Nightfall (21 page)

She eased her gaze over the woods. “You think it's safe to shoulder this? My hands are freezing.”

Mason shook his head. “Just stay sharp.”

“Oh, sure. Hadn't thought of that.”

He crunched to a stop. “What's with the attitude?”

“We lived, right? Go team.”

They
had
been a team. He'd known she was at his back the whole time, reveling in a sense of partnership he'd rejected for years. And she always wanted more. She craved a real connection, but he couldn't permit the vulnerability. Already, she'd drawn too close for comfort, and he remembered exactly what it felt like to watch his team die.

He needed to prove he was in charge. Maybe it was the aftermath of surviving that violent run, coupled with the edgy knowledge that their journey stretched out like a wasteland. Or maybe the silent warning of her expression—and the need to defy it. Or hell, maybe it just
was
. An alpha struggle.

Mason reached out. The distance between them seemed too far. Blood stained his thumbnail, but that didn't stop him from wanting to touch her. Neither did the blaze of her eyes. Just before his skin met hers, she stepped away. He heard her whisper in his head but couldn't understand its origins.

I will
not
wind up like my mother.

He was left with his hand in midair, palm freezing in the wind. Just like that, he fell into the pain of her previous rejection, consumed with need for her ... and left wanting.

“I see,” he said, jaw locked. “Suit yourself, sweetheart. We have a long trip ahead.”

Mason turned his back as if it didn't matter what she'd wanted to say. And when had it ever? Always his timetable, his agenda.

It had been like that with her mom and dad too. Whenever Mitch had shown up, he expected his wife to drop everything, cook whatever he wanted, and spend a few days in the bedroom. Then he left her crying. Never had it mattered what she needed. It was always about his damn prophecies. In the end, they'd both died alone because Mitch hadn't been able to commit to a woman the way he could to his religion. Though Jenna had been young, she'd registered the damage.

She glared at Mason's back. He was a damn machine. Accomplishing his objective was the only priority, no matter what the cost—to himself or to those around him. But Mitch had been that way too. His priorities hadn't included his own flesh and blood. Jenna loathed wanting someone who seemed so much like her old man, making her feel weak and helpless.

“Pick up the pace,” he called over his shoulder.

Violence spiked through her, riding the tail end of the fight. No more. She refused to put up with his shit for another minute. With a low growl, she launched herself at his back. Rage gave her strength. She hit him with her full weight, slamming her rifle butt into his shoulder. He stumbled into a tree, though not as hard as she'd have liked.

Mason got his footing quickly and spun. “What the hell is your problem?”

“You.” Jenna gave his chest a shove. “You're my problem.”

His dark eyes narrowed. “Keep pushing me. See what happens.”

“Yeah, 'cause you're such a badass.”

“And you're a cock-teasing bitch.”

She lashed out with her fist and clipped him hard in the mouth. In reflex, he shoved her away. Jenna staggered, knowing that if he'd punched her, she wouldn't be on her feet. Or conscious. His restraint softened her anger a little. He didn't give it back, even when she hurt him. But that awareness wasn't enough to check her frustration.

Blood trickled down his upper lip where she'd split it against his teeth. His tongue darted out to test the damage, and her fury coiled up with something else. She wanted to kiss him and savor the coppery taste—almost as much as she wanted to smash his head against the ground. She inhaled his scent.

Pupils dilated, a muscle ticked along his jaw. They stared at one another, nothing but snow and icy trees as witness. Jenna worked to calm her labored breathing.

Mason pounced. Their bodies met through layers of clothing, grappling. His hands were hard on her upper arms, then he slammed her head against his chest in a parody of an embrace. Her knee came up, but he twisted away.

Infuriated, Jenna tried again to hurt him. She lashed out with elbows and knees. He contained her with an ease that made her want to howl. Her boots slid in the snow, and he shoved her down. She tried to roll, but he dropped on top of her too fast. Pinned her. In retaliation, she stuffed snow down his back.

