Читать книгу Wolf Undaunted - Shannon Curtis - Страница 11

Chapter 3

“You don’t—you don’t know me?” His jaw dropped, and then he raised both hands in exasperation. “Oh, come on. That is so unfair.” He’d been stuck as this vamp’s sidekick for—hell, he didn’t even know how long, but it felt like an eternity. She had become his guide, his anchor... Everything he saw was around her, bound to her.

And she had no idea who he was. Well, that sucked. He pursed his lips. His ego would recover, but he’d need a minute.

Her hand shot out to grasp his throat and passed through him. His lips quirked. So far the only good thing about this was watching her try to hit him and fail. Again, and again. He liked sharing the frustration. He folded his arms, waiting patiently as she tried to move, shove, punch, kick, bite...in scraps of lace that barely covered her.

“This reminds me of a movie I once saw, but I think there was jelly involved.”

She halted, glaring at him through a curtain of dark curls. He waggled his eyebrows and mouthed the word jelly.

“What the hell is going on here?” she snarled as she pulled her robe tight around her, concealing her golden-skinned curves framed in black lingerie. She was such a contradiction. All soft curves and femininity from the neck down. From the neck up—well, she was all sharpness and frost with a hint of homicide. At least her eyes weren’t glowing anymore, but had returned to their normal brown. Well, kind of normal. She had these cool little splinters of dark among the brown, and every now and then there was a fleck of gold. Fascinating. Damn it.

“I’m as confused as you are,” he answered truthfully.

She folded her arms, her lips pursing in a tight, tempting little pout. “Who are you?”

He inclined his head. “Zane Wilder, Alpine Pack Guardian,” he said formally.

She sneered. “A mutt? How dare you come into my home.”

He held up a hand. “Trust me, princess, this is the last place, and you are the last woman, I’d ever want to hang with.” He shuddered. Ugh. Vamps. So full of themselves. They carried the stench of death with them. Usually. Vivianne, though, had quite a pleasing scent. And again, he was not going to focus on that tempting, seductive, sassy little fragrance.

“I find myself...stuck.”

“Stuck?” Vivianne’s eyebrows rose as she grappled with the word.

“On you.”

“On me.”

“Stuck on you,” he clarified.

“Stuck on—”

“This conversation is going to be a long one if you’re just going to repeat everything I say,” he muttered.

Her brows drew together, and her eyes flashed. “Forgive me, I’m trying to understand how a dog got stuck on me.”

Zane narrowed his eyes. He was getting tired of her dog and mutt references. “And I’m trying to figure out how I got hitched to a soulless bloodsucker.”

She lifted her chin. “When?”

“When what?”

“When did you get stuck to me?”

He shrugged, frowning. “I don’t know. I woke up inside some hospital room, and then all hell broke loose.”

“And?”

“And what?”

She rubbed her forehead, as though an ache had started behind her eyes. Good. He hoped he made her head ache. His head pounded from trying to piece together the puzzle, particularly when he only had half the pieces.

“And what happened after that?”

He gestured around the room. “This happened. Where you go, I go. I’ve tried to walk away. Hell, I’ve tried to run away, and it’s like a revolving door, I’m running away, the world tilts, and I’m right back where I started.”

“With me.”

He nodded. “With you.”

She crossed her arms, then raised her hand to her face, nibbling on her thumbnail. It was an unconscious gesture, and possibly one of the most vulnerable he’d ever seen her do. She turned, took a couple of steps, hesitated.

“So...you’ve been with me for...a while.”

He nodded.

“Since I woke up?”

He shrugged. “I guess so.”

“The hospital room—what can you remember of it?”

He frowned. His memory was a little fuzzy. He was pretty sure there was a massive hole in it, somewhere. “You were lying in a box, your douche of a brother was there, some cute chick, and a guy in motorcycle leathers.”

She nodded. “Yeah, that’s pretty much when I came out of a coma.”

He frowned. “Why were you in a coma? You’re a vamp.” Vampires, like werewolves and other shifters, had the ability to self-heal. He’d never heard of vamps succumbing to a coma.

She started pacing again. “It wasn’t a normal coma,” she murmured. He rolled his eyes.

“I gathered that. I don’t normally float around coma patients.”

She shot him an annoyed glance. “I was put in a coma by a witch because I was attacked—by one of your kind.” She said the last words with bitter animosity.

Fleetingly, the thought of her being attacked, of being hurt by another, bothered him. But fortunately he was able to tamp that down, squish it into a dark place where nobody would know a werewolf briefly cared about what happened to a bloodsucker.

“Rafe Woodland,” he said quietly, a fragment of memory surfacing among the murk of his brain.

