Mating Rights
By
Allie Blocker
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced electronically or in print without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in reviews. This is a work of fiction. All references to real places, people, or events are coincidental, and if not coincidental, are used fictitiously. All trademarks, service marks, registered trademarks, and registered service marks are the property of their respective owners and are used herein for identification purposes only.
eBooks
are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving eBooks is a copyright infringement.
© 2014 Allie Blocker
Editor:
Katriena
Knights
Cover Art:
Shara
Azod
eBooks
are NOT transferable. Re-selling, sharing or giving eBooks is a copyright infringement.
Kamra
The band took the gig because the money was too good to pass up. The last thing I expected was a rinky-dink hole in the wall…full of wolves.
No problem. I’m a capable witch. I can handle a den of werewolves.
Only these aren’t werewolves, they’re wolf shifters. How was I supposed to know there was a difference? And to make matters worse, for some reason, I keep antagonizing their Alpha,
Rannulf
. I can’t seem to help myself. He’s just so arrogant, so male,
so
ALPHA!
Rannulf
What exactly does this little witch think she’s doing? Does she not realize flaunting that lush little behind was going to get her mounted? Does she not know I am not a wolf to be toyed with? What she needs is a man to take her in hand. She needs to be
marked
. She needs to be mine.
One thing
Kamra
will learn this night- never run from a wolf.
This book is dedicated to my one and only mate who knows exactly how to take me in hand.
Allie
XOXO
Contents
Kamra
Okay, so maybe agreeing to a gig at a dive biker bar in the middle of nowhere wasn’t one of the band’s brightest moves. But the gig pays a hell of a lot of money and hey, a gig is a gig. The amount offered astonished all of us in the band, until we actually step on stage. The place is small, but packed, worn down, well past its better days, but clean.
It’s the crowd that gives me the first prickling of warning. We’ve dealt with biker types, frat boy douche bags—every idiot crowd you can imagine. I am not prepared for wolves disguised as bikers. They stand about expectantly, all in jeans and leather. Long hair abounds, and each and every face looks like they could kill a man without blinking. But that’s where any familiarity to any biker I’ve ever seen stopped.
These wolves are
HAWT
! Like male supermodel hot. Which is weird for werewolves. In my experience, werewolves are a mangy bunch, and generally monotonous. These guys come in every color of the human rainbow, which makes very little sense. Due to their cliquish nature, wolves tend to be one thing or another as a whole. Not saying they’re all prejudiced, just more likely to hang with their own kind. Not so here. As a great admirer of
smokin
’ hot members of the opposite sex, I like the view. Tremendously. I just don’t trust it. For one thing, they’re way too clean. I know it’s a gross stereotype, and I of all people eschew stereotypes. However, if the shoe fits. Werewolves generally don’t look better than movie stars who are only pretending to be from the wrong side of the tracks.
Our band has been on the road since I was seventeen, ten long years ago. It’s just been me, Bear on drums, Chas on guitar, Chucky the bass player, BB, who is an organ/keyboard genius, and Ross, our one and only roadie for so long we have become family, not just band members. Really, we became family first, deciding to capitalize on our “gifts and abilities” to keep us financially stable. We’ve played every kind of venue imaginable, from opening for big-time groups to county fairs, clubs, and dive bars a lot like this one, only a hell of a lot dirtier and rowdier.
Never once have I come across an audience like this one. They haven’t moved since we stepped on stage. Really strange for werewolves. The place has grown eerily quiet, some twenty-plus pairs of eyes trained on the stage. It’s all kinds of creepy. I’ve got a really bad feeling about this group. Especially seeing as how I seem to be the only female around.
Okaaaaaay
. Best get this over with.
“‘Long Hard Road,’” I mutter to the guys, signaling what will be our opening song.
I usually wait to check out the crowd before I choose a song. In this case I decided on the slow, bluesy, Southern rock song seeing as how the crowd is being all solemn and shit. This particular song I usually save for the end of the third and final set of the night, but there is no way in hell there will be even a second set tonight. These guys are giving me a beyond-funky vibe. It’s too late to bag out at this point, but I’ll be damned if I am going to stick around after the first ten songs. Most of the guys will have to stay behind to pack up our gear, which sucks. I’m probably condemning everyone not going with me to a major beat down when I sneak out, but every member of this band knows the deal. We have a sacred pack; if I, the only female member of the band, am ever in danger, most of them will stall, and one will help me get ghost.
Well-washed werewolves who are currently staring at me as if I’m something between a choice piece of steak and a deity of some sort signals all kinds of danger. I’m not the kind of girl into wolf bites—these guys look hungry. The only reason I’m staying on the stage is because to run outright from a wolf is inviting a chase. I may be fast, but not fast enough to outrun mangy dogs. Well, in this case, not-so-mangy dogs.
Such is life on the road. Dodging creatures of the night, placing ourselves in precarious situations for a dime. Our band, Blood Moon, isn’t trying to make it big or get discovered. For us, that would be kind of disastrous—we need to stay undercover, so to speak. We’re just a collection of eclectic gypsy “other” musicians who prefer the road to laying down roots. Each of us is a product of a broken foster care system and a fucked-up home life. Frankly, it’s a miracle none of us are junkies or worse. We found kindred spirits in one another through music and far deeper secrets that pretty much guarantee we’ll stay together. I am counting on our strong bonds tonight; this won’t be the first time I’ve disappeared after a set, but looking out on the crowd, I know this is possibly the most dangerous situation we have ever been in. These wolves are far more focused than any I’ve ever seen.