Mason settled between her thighs, forcing her still. With a few movements, he demonstrated his dominance and her complete vulnerability. He felt like a force of nature. Wrestling her to the ground had given him an erection, or maybe he just liked violence. He rocked against her.

Impressions battered her in kaleidoscopic succession, flashes of rage and jealousy. He'd minded her attention to Chris more than he let on—wanted to beat the man's head against the door instead of helping him fix it. She glimpsed him lurking in the dark, watching them in the maintenance closet, felt his muscles tense when Chris cupped her shoulders. Then it all swirled away in a red haze, lust and anger and pain twined so tightly that none could gain sway.

Mason pressed down along her body, his lips against her ear. Warm breath gusted over her skin. “Not so mouthy now, are you?”

His thrusts evoked a soul-deep response that made her work her hips in answer.

Jenna growled. She tried to sink her teeth into his throat, but he forced her head still. Defeated in that, she dug her nails into the tender flesh at the nape of his neck. He responded with a fierce push. The feelings surging through her were so raw that she didn't know if she wanted to fuck him or kill him. Maybe she'd try both and see how it all worked out.

Thrashing, she lashed out with her leg. He took the opening to shift against her, avoiding her kick. It drove her wild that such a primitive display turned her on. Yet she couldn't deny the impulses clamoring in her head. She wished he didn't feel so good, hot and heavy and built to fill her up.

Their layers of clothing seemed heavy and confining. Her skin ready to combust, she wanted to strip down despite the cold. Teeth bared, she worked her hands beneath his jacket and scored his sides. He pushed harder.

“Don't fight me,” he snarled. “You'll lose. Do you understand me? I
will
hurt you.”

She turned her head to the side. “You already have. So many times I've lost count. Every time I reach out, you shove me away. I don't know where I stand or what you want from me.”

“You're one to talk. What you did in the tower ... and then Welsh—fuck it. This isn't the time. We're leaving a trail a mile wide here.”

“When will it
ever
be the time? You'll leave it until we're mauled to death.” She shook her head in weariness and defeat, letting it drop onto the snow. “Get off me. I'll be good.”

But he didn't immediately comply. His heated weight contrasted with the chill at her back. Jenna shifted, her breath skipping at his expression. His harsh face held a raw hunger that he couldn't suppress. He ground his hips against her slowly, rhythmically, and she softened, stopped trying to shove him off. Her legs curled around his.

The wolves could catch up to them any minute. If they didn't return with the seal, they'd leave the others to their deaths. Struggling in the snow against one another was worse than foolhardy, and it was her fault. She knew that now, accepting responsibility for it. Part of her didn't care about the cold or the snow or the danger. She whimpered deep in her throat.

“Mason?”

“John.” The word sounded torn from him. “I ... like it when you call me John.”

Then he bent his head, kissing her in a way that curled her toes inside her boots. She tasted his bloody lip and the richness of his mouth. His tongue slid against hers, hungry and desperate. From there his hot mouth trailed down her throat. He nipped and claimed. She loved the gentle-fierce bite that made her want to—

A distant howl split the quiet.

Jenna pushed at him and he gave way, letting her scramble to her feet and pick up her weapon. Her anger filtered away, leaving her beaten and tired. They needed to move. As he'd said, they had a lot of ground to cover before dark.

She set off walking, head down, without waiting to see if he would follow. Violence spent, her whole body felt overripe and tender from longing too often denied. She was afraid to look at him, unwilling to see his triumph. So easily he'd tamed her to his will. Again.

He'd set out to prove his dominance, and she'd folded.
Just like my mother.

His graveled bass voice came from behind, raw with emotion. “I can't let you lead me around by the dick. Do you get that? I'm in charge of keeping us alive. I can't hold your hand when I need to take care of business.”

“And you think holding my hand would weaken you?” Her boots crunched over unpacked snow, frosted with ice.