Her eyes narrowed. “How did you know?”

“Your douchebag of a brother brought you to our camp, looking for revenge.”

“I was attacked on Nightwing land,” she said, frowning. “He had every right.”

“He had no right,” Zane corrected her harshly. “Rafe had been cast out of Woodland. Whatever he did, he did on his own. Woodland wasn’t to blame.”

“He practically killed me,” she exclaimed. “He bit me.”

“And your brother bit me,” Zane snarled. “What should his punishment be?”

Vivianne’s eyes widened, and he watched as realization crept in. He nodded. “Yes, I’m that mangy mutt, that measly little mongrel who cost you your river access,” he snapped in disgust.

Her mouth opened, but no words came out as she struggled to process his words. Her doorbell rang downstairs, and she clapped her hand over her mouth. “Uh-oh.”

She whirled and ran over to scoop up the red dress, stepping into it quickly and dragging it up over her body, slipping the robe off her shoulders as she did so. There was a tantalizing glimpse of golden skin, and then she turned, contorting as she pulled the zipper up and slipped into her shoes at the same time.

Zane frowned. “What are you doing?”

“I’m going out,” she muttered, checking her reflection in the mirror, spritzing herself with some fragrance, then plucking up the clutch purse she’d placed on the bed.

“You’re going out?” he repeated, incredulous.

“Yes, I’m going out. I’m going to have dinner with a good-looking man, have some conversation that doesn’t involve—” she waved her hand in his general direction “—weird, freaky stuff, and I’m going to have a nice evening that I’m going to enjoy like a normal woman.”

She hurried over to her bedroom door as the doorbell pealed again from the floor below. She hesitated, then turned back to him.

“Wait a minute, were you stuck with me all of the time?” Her gaze darted toward her en suite bathroom.

His lips quirked. “Yep.”

Her cheeks bloomed with heat, and her mouth parted, then she snapped her lips together. “That wasn’t gentlemanly,” she hissed as she backed out of the room.

He chuckled. “That’s because I’m no gentleman.”

* * *

Vivianne forced her gaze to Mike’s. “So, it sounds like a lot happened when I was...away?” She sat for a moment, digesting the information. Woodland had a new alpha prime, light warriors had been discovered after hundreds of years of folks believing they’d been completely wiped out, and one of the most prominent men in Irondell society, Arthur Armstrong, was now dead.

“It’s great gossip, isn’t it?” Zane chirped, his hands cupping his chin as he leaned on the table between her and Mike.

She glared at him. He’d appeared in the car—God, what an awkward trip that had been, with him chattering away in the back seat. She tried to ignore the lycan—a difficult task seeing as he was six foot three, built and ripped, and mildly gorgeous. For a lycan.

“Who is managing the Armstrong interests?” Arthur Armstrong had been a wily competitor. She’d tangled with him on a few occasions. Sometimes he’d won, sometimes she’d won. She wanted to know who Nightwing were up against now.

Mike grimaced. “Armstrong Enterprises is no more. His sons discarded his name and wiped it out of the family tree. Everything is now Galen Inc.”

“As in, Ryder Galen? Doesn’t his wife work in our legal department?”

Mike shook his head as he chewed on a morsel of steak. “She left when your father stepped in to run the business. She now works as Galen’s legal counsel.”

“Darn,” Vivianne muttered. “She was good.”

“Good for Ryder,” Zane said, nodding.

He knew this Galen? Vivianne didn’t know if that was good or bad. If the lycans were in any way affiliated with Galen, then that was probably bad news for vampires.

Zane twisted in her direction.

“How is the wine?” he inquired, then frowned. “Please tell me that’s wine, and not blood.” He made a gagging sound, and she pursed her lips.

“What’s it going to take to re-open the river channel to market?” she asked, determinedly focusing on the handsome vampire in front of her, and not the annoying werewolf at her side.

Mike shrugged. “Not sure. It’s difficult to get them to the table. They’re very eager to strengthen the relationship with Woodland, and apparently that lycan your brother killed was well liked.”

“Aw, now that’s sweet,” Zane said, sniffing as he dabbed at his eye. “They did that for me? That warms the cockles of my dead little heart.”

Vivianne’s gaze dropped to the fork in her hand. It was so tempting...

“Go on, you know you want to,” Zane said, indicating the fork with a lift of his chin. “I’m sure Wheezy Whistler here would love to see you go batcrap crazy on empty space. They can’t see me, remember?” He blew a kiss at Mike, who smiled, oblivious, at Vivianne. “See?”

Vivianne forced herself to place the fork gently on the plate. “Find out what they want. Then make sure we get it.”

Mike nodded, then glanced down at the fork. “You don’t like your meal?”

