Marked by the Moon Page 7

  Alex stepped around Julian, then poked the bear again. The thing growled and swatted at her, giving Julian the opening he needed. He dived in and tore a chunk out of the soft underbelly. The animal cried out, then fell back onto all fours where Alex promptly poked it in the eye.

  The bear tried to swipe, but its vision was compromised. Julian snarled; Alex poked at the other eye, and the polar bear ran.

  “Woo-hoo!” Alex lifted her stick to the sky, pumping her arm once before she grabbed at her injured side with a hiss.

  Julian snorted even as a small kernel of admiration bloomed. It had taken guts to face that beast with nothing but a stick.

  Said stick landed on the ground in front of him with a thud. Julian glanced at Alex just in time to watch her eyes roll back. Then she tumbled to the ground, too, and without arms there was nothing he could do to stop it. Instead he watched, helpless, as her head bounced against the earth with a dull thump before she lay still.

  He nosed her arm, but she was limp. Not dead. Not from this. But she was broken, bleeding. He needed to get her out of the open and let her rest until the sun went down. For that he needed arms, hands, feet, and a body that wasn’t broken.

  Unfortunately, he’d shifted too many times, too close together. His head was fuzzy with exhaustion. He wanted to lie down and sleep until dusk.

  But to heal completely and quickly he needed to shift from one form to another, so he stood over Alex and tried to get angry. It was the only way he knew to draw forth his magic. Closing his eyes, he thought of why she was here, what she’d done, how she’d ruined his life. He remembered how he’d found Alana—or rather hadn’t found her. Nothing left but a pile of ashes.

  Anger began to pulse; warmth flooded through him as magic skated across his back, lifting his ruff like a heated summer breeze. A growl rumbled in his chest, and he imagined himself human. The next instant, he was.

  Julian lifted Alex’s inert body, stifling the rumble of hunger when her blood spilled all over him.

  She opened her eyes on a wince, blinked a few times, then let her head fall against his chest. “Wha—? Where?”

  “There’s a cave near here,” he said, uncertain if she could still hear him but needing to talk, to feel human again so his wolf would quit hearing the siren call of blood. “We stay there during the daylight. Can’t exactly run around bare-assed and barefoot.”

  Well, they could. But frostbite made it damn difficult to run, and even werewolves needed to rest.

  Unfortunately, he’d been exaggerating when he said “near.” The cave was a good five miles away, and carrying Alex, the trip took him longer than he wanted it to. Especially since the pretty snowflakes began to swirl more thickly and a storm blotted out the remains of the sun. By the time they reached shelter, a full-blown blizzard was in place; he could barely see, let alone run.

  Things got worse from there.

  Julian stumbled into the cave on frozen feet, fell to his knees, set Alex on the ground, and hurried to the far side of the cave for wood.

  “What the hell?” he shouted, his voice echoing back at him from a nearly empty cave.

  The wood was gone, as was the food they stored here, along with most of the blankets. The single mattress and a battery-operated lantern remained—the two no doubt too cumbersome to steal—along with a threadbare quilt, which must have been too old to warrant carrying away.

  He snatched up the light, turned the switch, nodded once when the lamp began to glow, and brought it over to where Alex lay.

  She had begun to shiver. Her lips had turned a lovely shade of lilac, and her skin had turned a putrid shade of gray. He had to get her warm and fast.

  She was slick with blood. Under normal circumstances, it would have dried by now. Unfortunately, the blizzard had not only lowered her body temperature but made the blood on her skin into a slurpy, pasty mess.

  Exhaustion caused Julian to stumble. He righted himself, shook his head to make the blinking black lights in front of his eyes go away, and tried to focus.

  “Angry,” he muttered. “I am so angry.”

  But he wasn’t. He could barely work up the energy to stand. He wasn’t certain he could bring forth enough anger to help.

  Julian’s powers were a mystery. He believed they had come with his shape-shifting since he’d never been magic before, but none of his wolves was so gifted. He had not discovered any limits to what he could do beyond an inability to heal humans. The only thing that saved them from death was his bite.

