting go totally for the first time since the intruder had appeared in her doorway. Eyeing the expanse of Mac's shoulders under his smooth t-shirt, she sighed again. Safe.

He's a bloody werewolf, she reminded herself caustically. But her instincts didn't seem to care; she couldn't seem to wring any sense of threat out of the occasion. Other feelings were rising again, and with them her irritation. He was standing with his back to her, across the room, breaths gradually slowing. Unbidden, Gemma's eyes were trailing appreciatively, lingeringly across the muscles under his loose t-shirt. Idiot, she snorted at herself, and tilted her neck to make herself wince.

His shoulders and the hard muscles etched across his back actually looked more tense now than they had at any time during the fight. He still hadn't turned around either. His stance , his whole demeanour even from behind - well - he looked - worried. About facing her. The grim little smile returned to Gemma's face. Good. It eased something in her heart. Mac had hurt her. And he was worried about facing her now. That felt - good. Then the smile softened, and she sighed for a third time, watching his shoulders crease with increased tension at the sound.

Told you you were safe. The words echoed smugly in her head.

"What is going on?" She'd been dying to ask for days.

An echo of her sigh escaped slowly from the large form in front of her, and the shoulders slumped slightly. "How are you, Gem?" The question was very low, a tinge of shame to the words.

"Never mind that," Gemma returned. It was novel seeing him afraid of her. "Just answer the question, will you - what's going on?"

"I don't exactly know, it doesn't make sense." He still hadn't turned around. "But -- how are you, Gemma? How are you coping, how's your -?" he broke off, voice dry. The novelty was wearing off. His back was very nice to look at but it was beginning to irritate her that that was all she had to look at - and that annoying little droop to the shoulders was also beginning to pall. He did need to face up to this.

"Turn around. Then you can see," Gemma replied somewhat tartly. The muscles rippled as he winced slightly. But he did turn. His green eyes were shadowed, wary and sad, but something in the familiar, human warmth of them seemed to reach out and embrace Gemma.

"And what do you mean, you don't know?" She was not going to let her irrational attraction to this - this monster (yeah, right) let her forget that she was a significantly injured party. "You didn't know you were a werewolf? You 're not acquainted with that guy called Nick, who told you not to say no to something?" she continued sarcastically. "You didn't know that he'd be here - you just happened to arrive fortuitously?" Thank god. "You didn't just strip-search him in a very unorthodox way? For this little thing in my hand? Are you saying there's no reason to any of this?" Her voice was rising in an increasing crescendo as she berated him for his pathetic answer. It would have worked better if the sight of his chest packed inside that T-shirt hadn't made her voice breathless too.

Idiot. Idiot. Spineless idiot, she berated herself.

He hesitated. Sighed again, eyes hooded, then looked down into hers, sombre. "I can explain as much as I know, as far as I can, speculate, but first - Gem, I need to heal you. Your neck. Please."

The room suddenly felt hotter, for no reason she could understand. His eyes were sincere, deep pools of green, the tawny hair flopping across his forehead in that familiar, careless, 'I am such a cool dude' way - just like -.

Adam.

Her heart contracted again, and she levered herself abruptly away from the wall, dropping the bundle in her hand onto the bed as she pushed into a run. She winced against the familiar ache of her sore spots as she moved suddenly, and sucked in air against the pain as she tried to dodge clumsily around Mac.

An arm hooked around her waist, pulling her gently, implacably back against him. "You need to heal," murmured Mac softly. "You should be lying down."

She didn't even bother trying to struggle. She'd seen that fight. She obviously had to persuade him to let her go, because that arm wasn't going to budge otherwise.

"My little brother was downstairs!" she answered breathlessly. That arm was doing something to her lung capacity, despite her worry, "He - that creature, Nick, he said he'd drugged him. I have to check he's alright," she couldn't help squirming against the arm holding her, despite what her logical brain said, the images her imagination was throwing up of what she might find downstairs were too horrific to stay still against. She winced sharply as a raw nerve in her neck caught while she twisted. Mac sucked in air sharply himself, and abruptly they were out of the room and halfway down the staircase. She barely registered that he'd picked her up and was carrying her easily, a soundless lope, before he'd crossed the hall and they were in the living room.

What-? Wow. That fast, that easily-? stuttered across her brain just before she saw Adam.

Gemma's heart contracted with relief as she focussed on the mop of brown hair and pile of gangly limbs stretched out on the sofa, a half-empty glass on the floor beside him. His game was still flickering. Adam looked all right. Just asleep. Was he just asleep? How had Mac known exactly where to find Adam?

She dismissed that to think about later, as her escort lowered himself easily to a crouch beside the sofa, where she could hear and see Adam's soft breaths as he slept. She reached out a hand and stroked it gently over his hair, relief shimmering in her limbs.

He must be deeply asleep. He'd never let me getaway with that otherwise. 'Ew - big sis - gerroff!' Her mouth quirked at the thought.

"He looks OK," she whispered.

"He's fine," rumbled from the wide chest against her side as suddenly they were out of the room and heading back upstairs, "It's a common sedative, he might be a bit dehydrated when he wakes up but nothing a glass of water can't fix."

How does Mac know this? Gemma felt as though her mind was overloaded, and starting to get a bit slap-happy. Maybe it was the scent of him in her nostrils, so close. How does he know his way around my parents' house? A cheeky little smile crossed her face, Maybe he's secretly been watching me the same way I always secretly watched him. Maybe he followed me home at Christmas and checked out the house. Lovelorn baying under the moon. The frothy, idiotic thoughts that kept surfacing made her want to giggle

"It's you who I'm worried about," continued Mac as he lowered her gently back onto her bed. Bed and Mac, mmm, darted across Gemma's brain flirtatiously, and she repressed the increasing urge to laugh as her blood started to simmer gently under his concerned gaze. The door was shut behind them. She also wanted to lick her lips. Obviously. He moved so fast, so smoothly, with such effortless stealth - it made his strength all the more apparent-mmm. A pool of warmth was gathering between her thighs.