“It’s fine.” It was the company she had issues with. Oh, not Mike, he seemed nice enough. She smiled brightly.

He reached over and covered her hand with his. “I’m glad you’re still with us,” he told her softly. She was surprised by the contact and instinctively pulled away. She wasn’t the touchy-feely type.

Zane dropped his forehead to the table. “I really wish I could puke.”

“Me, too,” she said. “Glad I’m still here,” she clarified, when Zane lifted his head to look at her in surprise. No, she didn’t mean she wanted to throw up with him.

“Like, hurl until I get this sick all out of my system. But I can’t,” Zane elaborated, his fist tapping his flat stomach. “Can’t pee, can’t poop. Can’t puke. Must be a dead thing. Hey, you’re dead. Well, undead. But you pee and poop. How does that work?”

She closed her eyes as warmth bloomed in her cheeks. Had he been stuck with her when she did that? And just like that, he’d obliterated any hope for an intimate evening with Mike.

“Is everything okay, Vivianne?” Mike asked, and she opened her eyes to see his concerned expression.

She nodded. “I’m fine. I just remembered I have some work to finish at home before a meeting tomorrow,” she lied. “I’m sorry, can we do this another time?”

“Sure,” Mike said, smiling in understanding. “I figure it’s going to take some time for you to adjust to your normal routine.” He signaled for the waiter, and in moments she was back in his car, her date ending earlier than she’d expected. Earlier than she suspected Mike expected.

* * *

She turned in the foyer that led from the elevator to the front door of her penthouse. Mike stood there, his expression curious, tinged with anticipation.

And right next to him stood a hulk of a werewolf, muscular arms folded as he glared at her.

“Do not invite him in,” Zane warned her. “You and I need to talk.”

She arched an eyebrow and looked at Mike. There was no way in hell she would let a wolf order her about. “Would you like to—”

Zane snarled, and in a flash, her clutch flew out of her grasp.

Mike’s head reared back to avoid the missile, his expression clearly surprised.

Vivianne covered her mouth. “Oh, I’m so sorry,” she gasped. She’d nearly smacked her date in the head with her bag. Her eyes narrowed as she glared at Zane. No, he’d nearly smacked her date in the head with her bag.

“Uh, that’s...fine,” Mike said as he bent to retrieve her purse. He handed it to her. “You were about to say?” he prodded her.

This wasn’t going to work. Not tonight. She had a furious, impatient werewolf ghost, or spirit, or phantom, or hallucination, or whatever the hell he was, effectively blocking any attempt she made at communicating with this man. Frankly, the effort to ignore him and pretend everything was normal was exhausting.

“Would you like to do this again sometime?” she finished gently.

Mike’s disappointment was quickly replaced with a smile and a nod. “Sure.”

He leaned down to kiss her, and Zane’s nose blocked her view of her date for a moment.

“I swear, if this turns into some sort of twisted voyeur experience, you’re going to need to make me some popcorn. Just saying.”

Vivianne tilted her head away from Zane, and Mike’s lips landed on her cheek. “Uh, thanks for a great evening,” she said, then turned and unlocked her door, stepped inside and gave him a shaky wave. She closed the door, then leaned back against it, shutting her eyes.

That had to be the most embarrassing, weird and frustrating—

“Can we talk now?”

She opened her eyes to glare at the six-foot-three-inch wall of infuriating male. He arched an eyebrow, and with his scruffy brown hair, and a short beard that framed his jaw and—wow, he had really nice lips. The bottom one was slightly fuller, and a mental image of her sinking her teeth into it surprised her. Mainly because it wasn’t an image of her ripping him to shreds like she tried to convince herself she wanted to, but because the image was playful and sexy and all kinds of wrong.

His brown gaze met hers, and for the first time she realized he had hazel flecks, green and gold shards the gradually lightened the longer they stood there, staring at each other.

She frowned. This...man, if she could call him that—was he even real? She reached out, swiping her arm across his body, and he closed his eyes as her arm swept through his body. She felt...nothing. No, maybe there was a slight change in air temperature. Or was she desperately clutching at any detail to justify what was going on?

Was he just a hallucination? But she didn’t really know him... She’d never heard his name before today. Would she hallucinate about a guy she never knew existed?

“We need to talk,” he told her quietly.

She shook her head. “No. You need to go away.”

She moved away from the door and walked right through him, hearing his swift inhalation as she passed. She strode up the stairs.

“I can’t,” he exclaimed as he followed her. Damn, he was so big. Even as some insubstantial existence, he seemed to swallow up her awareness, and she found it was hard to focus on anything else. Just like it had been hard to focus on Mike with this large, attention-consuming presence next to her.