  Julian glanced again at the wall where a stack of wood should be, then at the empty box where nonperishable food should rest and managed a stir of fury.

  “Good,” he said. “More.”

  Even if he accessed the rage necessary to perform magic, he didn’t have enough energy left to heal Alex and start a fire from nothing.

  What should he do? He couldn’t decide.

  Which was not like him. He was the alpha. Decisions were his business. Of course he could never remember being this depleted and alone in all his lifetimes.

  Didn’t it just figure that she was at the heart of it?

  “Okay,” he said. Talking out loud seemed to make him feel more awake, more focused. “If you build a fire, she’ll only bleed worse once she’s warm.”

  She wouldn’t die, true, but what if the loss of blood damaged her brain? That would be all he’d need—a pissed-off, crazy, ex–Jäger-Sucher werewolf.

  “I’ll pass,” he muttered, then laughed. The laughter scared him. He sounded a little crazy himself.

  Julian snatched up the quilt, lifted her again, and marched into the storm. There he used the heat of his hands to melt snow and wash the bloody muck from her skin; then he wrapped her in the blanket and carried her inside.

  Her lips were still blue, her face ice white. She shivered so violently, he was afraid she’d bite off her own tongue from the force of her chattering teeth. Although maybe that wouldn’t be so bad. Without a tongue she’d have a helluva time talking.

  Until it grew back.

  Julian peeled away the quilt, gritting his teeth as her scent washed over him. She smelled like pack, with a hint of lemony woman and an enticing tinge of blood. The fine hairs on his arms lifted and goose bumps ran across his flesh.

  The bruises along her ribs appeared black against the snowy shade of her skin. The snow bath and the extreme cold had slowed the bleeding from the slashes across her belly. They were deep—they would, if she’d still been human, need a helluva lot of stitches—but Julian couldn’t see any of her insides peeking through to the outside.

  “That has to be good,” he murmured.

  She moved, moaned, and fresh blood pimpled her flesh. Werewolves healed fast, even in human form, but she would not heal completely unless she shifted, or he helped her.

  Julian placed his palm against the wounds, closed his eyes, thought of—

  His fingers flexed. She was so soft, so smooth and supple and—

  “Damn!” He snatched his hand away as his penis twitched. What the hell was wrong with him?

  She had killed his wife. That should make him angry enough to do anything.

  But it didn’t.

  Instead the thought of Alana only made him sad. And sad was not mad. No matter how much he might wish it to be.

  Julian tried again, placing his hand to the bruise. She wiggled beneath his touch, rubbing her skin along his. His eyes slid closed, and his fingers stroked the curve of her ribs; the soft, slight swell of her breast brushed his knuckles. This felt so good, so right, so meant—

  He lurched back, falling hard on his ass, then sat there breathing heavily, staring at her still, pale form. This was not right. For him, nothing would ever be right again. Especially with her.

  At last the anger came, and his fingers began to warm. He held them over her, remembering what he’d felt, what he’d thought, what he’d nearly done. His hands sparkled as if covered in dew beneath the morning sun, and he watched, still fascinated despit
e all the centuries of magic, as her skin knit together and the bruises began to fade.

  He could not heal her completely. He didn’t have it in him right now no matter how angry he became. She’d have to do that herself once darkness fell.

  The wind howled, tossing icy specks of snow against his back. Though he’d much prefer to walk into the storm than stay in here, with her, he needed his strength to make his way home.

  Julian gritted his teeth and lay down, pulling the quilt over them both.

  Chapter 7

  Alex had to be dreaming. She’d never slept with a man in her life.

  Certainly she’d had sex. But that was always a quick one-hour stand; then either she would leave or he would. Alex had never trusted anyone enough to fall asleep with him.

  Therefore, this had to be a dream.

  But what a nice dream. She’d been so cold, in so much pain; then the pain went away, replaced by a soothing warmth that spread throughout her aching body. With the heat surrounding her, she slept better than she had since childhood.

  She was safe. No one, nothing would hurt her. Not here. With him.

