The Dark-Hunters, page 248
“What were you talking about?” she asked the waitress. “Wren didn’t get shot last night. The bullet missed him … didn’t it?”
The look on the blonde’s face confirmed Marguerite’s fear. The bullet hadn’t missed.
“What happened to him?” Aimee asked.
Marguerite swallowed as guilt consumed her. “I was being mugged and he came out of nowhere to chase them off. One of the guys had a gun that he fired, but Wren told me that he wasn’t hurt. I didn’t see a wound on him.” Surely she would have seen a gunshot wound, wouldn’t she?
If he’d been badly wounded, he would have said something. After all, no man took a bullet without complaint.…
“Wren saved you?” The waitress asked the question as if she couldn’t believe he would have ever done such a thing.
Marguerite nodded. “The bullet just grazed him, right?”
“No,” the waitress said firmly. “Wren almost died last night.”
Marguerite felt sick at the news. This couldn’t be real. Surely the waitress was just playing with her. “What hospital is he in?”
She could see the debate in the woman’s expression about whether or not to answer her, and she couldn’t blame her. Good grief, she’d gotten Wren insulted, assaulted, and shot—all in less than an hour. That poor man most likely never wanted to see her face again as long as he lived.
Aimee narrowed her eyes at Marguerite before she took a step back. “You’re the one who sent him all those flowers today, aren’t you?”
“Yes. Had I known he was hurt, I would have sent even more.”
That seemed to amuse her. “Hang on.” Aimee handed the bag back to Marguerite before she took her to stand by a door behind the bar. “You wait right here and I’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Marguerite nodded as she noticed the hostile looks the bartenders were giving her. They were dressed in T-shirts and jeans, and though they were handsome, there was an air of lethalness about them. They appeared to resent her presence there in the bar area, but she couldn’t imagine why …
Unless they knew about Wren and they blamed her for it.
Nervous and unsure, Marguerite turned to see the man with long black hair from last night. Justin. That had been his name. Like the others, he was staring angrily at her. He didn’t say anything while he put away clean glasses.
It seemed to take forever before Aimee came back to beckon her through the doorway. “Follow me.”
Marguerite let out a relieved breath as the woman led her into the large commercial kitchen. There were five cooks buzzing around pots and ovens while two men washed dishes in a large sink. None of the workers paid any attention to either of them.
At least not until they reached another door at the end of the long steel tables. A tall blond man was standing in front of it, and he appeared less than pleased that Aimee wanted to take Marguerite through it. He looked just like the man who had thrown them out of the bar last night, except he didn’t seem to remember her at all.
“What are you doing, Aimee?” he asked in a growling tone.
“Move, Remi.”
“Bullshit.”
Aimee put her hands on her hips. “Move, Brother, or you’ll limp.”
He narrowed his eyes. “You don’t scare me, swan. I could tear your head off and not flinch.”
“And I could hurt you in a much more permanent way.” Her gaze dropped to his groin. “Now move it or lose it.”
Curling his lip, he reluctantly complied.
“Ignore the scowl,” Aimee said as she opened the door. “It’s his natural countenance. Believe it or not, it’s far more becoming than his smile. That just looks creepy.”
Marguerite didn’t know what to think as Aimee led her into a posh old-fashioned parlor. The house was absolutely beautiful. Weirdly enough, it looked as if it were in some kind of time warp or something. There was nothing on this side that looked modern at all. Nothing.
Her eyes fell to the door that held five Stanley dead bolts and an alarm system that would rival NASA’s.
Okay, not entirely antique. But other than those telltale items, it was like walking onto an old-fashioned movie set.
Aimee led Marguerite up an intricate hand-carved stairway to the second floor, which was lined with mahogany doors. The waitress didn’t pause until they were halfway down the corridor. She knocked on the door, then cracked it open.
“You decent?” she asked, keeping her body so that Marguerite couldn’t look into the room.
There was no answer.
“Yeah, well, you have a visitor. So you need to be human for a while, okay?” After a brief hesitation, Aimee stood back and opened the door wider. “I’ll wait out here until the two of you are finished. Just call out if you need anything.” Then under her breath she added, “Like a priest, cop, or lion tamer.”
Marguerite frowned. What an odd thing to say, but then, she was quickly learning that everyone here was a bit strange.
She stepped past Aimee, into the room, and froze as she caught sight of Wren lying on a large sleigh bed under a black comforter that matched the black curtains covering the windows. His skin was ghostly pale. The flowers she’d sent earlier were lined up on his dresser and before it, but other than that, there was absolutely nothing personal in the room to mark it as his. It looked as if he were nothing more than a visitor just staying a night or two.
Her heart hammered as she went to him. His breathing was labored and a large Ace bandage was wrapped around his shoulder and upper chest. With the black comforter draped over his lower half, he was bare from the waist up, showing her a remarkably toned chest and arms. The man was incredibly well built, with a full six-pack of abs. The only hair on his chest was a small trail of dark blond hair that ran from his navel down to disappear under the covers.
But what held her attention most was the amount of obvious pain he was in.