Normally she was repulsed by the werewolves. They were animals, reverting to their inner beast with ease and frequency, their civility only a thin veneer, and their fragrance quite odious. Zane, though, smelled of something different. His scent was earthy, woodsy, with notes of myrtle, cedarwood and almond. How was that even possible? How could find a lycan’s scent be almost attractive? She slammed the door shut on him, hearing him growl in frustration before he floated through the timber.

The fact that she was having these reactions to him was what freaked her out the most. She could see something that wasn’t there. She could hear his deep, smooth voice in her head, but if he really was a lycan, she would never, ever find him attractive. And she did.

Which meant she really was going crazy.

“You’re not here,” she muttered, as she crossed to her bed and picked up the nightgown that one of her staff had placed at the end of the bed before they’d left for the day. Unlike her father, she didn’t like to be surrounded by servants, and wanted them gone by the time she came home. This was her space, the only place she could be by herself. She didn’t want to worry about who was watching her for whom, and as a Prime, that happened.

“Oh, I’m here,” Zane told her.

She wasn’t going to argue with him—because that would make him, or the hallucination that was him, all the more real.

She kicked off her shoes and didn’t bother to put them away. Instead, she marched into her en suite and closed the door. She looked into the mirror over the vanity for a moment. She looked...spooked.

Her shoulders sagged. It was a good thing she hadn’t invited Mike in. She couldn’t afford to let anyone see her like this, or guess at what was going on with her—whatever that turned out to be. Her vision blurred for a moment, and she blinked, tilting her head back. Marchettas didn’t cry. That’s what her father had said, the night he’d turned her.

Marchettas were the strongest of their kind, he’d said. It was why they’d become so successful, so powerful. Tears were a weakness. Feelings were a weakness. If someone in the Nightwing colony guessed that she was losing her mind, that she was mentally deteriorating, it would be a bloodbath within the colony until a new Prime was selected. And that was the internal strife.

If the other vampire colonies scented blood, a scandal or a weakness, they would pounce. If a shifter breed, like the lycans or the bears, suspected the Nightwing colony was weakening, there would be territory wars. Whichever way she looked at it, if she gave in to these hallucinations, if she let herself indulge in an annoying, frustrating, rude companion that nobody else could see, feel or hear, she was leading her people down a path to bloodshed and death. Despite what everyone thought, she really did care for Nightwing, for her colony. They were as close to a family she was ever going to get. She needed to protect them, if only from herself.

Tomorrow, she’d visit Ryder Galen. His family were shadow breed healers, and maybe he could figure out what was wrong with her. She just hoped she could trust him.

She got ready for bed, removing her makeup and brushing her hair. For once, Zane didn’t make an appearance.

Maybe she could control him, after all? Maybe he only appeared when she was tired? Or distracted?

She opened the drawer under the counter to put her brush away and paused when she saw the small bottle rolling around inside. The pills the doctor had prescribed for her recuperation postcoma. She’d had nightmares, horrendous nightmares about the attack, and these pills were supposed to help her sleep. They had worked—sometimes. If they’d blocked her nightmares, they might be able to block these auditory hallucinations...

She shook two out of the bottle and took them with a glass of water, then brushed her teeth. By the time she stepped out of the bathroom, she was already feeling relaxed.

“Now can we talk?” Zane muttered.

She kept her eyes resolutely forward as she crossed to her bed and pulled back the bed covers. Ignore him.

“You can’t ignore me forever, princess,” Zane said as he stood at the end of her bed, frowning. Her eyelids flickered. Could he read her thoughts now?

She climbed into bed, her lips firmly pressed together to prevent any response to him.

“We need to figure out what’s going on here,” he stated.

She brushed her hair off her forehead and lay back. Just ignore him. Her eyelids began to droop, and he stalked around the bed to stand by her hip. He really was a gorgeous man, all beautiful muscles, tanned skin, and she thought the close-cropped beard was growing on her. It gave him a rough, dangerous look that was very attractive.

Her eyes widened, but only briefly. Wow, these tranqs were good. They had to be if she thought Zane Wilder was kind of sexy.

“Speak to me, damn it,” he demanded.

She smiled. He was cute when he was angry. His eyes narrowed, and he leaned down to look closely at her eyes, his gaze shifting from one to the other and back again.

“Damn it, you took a tranq, didn’t you?” His lips tightened, and although it took a great deal of effort, she raised her fingers to his lips to smooth them out again.

“Shh,” she said soothingly.

He swore under his breath, his hands momentarily clenching, and then that smoky, inky fog swirled around him, and he was gone.

Her eyelids drooped shut, and her mouth dipped at the corners, and she could barely retain her last thought.

Don’t go...