Treeland Pack Tales 3: A Trace of Ivy (4 page)

He lifted her carefully, cradled her against his chest, and
then rose. The plaid coat stank of rogue, masking her sweet fragrance. His
inner wolf surged back to the surface, fiercely protective. This time Chet
agreed. He supported her with one arm and shrugged out of his tweed, then eased
the stinking material off her lax body.

She was naked. Even with the slight stench of rogues still
clinging to her, his cock hardened with predictable wild lust. His wolf howled
an urgent need to claim. He ignored the hard-on and the animal inside. She was
so hurt she couldn’t even shift. His beast subsided, understanding her
well-being came first. More bruises and scrapes littered her pale perfection.
An oozing bite mark on her upper arm made the old wolf growl.

He slipped his still-warm jacket over her limbs as gently as
possible. Naturally it was way too big for her. He turned up the collar and
closed the gaps by turning her in his arms, which pressed her perfect breasts against
his sternum. The slight weight of her resting against him added a new
fierceness to the insane protectiveness roaring through his blood.

An easy lope minimized jarring and brought them back to the
Land Rover in minutes. He debated for a couple of seconds before settling her
on the passenger seat, unwrapping her feet, and warming them between his hands.
She stirred and curled her legs away from him.

After retrieving a stadium blanket from the back and tucking
it around her, he uncapped the glove-box flask and coaxed a few sips of brandy
down her throat. Her wolf metabolism would quickly burn off the alcohol. This
negated any long-term pain relief, but the initial warmth might improve her
circulation.

Prokofiev’s
Peter and
the Wolf
played on his cell—Daniel’s ringtone. “Yeah?”

“Are you still in Cedar Grove?”

“Close.”

“Good, the crew is an hour out from town. Meet them at the
Hawthorne place.”

“Can’t, I found a survivor.” Chet turn the heat to max and
steered the rig toward the freeway back to Treeland.

“A female.”

Chet scowled at the phone, wondering if Daniel actually read
minds.

“Is she okay?”

Clearly his boss didn’t read minds.

“Fuck, no,” he snarled.

“Bring her to the clinic. Doc Martin will check her out.”

His inner wolf curled a lip, and a low growl crawled out of
Chet’s throat. “No.”

“Ah fuck, bud. You’re bonding with her.”

Bonding? That can’t
be. We haven’t even been introduced.

“No, I’m not. She’s unconscious. She was in skin when I
found her, and she still hasn’t shifted. Scarlet should attend her.”

“Okay, that’s not a bad plan. Bring her to headquarters—”

He cut off Daniel midsentence. “I’m taking her to my place.”

He growled to emphasize his point. There was no doubt in his
mind that was the right choice. He had a secure building, and she needed to be
kept safe.

“Okay, GQ. Take a deep breath or three. Give me a call when
you get home. We’ll meet you there.” Daniel ended the conversation.

Chet scowled at the innocent phone. Just as well Daniel had
hung up. The male was unreasonably touchy about his mate. He likely wouldn’t
have agreed to Scarlet coming to Chet’s place alone. Yet the idea of any other
male, even his Alpha, seeing the small female while she was so vulnerable
raised his hackles. He would have to find a way to keep Daniel away from her,
at least until she was stronger.

He pulled into the gas station at the base of the mountains
with the fuel gauge pegged on Empty. Before leaving the SUV, he checked on his
passenger. As if she sensed his regard, she turned toward him, thrilling him
silly. Pink spots tinged her cheekbones. Her pulse and breathing were both slow
and even. Better yet, she was warmer to his light touch. Her bruised and
scraped knuckles were already healed. Thank the goddess for werewolf
constitutions.

The urgent need to help her dropped back from sheer
desperation to a simpler male Neanderthal level.

Bemused by his wolf’s weird overreaction, he shook his head
at himself.

When he reentered the vehicle, she turned toward him again,
like a delicate flower seeking the warmth of the sun. His chest puffed a couple
of inches from the small gift of her unconscious trust.

All right, perhaps Daniel had some justification for his
ridiculous comment about bonding. Chet admitted she brought out tender
feelings. Any male of honor would’ve wanted to protect her. Clearly this had
absolutely nothing to do with bonding.

