Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 08

Bloody hell.

Heart pounding, Gemma had stood frozen on the path, eyes wide. She hadn't had time to move. Her brain had only just been catching up -stunned by the speed of the ruthless bloodbath that had suddenly descended, and as suddenly lifted. Stunned by the recognition of how easily, silently and neatly, her gentle companions could kill. Without pausing for breath, Jeremy and Gus had grabbed three of the corpses each and started hauling them off the walkway up into the trees. Jeremy had been growling something about the insult of Grey sending only six, to which Gus had suggested that maybe they should write him a formal letter of complaint. While Gemma had still gaped, trembling faintly, she had felt Jasmine, returned to human and with no hint of blood on her jaws or skin, slip a hand into hers and give it a soft squeeze.

"Sorry," the wolf-girl had breathed softly while she tugged the human back around and got her moving on towards the soil science building, toward her lab, her haven. "We couldn't leave them time to convey a report. Have to keep you safe."

Safe.

Gemma's slightly dazed mind kept replaying the bloody images from this morning.

She realised that in all the weeks she had spent among them, the encounters she had seen, she had never before witnessed a wolf fight to kill. The attacks had all been careful. The formal challenges of the defasio were obviously constrained to drive one wolf to yield without permanent injury. The unknown Mackeld wolf who had challenged Nicolas Grey not far from this spot had only been intending to delay him, and had been more intent on staying alive than on trying to defeat the larger wolf. And that time she had seen Mac fighting Grey himself - with no Argen rope, and no silver bullet - her mate had been careful in his movements, using delicate control to recover the bottle of this little drug from Nick intact.

Why hadn't Mac just killed him then? Her ex-flatmate moved even faster than her guards, she remembered being unable to even focus on the blur of his movements at all. And she had seen him out-think, out-move the Vanil Alpha, that beautifully choreographed dance in the forest. Surely he could have ripped Nick's throat out in seconds, that time in her bedroom back at her parents', and recovered the phial easily from the corpse?

Why hadn't he?

Long, long ago now, back at the beginning of this, Mac had mentioned a hold that Nick held over him - the reason for his exile. What hold? She felt dazed, stupid to have never thought this through before. Mac had never said that the hold no longer existed, just - what had he said? That Nick had overstepped the mark, setting Mac up to bite her, or something like that. That the exile was over.

What hold?

Having learned so much from the Wolflord, it was easier to see the missing pieces. And without the burning ache of mating lust distracting her.

Her blood pulsed briefly, a curl of heat burning through her, reminding her. Rut-doft was not required, she was quite happy to pounce on Mac without it.

No. She reminded herself sternly, and felt the aching agony clenched like a fist around her heart. She couldn't believe that never again ... she wrenched her mind away, forcing it back to the current question, and scrunched up and flung away her latest working sheet in frustration. Someone had doodled the word Mac all over it.

That evening, when the four of them returned to her flat, there was a note from a local courier company telling Gemma that someone had tried to deliver a package for her while she was out. Bristling with suspicion, Jeremy shot off around to the courier company's office before it closed, while the rest of them cooked dinner.

Gemma ate a lot more meat at the moment than she usually would, with three wolf flatmates. Well, officially the boys lived across the corridor, having providentially acquired the suddenly vacant flat - wolves seemed to have their ways of pulling strings even in the human world, or at least, the Wolflord did. Somehow, within three days of her return, the Hart couple she had known for two years had left, and the boys had moved in. They still slept there, although it was growing quite apparent that Jeremy would prefer to sleep over here. In Jasmine's room. It was harder to tell what Jasmine thought of the idea, although the pair of them were often laughing together, and Gemma had established that outside the rut, wolves picked mates much in the same way humans did. Jeremy was delicious to look at, a tall, craggy wolf, active, intelligent, and as the Wolflord's grandson, assigned as one of her guards, he had to be pretty powerful as well.

Kate and Bethan couldn't believe that Mac been substituted by two new young men who were almost equally gorgeous. Gus was huge, a hulking, dark giant, very softly spoken and a little diffident, his massive figure making even Mac's tall, strong frame seem almost slender. His twin brother Jeremy had the same colouring but the opposite build; tall, lean, rope-like muscles moulded under the smooth skin. Her girlfriends had instigated quite a few discussions straight after her return, trying to judge who was the most attractive of the three male wolf flatmates, past or present. She had a feeling that Jasmine had shut her human friends up, although whatever she had said hadn't stopped them from coming around to flirt outrageously with the boys almost every evening. Hers had turned into a party flat.

