Shifters of Silver Peak: Mate For A Month (9 page)

Eileen cried out and arched towards him as he began to move inside her. He set a fierce, insistent pace that made every nerve ending sing out in response. As he thrust, he kissed her as if he wanted to eat her alive, groaning into her mouth, sometimes pulling away to mutter incoherent words of need and desire.

He hitched her knee higher, over his hip, straining even deeper inside her, and she wrapped her legs around his waist, opening herself to him.

With each pistoning movement he rolled his hips and she rocked her pelvis up to meet him crying out as she came and almost sobbing as at once the pressure began to build again. Marcus pounded into her with animalistic abandon, losing himself in her body, allowing himself to lose his hard-won control with her…for her.

As something exploded deep inside her, she dug her fingernails into the flexing muscles of his back and cried out, every muscle locked and shuddering in a soul-blistering orgasm.

The spams of her bliss sent Marcus over the edge and he threw back his head and howled, pumping into her until he was spent and Eileen was weak and trembling with the aftershocks of bliss.

Marcus shifted fitfully in his sleep, limbs tangled in the covers. He heard himself groan. He half-knew he was dreaming, but he couldn’t force himself to wake up. He never could. He’d been trapped then, when bored millionaires had taken bets on whether he’d leave the ring a victor or be torn to pieces and lie bleeding to death in the ring while they counted their winnings or cursed their losses. And he was trapped now, as night after night his hellish ordeal replayed itself behind his closed eyelids.

Tonight he was back there, in the ring, on the last night of Matthew’s life. He’d known it was coming, had known he’d be the one chosen to fight the big shifter. But that didn’t lessen the twisting pain he felt in his heart as he stumbled into the ring, pushed from behind, and saw his friend standing there. That was why they’d done it, of course. Because they knew it would hurt him.

Matthew stood slumped at the far side of the ring, his eyes glassy and focused on nothing. His expression was entirely blank – he had long since retreated inside himself, tucking his mind away somewhere far from the pain and indignity visited on his body. He didn’t look afraid – he didn’t look as if he was there at all. Marcus wondered whether he knew he was going to die. He wondered whether that thought even had any meaning for him anymore. He might as well be dead already.

He felt a slight, grim sense of satisfaction that their captors would be cheated of the vicious combat they had come here to see. It was clear nothing would induce Matthew to fight. They had pushed him too hard, and something inside him had broken. He had no will left.

Marcus knew he had no choice but to end the man’s life, but at least he could give him a swift and dignified death. However much their keepers jeered and taunted, even if they took their whips to the flesh of Matthew’s back, they wouldn’t be able to make him fight.

He wasn’t their puppet anymore, because they had so mistreated him that they had broken his strings.

But when a bloodthirsty roar went up from the crowd, Marcus knew at once he had underestimated the depths of their cruelty. Three huge, sleek wolves slunk into the ring, low, menacing growls rising from their throats.

These weren’t captives like Marcus and Matthew. It was clear from their glossy coats and the powerful play of muscles beneath their fur that these wolves had not been beaten and starved to within an inch of insanity. Even if their well-fed condition hadn’t told him as much, the jagged scar on the snout of the biggest of the wolves would have told him who it was. These wolves were the brutal killers hired to manhandle the fighters, their jailers, and Marcus had given the biggest wolf that scar when he’d first been captured.

Marcus heard a growl from the other side of the ring and saw that Matthew’s eyes were fixed on the three wolves circling his friend. His massive fists were clenching and unclenching. They knew they couldn’t make Matthew fight Marcus, so they were going to make him fight
for
him.

He could almost have admired their inventiveness if he hadn’t been half-blinded by rage at their cruelty.

The biggest wolf sprang. He had a score to settle.

With a hoarse cry of rage, Matthew launched himself into the melee.