Ivy’s sensitive nose inhaled a clean fragrance with notes of
leather, sandalwood, male musk, and a wildness she couldn’t place. The
intoxicating bouquet mixed with notes of citrus soap, freshly laundered cotton,
damp wool, and car smells.

She rode in some kind of luxury vehicle, warm and safe—a
vast improvement over the snowdrift she remembered smashing through. A
bottomless pit of horror leaked into the edge of her thoughts. Agitated by a
nameless compulsion, she twitched. His deep voice rumbled, soothing her nearly
as much as his crisp, clean scent. This was definitely not a beast. Comforted
by his presence, she slid back into unconsciousness.

Strong arms picked her up. Her lashes fluttered, but her
eyelids were too heavy to lift.

“Shh, I’ve got you.” The rumble of her rescuer’s voice eased
her concern. He shouldn’t be touching her. She was beyond dirty. Wrapped in
soft wool with a delicious aroma and too exhausted to warn him, she sank into
his heat and rested her weary head on fine cotton stretched over thick pads of
muscle. Apparently she’d been saved by a kindly bodybuilder.

Would the beasts search for her? Oh my God, had she
endangered her Good Samaritan? New concerns ruined her much-needed rest. Her
heart sped, and a steel band of panic squeezed her chest. She pried opened her
crusted eyelids and scanned the area for monsters.

What she found was a well-lit parking garage fortified with a
heavy metal mesh gate. With luck the security measures would buy her benefactor
enough time for help to arrive.

“We’re in danger.” The words tumbled from her lips in a
breathy whisper.

“You’re safe with me.” He met her worried gaze. “By the way,
I’m Chet Tomlin, and I’m quite happy you’re awake.”

His eyelashes were luxuriously thick and long. They matched
forbidding black eyebrows and framed deep-set brown eyes with glints of gold.
The warm specks softened the harsh lines of his nose and cheekbones. A luxuriant
mustache decorated his upper lip, while a neatly groomed goatee covered a
square chin, giving him a slightly devilish air. His pink shirt was made from
superfine cotton and unexpectedly elegant against a bronze complexion. The
overall visual impression matched his deep voice—debonair and dangerous.

“I’m Ivy Weathersby. Thank you for saving me. But you don’t
understand how dangerous the beasts after me are. We need to call the
authorities.”

He raised an eyebrow in obvious skepticism. “Pack business
has to be handled by pack—especially rogues.”

Disheartening doubts flooded her. She’d never heard of this
pack or rogues.
Is PACK some kind of
acronym for a government agency? Hold on, is he talking about a werewolf pack?
No, too crazy. But then, up until recently she hadn’t believed men turned into
beasts.

She was a mess, she had no ID, no resources, and no one
would believe a story about men changing into huge wolves. The most probable
outcome would be her being locked up for a psych evaluation. However, the
monsters were as real as the pain they inflicted. She had to find a way to help
Kat, Tess, and the injured girl.

“You don’t understand how dangerous these beasts are,” she
repeated, unable to come up with a more compelling argument.

“I understand more than you think. You and other females
were captured and tortured by rogue werewolves.”

She nodded, stunned relief lifting her spirits. He did
understand. He would help.

“The monsters who abused you are being hunted. Most
werewolves are responsible, law-abiding citizens. We’re doing everything
possible to bring these rogues to justice.”

“And you know this because?”
Should I believe him?

“I’m one of the enforcers—trackers.”

This explained how he’d found her and actually made sense in
the new reality she’d survived and still struggled to grasp.

“The monsters—the werewolves—they still have Kat and Tess
and a teenager…a girl.” Her voice cracked.

Chet growled.

Every hair prickled, and she froze. The angry noise was one
she knew well. The beasts made the same sound.

“I would never hurt you.” He promised in his normal deep
rumble—an obvious attempt to soothe her. It failed.

Fear narrowed her field of vision and squeezed her chest.
She struggled to imagine the soothing heat of a bonfire and took slow, deep
breaths.

“Talk to me, describe exactly what you are feeling,” her
captor demanded in tones that implied obedience was required because she
wouldn’t like the “or else.”

“Scared,” she hissed, then clamped her teeth to keep more
terror from leaking out of her mouth. He didn’t need extra ammunition to use
against her.