And it had also had a complete change of décor, courtesy of the wolves, who spent hours redecorating the rooms energetically while Gemma worked or slept. They were relentless. She realised that they were trying to distract her, re-arranging furniture, knocking down part of the wall between the kitchen and living room to add a lot of brightness, slopping paint around.

Like she was going to forget him just because his old bedroom was now a dusky rose. Although the colour was a beautiful foil for Jasmine's strong colouring.

Jeremy was very unsettled on his return, carrying a bulging plastic-wrapped package the size of his torso. The other wolves' heads shot up when he walked down the corridor to the kitchen, and they met him in the doorway, eyebrows raised as they stared at the package.

"What is it?" asked Gemma.

Restless, prowling, hackles slightly raised, Jeremy paced back and forward in front of her, holding the bulky object delicately in front of him, uncertain. The way he held it, it didn't look as though it weighed much, although with the definition of muscles in his forearm, it was hard to tell, she doubted he'd have been bothered if it was a block of gold. All three wolves were staring at the parcel with furrowed brows, she could see their minds working furiously.

"I think we should get rid of it," Jeremy stated softly.

"What is it?" she repeated, a slight edge to her voice. It was her package.

"I don't think we have the right," countered Jasmine, and her eyes flickered across to Gemma's momentarily.

She got it, then.

"It's from Mac, isn't it?" Her skin was shimmering, and it was quite scary, the wave of feeling which swamped her just at the thought. "What is it?"

Gus wordlessly picked the package out his twin's hands and passed it to her, murmuring softly, "You tell us."

Her hands were trembling lightly as she cut open the plastic, and she felt her skin flush warm, then pale, then warm again as she recognised the pale golden fake fur of her rug. The rug that Mac had brought to her in the forest, where they had spent many long, blissful hours entwined together inside its silken folds. Shaking, she pulled it out and hugged it quickly up to her face, pressing it against her eyes, engulfed in the warm, clean scent of him, throat burning with held-back tears. She couldn't do this without him.

"There is a note with it," Jasmine said quietly. Gemma couldn't pull herself back out of the rug. Not yet. Not with the salt water leaking into the folds from her eyes.

"But - Fealden told him not to write, text, phone, no communication." That was Gus, sounding a little ruffled.

"It's to us," the wolf-girl responded.

There was a silence, and Gemma heard the boys cross the kitchen to join her flatmate. There was a short, pregnant pause. Then one of them snorted indignantly.

"What does it say?" she mumbled into her rug.

Jeremy snorted again, "It's nothing, just -."

But Gemma could hear the smile in Jasmine's voice as she cut across his dismissal, "Just says what Mac will do to us if we let anyone get that close to you again."

That brought her head up, heart clenching in renewed feeling as she met the dark eyes of the half-Indian wolf across the small space. The boys shuffled uncomfortably at the sight of her tearstained face, but her friend smiled crookedly and tilted the postcard in her hand so that Gemma could read the front. It was one of the stark, artistic cards, large white letters on a black backdrop, and simply said, 'Every war must end.'

She stared at it, heart hammering. He hadn't given up. But he couldn't - they couldn't, he couldn't change her. Not if it meant his death. She couldn't let him. But what else was there? How could they?

Drawing in a shuddering breath, seared by emotion, she turned and shuffled dazedly back to her bedroom to slump on the bed, wrapped in the soft folds. It felt comfortingly like being wrapped in Mac. Mac. Every war must end. Mac. Her mind drifted, wondering what he was doing. What he meant.

She was startled awake hours later by Jeremy knocking perfunctorily on her door, entering on the heels of his knock to sniff deeply at the air. While she blinked sleep out of her eyes and wondered whether to be affronted at his abrupt entry, he scowled worriedly around, then glanced at her rug-wrapped figure on the bed, muttering, "Sorry," and swung back out. Indignantly, she sat up, hearing him calling softly, "No, nothing in there either, nothing except that damn rug."