“No, Matthew! Don’t fight them! It’s what they want—”

Marcus’s words were cut off and all the air was driven from his lungs as the biggest wolf knocked him to the ground. He threw his forearm across his throat to protect it from the snapping, slavering jaws, then heaved in a breath as Matthew seized the brute by the tail and the scruff of its neck, his huge muscles bunching as he tossed it aside. His strength was uncanny…but the copper manacles strapped to his wrists would keep him from shifting. There was no way a single shifter in human form, no matter how big and strong, could win against three well-nourished, vicious wolves.

And now they surrounded him, snarling, tearing at his flesh and then withdrawing. Marcus scrambled towards the group, but every time he tried a new approach he was driven back, and in his weakened state he was no real match for even one of them. Turn by turn, one of the wolves drove him back as he tried to reach his friend, while the others toyed with Matthew, playing with him the way a cat might play with an exhausted mouse.

The crowd cheered and whooped and called out taunts to the struggling behemoth.

“Come on, you coward!”

“Show some spirit, you big freak!”

“My puppies could do better.”

Blood splattered the sawdust. Matthew’s big hands were slick with it. It matted the fur and muzzles of the attacking wolves. The air was rich with the thick, coppery smell of it. Matthew doled out punch after punch, grappled with the wolves, his face set in grim lines of determination as he fought to defend his friend.

But Marcus knew his sacrifice would be for nothing. He’d be back in the ring the next day. And the next, and the next, until one day he was too weak and used-up to fight anymore. And then they’d do to him what they were doing to Matthew.

He howled his anguish as he saw the massive, bloodied man go down for the last time, driven to the ground by the remorselessly attacking wolves. When he heard the grisly cracking noises as the wolves began to feed, he vomited onto the sawdust, the ringing in his ears almost blotting out the roars of approval from the crowd.

But then he heard something else. Something sweet and refreshing that called to him over the pain and fear and grief of the dream.

“Marcus! Marcus… It’s just a dream. Wake up. You’re safe. I’m here.”

He felt cool, slender fingers on his brow and he opened his eyes, his heart thundering in his chest, to look up into the sweet, drowsy, sleep-soft face of his mate.

Chelsea’s cub shower was decorated with sunshine-yellow paper banners. There were dozens of women crowded into Wintergreen’s Bakery, and the gift table was overflowing. The pack’s mates were there, and Joyce was there too, and a bunch of people from town, some of whom Eileen vaguely recognized. The mayors were there; twins, who were serving jointly. The owner of the town newspaper, Barbara Tudor, was there, with a photographer by her side.

Eileen set down her gift-wrapped package with the rest of the presents. Marcus had just dropped her off and was going to have coffee down the street while the women did their thing. Beacham had been bailed out, along with Marisol and Ambrose, and even though they’d all left town, he was still being overprotective.

Eileen stifled a grin at the memory of last night. Her whole body ached in the most delicious way. Did she still reek of sex? She hoped not. She and Marcus had bathed, naked, in an ice-cold stream near his cabin before heading out.

Chelsea waddled over, with Erika by her side. Erika held out a tray of cupcakes, and Eileen took one.

“Thank you for coming. And don’t you look like the cat who swallowed the canary?” Chelsea said as she handed Eileen a cup of coffee.

“She swallowed something, all right.” Erika smirked.

“Erika!” Eileen gasped, blushing and choking on her cupcake.

“I know, I’m a pig. But am I wrong?”

“No, you’re not wrong; you are a pig,” Eileen said primly.

“By the way, I called you like eleventy-leven times last night to let you know that Verity was coming,” Chelsea said. “You never answered.” She exchanged a glance with Erika. “Must have been busy.”

Eileen snorted. “Yeah, right. Verity. Tell me another one.”

“No, really.”

Eileen stared at her. Chelsea looked serious.

“Come on,” she said with mild exasperation. “I’m on to you. You kept pretending that Verity was coming so that me and Marcus would have to…”

“Bump uglies?” Erika finished for her helpfully.