He's never moved like this before - around me -I've spent enough time watching him to know. Gemma smiled impishly at her own thoughts again as she slid her eyes delightedly over his taut arms muscles, distracting Mac during his urgent recital, "The - toxin - inside you, it's dangerous, and needs counteracting fast - or you - your neck - will never heal right. I brought some cream as well, which my doctor prescribed for me once he'd - isolated the heavy metal, which I probably bled onto you. The cream should absorb it."

Or something like that. She wasn't really paying attention, too rapt, watching the play of sunlight down the strong column of his throat to his chest.

"Let me see," murmured Gemma. She lifted her hot, dreamy gaze up to his and grinned at his bemused expression, then put on a concerned expression and stroked her gaze over his chest, looking for his healing wound. Or pretending, not very hard, that that was why she was looking. Appreciation is no crime.

"What?" Mac was startled. She liked Mac startled. His expression made him look younger, more vulnerable, approachable. Accessible.

She smiled up at him joyously. Maybe this is what reaction feels like, when you suddenly feel safe after unbearable tension. It's nice. Intoxicating.

Not as nice as Mac.

"Take your shirt off. Show me your wound." Gemma fluttered her eyelashes up at him as he leaned over her. She knew she was being silly but didn't really care, was enjoying it in fact.

His startled expression faded into thoughtfulness, then a slow, warming smile. Mac had never had trouble following her. He lifted an eyebrow. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he drawled back on a teasing note. His eyes, behind the gleam of appreciative amusement, were a little sad. They were always a little sad. She wanted to change that. She'd always wanted to.

Abruptly, fear shot back into her and she tensed. Shivered. Where was this leading? Obviously, he'd think she wanted - . No way. Ow. Understatement. Eugh. She remembered the pleasure, and delighted in looking at him, but the pain was still right there aching through her torn flesh. Her eyes pulled away, connected with the headboard, traced the familiar pattern in the wood. Her right hand had come up automatically to cover the bandage at her neck, protectively hovering a millimetre away from the cloth as the other arm wrapped tightly around her midriff.

"Gem," his soft tone called her back and their eyes connected. He was so sad. Angry in there too, somewhere, but the surface of his expression showed mainly just a strong level of compassion, and resolution. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry it happened - that I couldn't control - that you were -," a spasm crossed his face, and he halted, looking down at a small pot in his hand, like for face cream. He'd apparently picked it up from somewhere in one of the seconds while she was blinking. He stared at it, breathing deeply into the silence for a moment or two as she studied the lines on his face. He looked tired. Weary and sad, and resigned - to what-?

"I'm sorry." The deep voice was only a thread of sound, "But I need to massage this into your back. To counteract any heavy metal that may have been absorbed by your skin. And I need to remove that bandage. I need to heal you. Please." He met her eyes again on last word. His voice had a deep resonance, sorrow.

She swallowed. She didn't like to see him this sad, but - there were other things to worry about. "Am I turning into a werewolf?" she murmured. The figure standing before her sighed and ran a hand through his tangled hair, then sank down tentatively onto the edge of her bed. Yippee! An incorrigible little voice at the back of her head rejoiced. She ignored it, together with the rapid acceleration of her blood flow.

"You are," he replied. "But I can halt it if you let me heal you now. You still have enough of your human immune system left to drive out the - infection, if I - remove the source." His musk at this close range was driving her insane, she seemed to smell him to much more clearly - he was so much more divine - more intoxicating than ever before.

"Will I stop having these overpowering new feelings?"

"You should." Then he grimaced. "Well, I believe so. There are very few humans who've been half turned, and then healed."

But her feelings for Mac weren't exactly new. And they were simply heightened by her ability to smell and see and sense him so much more clearly.

"They are a bit irritating," she understated.

His winced, then his expression hardened. Darkly sombre now. "Yes, I believe you. I was born a wolf and the instincts aren't new, I've had a lifetime learning to control my-." He broke off at the memory of losing control, and fresh anguish twisted his face.

"Stop it," she growled up at him. "I kissed you, remember? You weren't to blame."

"I knew that I'd cause you severe damage - that I'd bite you - I should never have -," he answered caustically, self-loathing evident.

"Mac," she hissed at him, exasperated. The dumb overprotective idiot really believed it was all his fault, that he should have been strong enough to protect her even when she'd ignored his warning to leave.

"Believe me, Gem, I wouldn't be here inflicting myself on you again if I didn't have to heal you. I have to stop this."

Well, gee, thanks. Nice to know you missed me.

"So stop whining and heal it," she snarled back, interrupting his penitence. Enough.

There was a shocked silence, before he lifted startled, angry eyes to hers and they glared at each other. Then the corner of his mouth twitched.

"Whining?" he said.

She reached up a hand to lay her fingertips against his cheek, assuring him softly, "It wasn't your fault."

"Yes it was," he returned stubbornly, and the black burn glinted across his gaze again. Angry for her. Not at her. He always had to protect her. Mac. Mac hadn't wanted her to get hurt. She'd known it then, when he'd tried to persuade her to leave against both of their enflamed instincts, and she knew it now, looking up at him. She didn't want him to be hurting like this, either.