“No one will hurt you as long as I am standing. Tell me how
frightened—give me a number from one to ten with one being completely at ease
and ten being all-out panic.”

“Seven, maybe six.” She spat the answer to prevent her teeth
from chattering.

“Keep breathing, nice and slow.” He supported her weight
with one brawny arm and tilted her chin until she met his warm, brown eyes full
of concern. “Watch me. I am here and real and determined to keep you safe.”

A part of her wanted to believe him—insanity. She managed to
meet his gaze for a few seconds. “I’m free to go whenever I like?”

A tic twitched in his cheek. “Not right this minute. You
don’t have shoes.”

“That didn’t stop me from escaping the monsters.”

He didn’t reply, unless she counted the grinding noise from
his teeth.

“I’m tougher than I look. I can walk.” She held herself
stiffly, trying to touch him as little as possible and praying her knees would
hold if he set her down.

He tightened his grip on her. Not enough to hurt, but enough
to remind her that she didn’t have a chance of winning a physical contest. “Let
me carry you, please.”

The “please” made her pause and reconsider. Monsters never
asked. And they never bothered to say please. Did beasts come in degrees of
nasty? Too upset to speak, and with no real choice, she gave him a clipped bob
of consent.

“You are a brave Beta.”

The male was crazy. She wasn’t brave, more like a bundle of
cowardly nerves. In spite of her disbelief, some of the fear keeping her on
edge seeped away at his praise.

He nuzzled her messy hair.

Is he kissing it? And
why does that thought make me tingly?

An older gentleman strolled past them and doffed his hat.
“Evening, Chet.”

Chet dipped his chin as if he carried bedraggled women,
females—whatever the hell she was, through the garage every day. “Evening,
Bob.”

He pushed the elevator call button with an elbow. “Bob lives
in the basement apartment. He’s allergic to sunlight.”

“Is he a tracker too?”

He gave her an odd look, then shook his head. “He doesn’t
have the nose for it.”

His assessment of his neighbor seemed a bit weird, but then
she had an acute sense of smell herself, so she dismissed his strange judgment.

“Do you know all the tenants?” Unhappy with herself for
letting the conversation get off-track, she sighed and then drew in more of his
aroma. The fragrance made her want to snuggle into all those sexy muscles. She
fought to keep her priorities straight. Her friends were counting on her to bring
help.

“I do. I own the building. It’s quite secure. You have
nothing to worry about.”

“It seems well constructed,” she said in a lame attempt at
courtesy, still trying to wrap her head around a world where her nightmares
were real, and this amazing male turned into a beast and fought the other
monsters.

“If you like the parking area, then you’ll love my place.”
Chet gave her a crooked grin that made him look younger but no less lethal.

The elevator arrived, and he stepped inside. Metal doors
whooshed closed, leaving her alone with one of the beasts. Locked in the small
space, aware that she wore nothing but wool wrappings that didn’t belong to
her, she felt much too vulnerable. Her body ignored Chet’s enemy status,
warming and melting into his heat. This was wrong on so many levels. Burgeoning
shame and self-loathing caused her stomach to knot. While she’d been busy
chatting with one of the beasts like a simpering fool, Kat, Tess, and the
battered teenager were still being tortured by the monsters. She’d promised to
get them help. A wave of revulsion at her callous behavior finally broke the
drugging spell of the male’s presence.

“I smell your fear.” He sounded disappointed—sad.

The scent of fresh snow swirled past her freakishly
sensitive nostrils. Something needy inside her wanted to rub against him and
beg his forgiveness. She clamped her molars to keep an apology from spilling.

She’d lived as human her whole life, and she wasn’t about to
stop now. What she needed was a good dose of common sense, clothes, and law
enforcement officers—the kind who didn’t growl, or grow fur, enormous fangs,
and claws. The captives had to have been reported missing. The rogues laughed
about the men they’d killed. Surely those disappearances and deaths were under
investigation. She’d figure out how to convince the authorities she wasn’t
certifiable when her mental competency became an issue.

Neither one of them spoke until the elevator stopped. He
moved into a small foyer and set her down, keeping a light hold on her hip to
steady her. While she stared at an amazing stained-glass skylight, he pressed
numbers on a keypad. The entrance swung open.