She could hear the other two wolves prowling around ill at ease, and glanced at the clock. Nearly three a.m. - what on earth had gotten into them?

Moments later, lying curled inside her warm, Mac-scented cocoon, wondering vaguely what had the wolves so unsettled, and if she could get back to sleep again in this comforting rug, Gemma's thoughts were interrupted by a gently tapping on the window. The sound was familiar, and she sat up abruptly, peering at the orange glow reflected up from street level below, where she hadn't drawn the curtains. A pale reflection gleamed briefly, and in seconds she had the window open and was unhooking the message from the karabiner on the end of an almost invisible fishing line.

Mackeld mail. Trembling lightly, she smiled to herself and unfolded the short, hastily-scrawled note.

"Picchu. Your guards will scent me if I come any closer, and I don't want anyone to know I'm here. My pack have enough to worry them without terror that their Alpha is about to run off with a human again.

If you trust it's me, tug on the line and I'll lower a harness for you.

DO NOT DARE TO CLIMB OUT WITHOUT A HARNESS, STUBBORN HUMAN.

As proof, something I would never tell anyone else about you:

Duck a l'orange. Me. From behind, pinned on all fours."

Gemma stared at the short note, blood pounding excitedly through her veins, heart shimmering. A little blush infused her cheeks at the last line, and she gritted her teeth at the tease. No communication for a month and a half, and now this?

Even if he wasn't allowed to bite her, maybe she could bite him?

She had known he'd liked her reply to his lazy roll of questions one morning at breakfast: what was her favourite food, favourite possession, and favourite place? But dammit, there was no need to reproduce it in writing. She'd been eating the duck and orange that he'd cooked for her at the time. And guess how she'd been nudged awake at the crack of dawn that very morning? By whom? Damn smug, horny wolf.

Actually, she didn't need any more evidence that it was him than the dictatorial shout about not climbing out without a harness. Who would be that rude and autocratic if they were just pretending to be her mate?

She smiled ruefully. The Wolflord had explained thoroughly, she knew why she shouldn't see Mac.

She tugged on the line.

A harness slithered almost soundlessly down the wall, and knocked gently at the window, another piece of paper clipped to it, fluttering the words "Bring the rug" in the light breeze. Gemma's heart jumped as she heard padding footsteps down the corridor stop again outside her bedroom door, and she hastily stomped across her room, pulling open the door to snap at the hovering wolf, "What has gotten into you lot tonight?"

Gus loomed in the stark light of the hallway. "I dunno," he murmured slightly irritably. "Something's up. Not a real threat but - something. We just can't quite pinpoint what."

Mac. These guys were good.

"Well, can't you prowl a bit more quietly?" grouched Gemma, "I thought you wolves were supposed to be stealthy?"

He crooked a little, sheepish grin, and replied, "Sorry - we won't keep you awake any longer, Gem."

"Thanks," Gemma responded with sarcastic sweetness, feeling slightly guilty at the subterfuge. "Night." She gently closed her door again. This time, despite listening intently through the panels, his footsteps were undetectable on the carpet of the hallway. But she did hear the faint creak of the kitchen door when it swung wider. She relaxed.

Mac.

A little smile curved her mouth as she turned back to the window.

Moments later, she was wrapped in Mac, in her rug, in his arms, curled up on the flat roof of the extension at the back of the corner shop five doors down. They hadn't said anything, after he had hauled her up the wall faster than she could have fallen back down. Mac had just wrapped her in his embrace and sprinted down across the roofs to this sheltered little bower he'd prepared between the chimney stack and the wall, dropping gently down to lie flat on his back, pull her into his arms and cradle her against him. Gemma rolled to bury her face in his shoulder and just held on loosely, breathing in his scent.

She could feel his heart beating under her head. She'd missed it. Sighed softly to herself, feeling the rise and fall of an echoing sigh leaving his chest.

They lay together, quietly, while the stars revolved overhead. Being here, she realised that she didn't have to say anything. Nor did he. She knew, he knew.

Just quiet. Peace.

It was almost an hour later when the echoing siren of an ambulance shrieking down the main road off to the left stirred Gemma, lifting her out of her drifting comfort. The sky to the east was slightly less dark, presaging the coming of the sun. She felt a shiver run through her. He would have to go.