Stepping to the microphone, I close my eyes, willing peace to settle over me. As the first guitar chords echo in the quiet room, I allow the music inside me, becoming one with the melody behind the beat. One deep breath, then I open my mouth and pour forth my soul.
I got something for you wolf bastards
...
~
Rannulf
The singer is a witch. A beguiling, sexy little witch who has the power to cast a spell with the sound of her melodic voice. I’m not a pup; I’ve seen a lot of things in my time. I’ve just never witnessed a witch with enough natural gifts to enchant without complex machinations. Raw magic is rare in these modern times. Most witches have to go through complex rituals or mix potions in order to enchant a crowd this large, and even then the witch had better be skilled, because that kind of magic has a tendency to backfire. The voluptuous little thing on stage right now simply opens her mouth and has the full attention of a bar full of
weres
. In truth, she had all our attention as soon as she presented herself. The power in that lush, yet petite body is innate; I can feel her power vibrating through the room. Yet I suspect she has no idea what she is doing right now. What kind of witch in her right mind would verbally seduce an entire den of natural-born wolves?
“Who is she?” I demand, not willing or able to tear my eyes off the songstress. I know it’s a spell, an enchantment, but that doesn’t help me one bit. I don’t even blink as I watch her. I haven’t felt fear in over a hundred years, but I am scared if I take my eyes off her she may disappear, and that I can’t abide.
I want her. My cock springs to full attention, rubbing painfully against the cold, hard steel zipper of my jeans. A singular thought keeps booming through my skull...MINE!
No, I don’t want her—I fucking need her. I have to devour her whole, taste her, mount her, sink my canines into her,
mark
her for all time. I needed her reduced into a sweaty ball of nerves, quivering in the middle of my bed, begging for more. I need her sobbing my name as I take her to climax after climax. But then, it won’t be only her and me in that bed.
“Her name is
Kamra
Sama
—the band is Blood Moon,” Rollo, my second in command growls. Growls. At me. His fucking Alpha. I have known Rollo since we were whelps. He’s always been by my side, standing by me as I left my original pack to form my own. Not once has he ever disrespected me. Now look at the poor bastard. His canines are prominent as his gaze burns hot over the witch on stage. “There was no indication the woman was a witch when we booked them.”
“Yet you thought it a good idea to have one woman here among a bunch of unmated wolves?” I know there’s a dangerous edge to my voice, but I don’t appreciate my pack lusting over her before I can claim her. After—well, they can lust but, touching will mean death. It’s good that Rollo wants her, though. This is the only woman he will ever be allowed to cover after I make her mine. So why exactly it is that I want his blood covering my claws I can’t exactly say. “I don’t think she knows she’s a witch,” I muse out loud. I’m fairly certain she doesn’t, though I can’t imagine how such a thing is possible.
Covens tended to be overprotective, fiercely so, of any witch with such natural talent. Like I said, it’s incredibly rare. The numbers of natural witches have been watered down by mating with humans as well as other creatures without magic. For witches like this singer, so eminently
fuckable
, the dangers of finding themselves mated to an unsavory sort are far too high. Too bad for
Kamra’s
coven, wherever they are. They are about to welcome four virile wolves into the family.
“When their first set is over, go backstage and fetch Miss
Sama
.” I would love to say invite her to my table. Despite our current surroundings, I usually project the facade of gentlemanly behavior. Underneath, I am of course all animal. I mean to have Rollo request a meeting, but I’m afraid I am beyond my capabilities to even pretend to be civil.
I’m just not sure I can wait until the end of the set. One song blends seamlessly into another, building on the sensual spell weaving around the room—and my wolves are getting restless. I can clearly hear the low, rumbling growls coming from those younger wolves not mature enough to hold back innate instincts. That is the bitch of creating a new pack; young, natural-born wolves are a rowdy bunch. Not werewolf rowdy, but rough enough. This songstress is going to be too much of a temptation soon, which means I’m going to have to kick some ass to keep them in line. Seeing as how the only ass I’m the least bit interested in is hers, I need to do something more than claim her. This pack of mine is still too new to test the bonds of loyalty against witchcraft, however unintentional that witchcraft is.
“
Seff
,
Fillin
, there’s an older pack about twenty miles to the south.” I have to snarl to get their attention. And these two are part of my inner fucking circle. The witch will be theirs as much as mine. Well not quite as much, but still, they know fucking protocol. “Go round up as many young females as you can and get their asses here. If they please the pack, they may be admitted.” Probably not. I tend to be choosy when it comes to the females I allow in this new family of mine. “And warn the pack if they mate permanently with any of these females, they are out.” No one mates before the Alpha. It is simply tradition. And no one mates without my express permission. I’m old school like that. “And be quick about it.”
It takes a little too long for
Seff
and
Fillin
to get their asses in gear to my way of thinking, but Rollo shoves them along. Good. I probably would hurt them badly if I do it. The lust rising up in me is riding me hard. My claws emerge, digging into the ancient wood of the table. My cock is aching something awful. All I originally wanted to do was find a permanent band for our newly acquired clubhouse, and here I’ve found a mate.
Five more songs to go. By the moon, I fucking hate waiting!