“Yeah, I did that a couple of times,” Chelsea admitted with no apparent shame whatsoever. “And I gather it worked quite well. But last night was real. Roman decided to just let her go and catch you in the act so she’d get the damned message already. Verity went up there, saw you guys having sex in the tent, and then came back to inform Roman that it was obvious you guys really are mated and she’s leaving town.”

“I…oh…what?” Eileen was torn between mortification that someone had witnessed her having sex and huge relief that Verity was leaving town.

“She was up there a while. I think Verity’s secretly a voyeur,” Chelsea mused. “Hope she got what she came for. Oh God, I did not just say that. Erika, you’re rubbing off on me.”

“Go, me.” Erika grinned around a mouthful of frosting.

“Shut up and gimme another cupcake. I’m eating for two here.”

“Are you? I thought you were eating for the whole pack,” Erika taunted, then ducked Chelsea’s affectionate smack.

“Eileen? Is that you?” she heard someone calling her from the front of the bakery.

“Excuse me, if you two perverts are done dissecting my sex life, someone is calling my name. Thank God,” Eileen said, blushing. She hurried off to find Valerie, who was waving at her and holding a big blue gift-wrapped box.

“Hey, Eileen! This is from Mr. Rosemont,” she said, handing it to Eileen.

“No, it isn’t.” Eileen set it down on the table

“You’re right, it isn’t. It’s from me, and I forged his name on the gift card like I always do,” Valerie said cheerfully. “He’s lucky I’m honest, or I’d embezzle his fortune and leave town.” She let out a sigh. “So tempting. Please tell him I said that. Anyway, I just wanted to let you know that I heard about what happened last night, and then I heard that you and your mate made up and you were staying. So I figured that you might still want to consider the internship.”

“You heard all that?” Eileen said, startled. “Already? My God, this is a small town.”

“Apparently,” Valerie said. “Or maybe it’s a shifter thing. Everyone watches out for everyone else. It must be nice.”

“You watch out for people,” Eileen said. “You didn’t have to get me that internship. Or stick up for me when your boss was rude to me, for that matter. I appreciate it. And I’d love that internship. I’ll be in first thing Monday morning.”

“Don’t thank me yet,” Valerie said, accepting a glass of punch from Joyce, who was moving through the crowd with a tray. “Work for him for a week, and then see if you want to thank me or stab me.”

Eight years earlier

Marcus listened carefully, waiting for the sound of the guard’s footsteps, coming to drag him to the ring to fight. That wasn’t going to happen. Oh, there was going to be a fight alright, and Marcus knew that this time he was going to die. He was going to die in a pool of blood, and it wouldn’t all be his – but he was never again going to lift a hand against the other poor wretches who were imprisoned with him and forced to tear one another to pieces for rich people’s entertainment.

Ever since he’d watched Matthew go down fighting desperately to protect him, Marcus had known he was going to kill the guards and get as many of the others out of there as he could.

It had turned out to be laughably easy to communicate between the cells by tapping on the bars. The guards had either been too stupid to notice or had assumed their semi-feral captives were beating mindlessly at their cages. And now Marcus knew what resources he had at his disposal, and everyone knew what role they would play when he gave the signal.

In the days since Matthew’s death, the clatter-clang of the bars as the prisoners planned their escape had been Marcus’ only method of communication. He hadn’t spoken a word. He hadn’t eaten. When the guards had come to his cell, he hadn’t moved a muscle or made eye contact. He hadn’t reacted even when they’d thrown him to the floor and kicked him in the ribs and belly. He hadn’t flinched when they’d spit on him. He hadn’t cried out when they’d burned him with cigarettes. They thought his mind had gone. They thought he was helpless.