Light, familiar fingers began to brush over the skin of her shoulder. The warmth tingled through her, a rush of heat simmering into life in every pore. Yet it was so much more powerful - he was so much more powerful. Living in the flat, he had always been banked down, laid back, off duty. Hiding. Afterwards, he had been drained by the wound in his stomach, the silver leaching his strength. Now - she could feel the burn of him across her skin ever where they were not touching, there was a sense of him in the air, beating against her.

Her Mac was well. He was exhilarating, radiating power.

Ow, did she want to jump his bones.

She heard him chuckle beneath her, and then sigh.

"We can't, picchu. But thanks for joining me out here. I had to check you were all right."

She rolled over, laid her fists on his chest and gently rested her chin on them, feeling him tuck the rug back around her. She gazed up at him, teasingly.

The warmth in those green, green eyes.

"We can't even kiss," he murmured, eyes holding hers.

"I can kiss you," she retorted. "Just not on the mouth."

A gleam shot into his eyes.

"Oh, I could kiss you, picchu, so long as I avoid moist tissue. I think Valerie got very suspicious when I grilled her about this."

Eyes twinkling back, she lifted her head and parted her hands, tilting her head to admire the hard muscle of his chest before she bent and softly kissed it. And again. Again. Mmm. Over here. Mmm. Again. Maybe here. She missed his fur under her fingers, but she loved the feel of his skin under her lips, the slight give to the surface, the hard-packed muscle underneath and the rising tremor in his body at the feel of her lips. The taste of him. She had missed this human skin during the mating. A blush fired her skin as she recalled that the only bit of hairless skin he had when he was lycan was his groin, but it had seemed to feel different to this under her lips.

Maybe she could persuade him to shift so she could test it.

Abruptly she was lifted and swung, and landed gently cradled against his shoulder, head to head. His lips were only inches away as he sighed deeply, and she leaned forward in urgent need to fasten hers to them. He twisted his head, and they weren't there, she was whimpering against his throat, bereft, sliding her tongue over the warm skin, tasting the light tang of salt lingering from his sprint down here.

"Gem. You mustn't - not even kiss my skin. You lose control too easily."

Angrily she nipped at the skin of his neck under her lips, and saw the amusement in his eyes as he effortlessly twisted out of the grip of her teeth, lifting her so he could look into hers.

"I could kiss you, picchu. I would love to. But I know you hate it when I touch you and you're not allowed to touch me."

She pulled back, sliding down to sit cross-legged on his stomach and glare back at him. "You think you can control yourself better than me?"

"I've had a lot more practice," he said diplomatically.

Who was this she was sitting on again? Mac being diplomatic? That was a real insult!

"I thought you said you lost control around me," she returned brusquely.

A shadow crossed his eyes, but Gemma wouldn't let him look away. His voice was softer when he replied, "I know when I'm getting near that level, Gem. I wouldn't be able to mate my delicious mate, now your scent is human, without the loup taking over, but I could stop myself at any point while kissing your delicious skin."

A gleam of hope shot across his face, the crinkles around his eyes tightening. "Are you going to let me?"

"If you let me kiss yours."

Another sigh. Exasperation, "No, Gemma. You haven't the control."

Hah! Well. Maybe. Her frown deepened.

"Alright." She breathed deeply, and again, before continuing, "If I were to admit the possibility that you just might - currently - maybe, have the slightest fraction of a teensy-weensy smidgeon more control than me. Perhaps. Then -."

His hand lifted, and Mac laid the back of it against her forehead, checking for a raging fever while his eyes laughed up at her. She batted it away. Well, she tried to. He obligingly removed his hand when hers bounced off it.

"Pay attention," she growled down at her wolf.

He pulled his face into a more sober expression, but didn't bother to smother the amusement shining in his eyes.

"I've never really tried to control myself around you, Mac," she stated, adding under her breath, "And I've never heard you complaining about it before."

A smug smile crooked his mouth while she continued, "So how do you know I couldn't? How do I know I couldn't? What makes you think I have less control than you?"

He stroked a gentle finger along her cheek. "I wasn't born this controlled, Gem. It takes a huge amount of training, discipline, and self-denial to attain this level."