Marguerite knelt beside the bed as guilt tore through her. This was all her fault. All of it.…
“Why didn’t you tell me about this?”
He didn’t answer. Instead he reached out and brushed a strand of hair back from her face. “You shouldn’t have come back here, Maggie.”
His hand was rough and callused. Unlike the guys she knew, his hands were used to hard work, not oiled manicures. “I wanted to give you a small token to say thank you for last night.”
Wren glanced at the flowers in his room. The bears and other Were-Hunters had been harassing him unmercifully about them. Not that he cared. To him those flowers were unbelievably precious.
No one else had ever given him a present before. No one.
He started to push himself up, only to have Maggie stop him.
“You shouldn’t move.”
The concern on her face tore at him. “It’s okay.”
“No.” She gestured to the bandage, where a red spot was forming again. “See, you’re bleeding. Should I call someone?”
He shook his head. “I’ll heal.”
Her beautiful brown eyes castigated and doubted him. “I can’t believe you didn’t tell me you were shot last night. What if you had died?”
He snorted at that. “I’ve been shot enough to know when it’s not fatal.”
Marguerite gave him a stunned look. Was he serious? With him she was never quite sure. He tossed things out at her in passing conversations that would be horrifying if they were true, and the bland way he spoke of them led her to believe that they just might be.
“Shot by whom?”
He didn’t respond to her question as he propped himself up in the bed. His dreads fell back into his eyes, obscuring his face from her view. She was beginning to suspect that he did that on purpose so that he could watch the world while no one could watch him.
Even so, she saw a small bead of sweat fall down the side of his face from the strain of being awake. “I won’t stay long,” she said, handing him the bag in her hands.
He stared at it as if it were an alien being. It was actually rather comical. One would think the man had never been given a gift before.
“What’s this?” he asked.
“Open it.”
She thought he might be frowning as he picked up the tissue paper on top and held it to his face. He seemed to be savoring it.…
“What are you doing?” she asked with a frown.
Without responding, he set the paper aside, then reached in and pulled out the gray sweatshirt inside. She smiled at his confusion.
“I know you said you’re taking classes at UNO, but I couldn’t bring myself to put a pirate on you. I saw the LSU tiger shirt in a store and had to buy it. I know it’s weird, but I’ve always had a thing for tigers and I thought it’d look good on you.”
He cocked his head to the side as if completely perplexed or intrigued by her words. “Thank you, Maggie.”
The sound of that nickname on his lips brought a shiver to her. She loved the way he said it—sure, deep, and protective. It was almost like an endearment.
“So is there anything I can do for you?” she asked.
Wren stiffened at her question, in more than one way. The one thing he wanted from her was the one thing he could never ask—to have her naked in his bed. And that added a deep, inexplicable burning to his chest. “I’m fine.”
“You sure? I could get—”
“Aimee?” he called, interrupting her.
The door opened instantly to show him the bearswan. She passed a quick look between them as she drew near the bed.
“She needs to leave,” Wren told her.
Aimee nodded, then reached for Maggie.
She shrugged off Aimee’s touch. “Wren…”
“I need to rest, Maggie. Please.”
Marguerite hesitated at the strain she heard in his voice. How could she argue with that? He was in extreme pain because he had saved her life when most men would have turned the other way and not bothered.
“Okay.” She moved back toward the bed and leaned down to kiss him lightly on the cheek.
Wren couldn’t breathe as desire roared through him. It was all he could do to not pull her into his bed.…
Before he could think better of it, he caught her head as she started to pull away and pulled her lips to his. He growled at the sweet taste of her. At the softness of her lips under his. It was the first time in his life he’d ever tasted a woman, but even so he couldn’t imagine any woman tasting better than this one. She was incredible.
Maggie’s lips were soft and decadent. They awoke a fierce hunger inside him that craved nothing but her. It was a hunger that both scared and thrilled him in a way he would never have thought possible.
He shouldn’t feel this. Not for a human. Not for anyone.
God save them both from his ragged emotions.
Marguerite moaned as she tasted the feral wickedness of Wren’s mouth. His tongue swept against hers, making her shiver. He smelled of patchouli and antibiotic cream.
More than that, he smelled of raw, earthy male. Of wicked midnight delights that she wanted to spend the entire day sampling.
He pulled away with a deep snarl. “Go, Maggie. Before it’s too late.”
His words confused her completely. “Too late for what?”
“Aimee,” he said between clenched teeth as he refused to look at Marguerite.
Aimee pulled her back. “C’mon, Maggie. He really should rest.”
Wren watched as the women left. His heart ached at the loss. Even now Maggie’s scent clung to him. It filled his nostrils, making the beast inside him roar with possessiveness. It wanted her in a way that was hard to deny.
He placed the heel of his hand against his groin, which was rock hard and throbbing. He’d never wanted anything more than he did right now to have a night alone with her.
But it was impossible and he knew it.
She was human and he was an animal … in more ways than one. There was no way he could trust himself with a woman. No way he could trust himself with anyone. He could turn vicious in a single instant. It was the curse of his people and his breed.