  Warm breath, soft lips, his taste both fire and ice. Her hands fluttered over a flat stomach, tight pecs, hard biceps as callused fingertips sculpted her rib cage, the swell of her breasts, the taut, tingling peak of her nipples.

  “Mmm,” she murmured, the sound vibrating against those lips, creating another kind of tingle.

  She was cocooned in warmth; a chill hovered all around but it could not reach her. The dangerous, deadly world was gone. She lived in a magical place where all that existed were tantalizing sensations.

  A strong, slightly scruffy leg wrapped around hers. Hands cupped her from behind and pulled her ever closer. The smooth, round head of a penis slid along her belly, and she gasped as every last inch of her flamed.

  She reached for him in the darkness, and he was there. A mystery, a man, his touch making her forget…something. Everything. Until she remembered only this.

  One tug on those biceps and he was above her, an instant later within her. Firm and fast, he gave; she took. Again and again and again.

  “Come with me,” he growled.

  “Yes,” she answered. “Yes.” The word a surrender she’d never given anyone else.

  Her palms ran over his back, relishing the ripple of muscle, the sleek slide of skin. He smelled like the earth beneath the moon, the trees tipped with silver, a sky full of rain. She pressed her face into his neck, took a deep long whiff, then drew his flesh into her mouth and tasted. His flavor was salt and surf. She wanted to gobble him up, make him a part of her forever, and she knew just how.

  Grasping his hips, she urged him on, until he swelled and stretched and—

  “Now,” she whispered.

  “What?” he answered.

  Alex opened her eyes, just as Barlow opened his.

  He’d been dreaming, and while he should have been disturbed that he’d been dreaming of her, the sex had been so incredible he’d ignored the warning whisper.

  What could he say? He was a guy.

  Most of the time.

  But her teeth, while arousing, had also roused him and that one word had rumbled along his skin, tickling and taunting him. He’d half awakened, realizing he was on the verge of coming like a teenager in his bed, only to discover he wasn’t at home alone but on top of someone, penis surrounded by a slick, tight heat.

  His eyes widened; so did hers. Her hands at his hips, clenched; he figured she’d shove him away, and he tensed, prepared to resist, until he remembered who she was and that he’d rather fuck a tiger than Alexandra Trevalyn.

  Unfortunately, his body had other ideas.

  She arched—most likely to buck him off—instead he slid in farther, the friction of skin along skin making him clench his jaw before he groaned aloud. It had been so long, and she was so damn tight. He felt like his cock was in a vise—a soft, damp, really great vise, one that could both caress him until he was mindless and squeeze him until he was dry.

  Instead of shoving him away, her grip on his hips tightened. Her breath, fast and sharp, rubbed her peaked nipples against his chest in a tantalizing rhythm.

  Julian stared into her flushed face, her dazed eyes, and understood. She was coming, too.

  Oh, what the hell, he thought. Too late now to pretend this was a dream. Might as well make her scream. He wanted to.

  He slowed his hips as he lengthened his thrusts. All the way out until she strained forward, all the way in until her breath caught at the back of her throat. Again and again, slowly increasing his speed, plunging ever deeper until neither of them could stop the inevitable.

  She cried out. He took her mouth, drinking the sound, and at last she closed her eyes, releasing him to do the same.

  He hoped he could now imagine she was someone else, anyone else, even no one, hell his hand was better than her—but just because he wasn’t seeing her didn’t mean she wasn’t there. The scent of her, the taste of her, the feel of her was all around him. And the orgasm…it went on and on and on.

  He was still enjoying the final tremors—her, him, he didn’t know and he didn’t care—when her body, so warm and soft, turned cool and stiff. Before she could shove him off, he rolled away, staring at the roof of the cave as she sat up and rested her head upon her knees, curling into herself as if he’d just violated her.

  Her thin back, the bones of her ribs standing out in sharp relief, that faint shadow of the bruise still upon them made her seem fragile, vulnerable, womanly. He didn’t even realize what he was doing until he saw his hand reaching out to touch—

  “Don’t,” she said. “Just…don’t.”