“What?”

Pure puzzlement. He couldn't fake it that well.

Typical man.
He didn't even know when he hurt her. What scared her most—he might not even care. Jenna just wished her body didn't remember the pleasure of his weight, the way his touch made her skin sing. If things continued in this fashion, he'd be able to control her with sex. One orgasm and she'd be amenable to whatever he wanted.

“If I reach out, it's because I need you,” she said quietly. “And it hurts when you give nothing back. I can only take so much of that. I ... can't do this alone. I need someone willing to partner me all the way, give me strength when I'm failing.”

“You've been messing with
me
. Look, if I don't pick up on your cues, I don't mean anything by it. I'm not used to ... I mean, I just need my head on straight. There's too much at stake.”

Nearly an apology. She let out a shaky sigh. That was more than Mitch had ever said to her mom. It showed he was sorry for not offering what she needed. And maybe she could concede their situations were not the same. They were different than her parents.

She felt compelled to respond in kind. “I'm sorry I hit you.”

“I've had worse.”

She'd hurt him and he'd retaliated. Nothing was healed between them. Misery permeated her every pore, layered with unspent sexual energy. Why couldn't she want Chris? He was cute. That would be easy, nice—and certainly none of these complications.

“I'm sure you have,” she said softly. “But that doesn't make it right. I shouldn't have taken stuff out on you. The truth is I've been scared so long that if I'm not mad about something, then I'd be cowering in the closet back at the station. I wouldn't have the courage for this mission if I wasn't nursing a grudge. But it's not your fault. I just wish you
respected
me as much as I do you.”

There. She'd left herself wide open. He could take his best shot now, make a crack about how she was dumb as a stump and needed to do what she was told. But Mason said nothing. His dark eyes were steady and serious when he acknowledged her words with a nod.

He slid past her, taking point again. Her jacket was cold and wet, but she would never complain. After all, she'd started it.

For the longest time, she simply watched his back. It was humbling that he still trusted her there, after everything. He wore the black knit cap, covering his skull-cut hair. That was Mason, all precision and organization. If she'd just stayed in her box and stopped bothering him with emotional bullshit, they'd have had sex by now. But she didn't want sex from him—well, not
only
sex. And she didn't want a protector either. That was the problem.

She wanted to be as essential to him as he was becoming to her.

But if the situation was truly a matter of life or death, she needed to accept things as they were.

Jenna sighed and forged on. She listened for the sounds of pursuit and howls carried on the wind, but it was eerily still. Her rifle weighed heavier with each passing minute.

More ominously, she still hadn't seen any signs of life. Camping in winter was always a quiet exercise, with animals in hibernation or flying south. But the silence made her nervous. It was too complete. When she looked over her shoulder and saw their footprints in the snow, she shivered. So very alone.

“Should we be using pine needles to wipe those away or something ?”

He shrugged. “They'll likely use scent to track us. Woodcraft would just slow us down.”

The clouds loomed heavy and gray, eventually opening up. A feathery snow began to fall. She gazed through the dark trees as they hiked, seeking snatches of sky.

They'd been walking about four hours when Mason found a dead tree and dusted off the snow. Jenna sat down, exhausted and grateful. She didn't know how she'd finish the rest of the journey, but maybe she could run on stubbornness. He offered jerky and a drink of water.

“You burn up more fuel trying to stay warm. Eat.”

Something made her brave, or maybe it was simply that she had nothing left to lose. “Does this mean you care?”

His absurdly fulsome lashes, dusted with ice, fluttered against hard-hewn cheeks. The silence drew out and she looked away. Jenna ate her jerky without any hope of a reply.

“Yeah,” he said at last. “I do care.”

Her heart thumped in her ears. He stared at the ground between his feet, making waffle patterns in the snow with his boots. His hands rested on either side of him, braced against the log. Without thinking, she lifted his right hand and pressed it to her cheek, completing the touch he'd offered earlier.