He tensed as he heard the guard approaching, crouching ready to spring. Just one set of footsteps. A single guard. They thought he had no fight left in him, and it had made them sloppy. The bolt grated back and the guard with the scarred face opened the door, grinning maliciously at Marcus, and saying, “Come on, you vegetable—”

Marcus hurled himself at the guard, going wolf, tumbling him into the corridor and tearing at his throat with wild, mindless savagery. The guard gurgled through his own blood, spasming beneath Marcus, his heels drumming spastically against the floor until he went still.

Marcus shifted back into his human form and left him lying on the floor without a second glance except to snatch the ring of keys from his lifeless hand. He unlocked the cell opposite his own, then made his way down the corridor, releasing the captives in ones and twos.

Most of them immediately dropped to all fours and changed, fur rippling over their scarred and mutilated skin, except for Alex, a skinny, dark-skinned youth who looked too frail to have made for much entertainment as a combatant, and Oliver.

Marcus gripped the back of Oliver’s neck and looked hard into his eyes. The man looked sullen, but lowered his head submissively.

“The only reason I’m taking you with us is because you know the way out of here,” he growled. “If I had any other choice, I’d rip out your throat and let you drown in your own blood.”

Oliver had been one of the guards until he’d been caught skimming money off the top of Senator Coulson’s winnings. He’d picked the wrong guy to fuck with. Senator Coulson was powerful and vengeful. The very same day, Oliver had been thrown into the ring to fight for his life. Marcus didn’t trust him, but he was the only one who could guide them to the exits before the guards could get organized and thwart their escape attempt.

They headed down the corridor at a run, the three shifters in human form flanked by a phalanx of wolves, and even as the first shouts of alarm began to go up, they burst into a warehouse-like space filled with pallets of the tinned food that had been slopped into tin bowls and thrown into their cells once a day.

Three guards ran to barricade the doors, but Marcus gave Alex a nod. The kid placed his hands to his temples, squeezing his eyes shut, and there was a deafening percussive noise as the doors – and the guards – disappeared in a hellish fireball. Alex was a firebug, one of the shifters with a mutant strain of psychic power in his makeup. One of the guards staggered from the blaze, his clothing alight, screaming piteously as he was consumed by the flames. Alarms began to wail, and there was an uproar as the people attending that night’s fight began to realize there was something wrong.

The flaming guard staggered against a pallet loaded with crates of whiskey and gin, and the supernatural flames licked up a supporting beam faster than any natural fire, setting the ceiling ablaze even as the captives rushed towards freedom.

A massive beam fell, crashing to the ground in front of the prisoners, who, in their wolf forms and half-crazy from their confinement, panicked and ran back in the other direction.

“No!” Alex shrieked. He darted towards the fallen beam and the terrified wolves, but Marcus grabbed him by the arm and hauled him towards the exit.

“I’ve killed them!” the boy sobbed. “They’re all going to burn up!” But Marcus was too strong for him, and he pulled him out into the parking lot, where they could hear the approaching sirens of fire engines and police cars.

* * * * *

They sat exhausted on the tarmac, watching as the spectators were led away in handcuffs, their furious faces bathed in the pulsating red and blue lights of the emergency vehicles. Alex was rocking and murmuring wretchedly to himself. He’d insisted that causing the explosion wouldn’t harm him, even though before today he’d kindled nothing larger than a candle wick. Marcus wondered if the ferocity of the blaze had burned out something in the kid’s mind.

To Marcus’ other side, one of the prisoners sat in wolf form, letting out a low, steady growl. Marcus wasn’t sure who he was, but it wasn’t Oliver, and he was viciously glad of that. They were the only three who had made it out.

Senator Coulson pulled up short, glared at them and spat on the ground, his usually polished and aristocratic features distorted by an ugly grimace of bone-deep fury and disgust.

“You’ll pay for this, you filthy mutts. I could buy you and sell you a hundred times over. I’ll have you hunted down and put down like dogs.”

Marcus watched silently as the police officer restraining him led him towards a waiting car.  His face was impassive, his gaze steady. And inside, he was howling with pain and rage.