  Her voice was full of disgust and because of that, when she muttered, “Fuck me,” he dropped his hand and said, “I did.”

  She punched him. He couldn’t say that he blamed her.

  Alex didn’t realize she’d rounded on Barlow until her fist connected with his face.

  He could have stopped her. That he didn’t confused her, and when she was confused, she lashed out. A lot of people did.

  “What did you do to me?”

  He rubbed his jaw as he looked her up and down. “Isn’t that obvious?”

  She’d been shaking her hand, trying to make the numbness fade. He had a hard head, no shock there. But his words made her fingers curl inward once again.

  He noticed and lifted a brow. “I gave you a shot,” he said. “I deserved it. But one’s all you get.”

  She rolled her eyes. If she wanted to punch him again, she would. Alex let her fingers go limp. Right now she didn’t want to.

  Just to be pissy, Alex yanked the blanket off Barlow and around her. Unfortunately that left him naked when he sat up, resting a wrist on his knee, open to her gaze.

  She yanked her eyes from what lay below his waist and focused on an area just below his face. She’d left a mark on his neck.

  “God,” she muttered, and ran a hand through her tangled hair. What the hell had happened?

  Suddenly everything came back—the bear, the fight, then…everything went fuzzy.

  Alex glanced down. The only remnants of the attack were some dried blood, a few bruises, and several scabbed-over claw marks. “What the—?” She ran her fingers over the wounds, wincing. They might be nearly healed but they still hurt.

  Alex glanced up, but he was staring out the opening of the cave and not at her. “How?” she murmured.

  He lifted one shoulder, lowered it. Alex had a flash of those muscles bunching beneath her palm as he thrust into her so deeply—

  “Magic.”

  She blinked, and the memory went away. “Magic,” she repeated. “Like shifting in the daytime.” He nodded. “Putting an invisibility cloak around us in LA.”

  “A what?” he asked.

  “Harry Potter.” She’d done a lot of reading in those hotel rooms. Alex waved her hand. “Never mind. You know what I mean.”

  “Yes,” he agreed. “Like
that.”

  “You healed me by magic,” she said slowly. “Then you made me do you.”

  “You think I used magic to make you—” His cool blue eyes blazed hot with fury. “I don’t need sex that bad.”

  “Could have fooled me,” she muttered.

  Was she imagining things or did his cheeks flush just a little?

  “Glass houses,” he said.

  “Huh?”

  “From the way you were writhing and moaning and coming, you needed it, too.”

  She had. But she wasn’t going to tell him that.

  “What kind of man climbs into bed with an injured woman—”

  “According to you, I’m not a man,” he snapped. “And because of me, you weren’t exactly injured. You were, however, blue with cold.”

  Alex glanced at the still-swirling snowstorm outside the cave. “You were just keeping me warm?”

  “Someone had to.”

  Alex narrowed her eyes. “You didn’t have to seduce me.”

  “Are you so sure it was me who seduced you?”

  Alex opened her mouth, then shut it again. He was right. She wasn’t sure.

  “How about we just forget it ever happened?” Alex asked.

  “If you can, I can.” He lay down and yanked the quilt off her and onto him with one sharp tug.

  “Hey!” She yanked it back.

  He shrugged and let her, placing his arms behind his head and crossing his ankles. Unfortunately the sight of him—long and bronzed, legs and arms thick with muscle—made Alex consider throwing the quilt back over him again. Because for every inch of his skin she appeared to have a memory of touching, tasting—

  “Stop it,” she muttered.

  He opened one eye. “Stop what?”

  “Your hoodoo, voodoo, witchy crap.”

  “I didn’t do anything.”

  “You made me want you.”

  His lips quirked. “You wanted me?”

  “As much as you wanted me.”

  “Who said I did?”

  Alex lowered her eyes to his now limp member; it twitched beneath her gaze. Alex smirked.

  Barlow sat up, flicking the corner of the quilt over his lap. “I did not use magic on you.”