Even his own mother had turned on his father.…
Sighing, Wren looked at the gray sweatshirt Maggie had brought to him. He felt a smile curl his lips, and that was the most amazing thing of all. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d smiled. Hell, he wasn’t even sure if he’d ever smiled before in his life.
A foreign feeling entered his chest. He didn’t know what it signified. He held the tissue paper to his face. It held the faintest trace of Maggie’s sweet, feminine scent. He crushed it in his fist as a brutal wave of desire consumed him.
Moving the paper aside, he held her gift in his fist as he lay back down.
Someone knocked on his door.
His breath caught as he hoped it was Maggie again, but it wasn’t. Aimee entered the room.
“You okay, cub?”
He nodded. Aimee was the only person he allowed to call him cub. She didn’t use it as an insult but more as a friendly pet name. Of all the people and animals in Sanctuary, Aimee was the only one who had ever made him feel halfway welcome. But she, like the others, feared him. She was afraid even now, though she was trying to hide it.
She crossed the room. As she reached for the bag and paper, he hissed and growled at her. She straightened up instantly. “I thought you’d want it thrown away.”
“No.”
She held her hands up in surrender. “Just so you know, I sent her home.”
It’s where Maggie belonged, but the thought lacerated his heart with pain. He didn’t want her home. He wanted …
He wanted her here with him.
How stupid was that?
“Why didn’t you give her her backpack?” Aimee asked in an innocent tone.
He glanced to the corner where Maggie’s black Prada backpack was resting. Maggie had left it in the bar, under the table, during the confusion of last night. Aimee had found it not long after Maggie had left and told him about it this morning. He’d immediately ordered Aimee to bring it to him. He hadn’t wanted anyone else to touch something so personal to Maggie.
“I forgot.”
Aimee nodded. “You want me to take—”
“No!”
The bearswan gave him a sharp stare. “You need to curb that temper, cub. You know what Maman has said.”
He returned Aimee’s stare tit for tat. “I don’t want your scent on her property. Understand?”
Aimee rolled her eyes at him. “What is it with you freaky cats? I swear I don’t know who’s more territorial, you or the wolves. Artemis protect us from the lot of you.”
He watched as Aimee left the room and gently shut his door. He cradled the shirt to him as he closed his eyes and conjured up Maggie’s face. Nick had been right, she was a beautiful lady. He finally understood what Nick had meant when he’d called her top-quality goods. It bled from every part of her.
And he was nothing but a hunted piece of shit whose life was as worthless as a twig.
It was true. His life was worthless. He was worthless. He’d destroyed everything he’d ever touched.
Aching with the truth, he let his human form dissolve into that of a tiger. He stared at his large white paw on the shirt. What he wouldn’t give to be a human male. Then again, he would kill to be anything other than what he really was.
All he’d ever wanted was to belong somewhere. Anywhere. But it wasn’t meant to be.
Part of him wanted to rip the shirt apart to rid it from his sight, but the other part refused to let him. Maggie had given it to him. She had gone out of her way to bring it here. It was a gift. A real gift, and he would treasure it as such.
Closing his eyes, he could still taste her kiss. Smell her scent on his skin.
And God help him, he wanted more.
* * *
Marguerite couldn’t get the taste of Wren to leave her. She’d never had any man kiss her like that. It’d been sinful and wicked. Decadent. Possessive and hot.
He was so not the right kind of man for her to think about. He was a busboy. Her father would have an apoplexy if he ever learned she’d spoken to, never mind kissed, a man like Wren.
But that didn’t matter to her. Wren was wonderful.
“And he saved my life,” she said under her breath. There was no way Blaine or Todd would have done such a thing, and even if they had, they wouldn’t have walked her home with a bullet wound in them. They would have lain on the ground, screaming for an ambulance and the best surgeon money could buy to be flown in from the Mayo Clinic.
But Wren had never said a word about his injury. Then again, he wasn’t exactly chatty. She’d never met anyone who spoke less. And yet she was more attracted to him than she’d ever been attracted to anyone. He said so much more with silence than most others with a thousand words.
She couldn’t help wondering if part of his appeal was the fact that he was so socially unacceptable to her father. She could just imagine introducing them.
“Hi, Dad, this is my boyfriend. I know he needs a haircut and that he works in a biker bar, but isn’t he great?”
Her father would instantly have a seizure.
Even so, she still tasted Wren’s lips. Felt the steel of his hand cupping her head as he tasted her.
How could anyone make her this hot?
“Put it out of your mind.”
Yeah, that was easier said than done. All she wanted was to head back to the bar and see him again.
“I can’t.”
As much as she liked Wren, she loved her father, and her father would never, ever accept her dating someone like Wren. She couldn’t do that to him, even if he was an egomaniacal SOB who was more worried about his constituency than his daughter. He was still her father, and since her mother’s suicide, he was all the family Marguerite had.
She couldn’t see Wren anymore. She couldn’t. No matter what these weird feelings inside her thought or argued, their acquaintance was over.
Chapter 4
Marguerite tucked her books into her borrowed backpack. She still hadn’t found her Prada. She couldn’t imagine what had happened to it. She’d checked the lost and found at the library a dozen times. It wasn’t like her to lose something like that.
