Page 1 of Possessive Mate

Chapter 1 - Hanson

The night was cool and calm compared to the hot bustle of the summer's day that it followed, and Hanson, one of the newest members of the Nightstar Blackwell werewolf pack, was more than a little relieved for it.

There was nothing worse than patrolling in the sweltering heat of the day. Luckily for him, he had drawn the midnight shift, and all was quiet.

With no sign of trouble, enemy pack or otherwise, Hanson returned to his human form and found his clothes awaiting him in the hollowed-out trunk of a dead tree.

Things had been quiet for a while now. Maybe their enemies had finally decided to give up and move on. Or maybe they were laying low, planning their next move. Hanson couldn't be sure. And clearly Jack Blackwell wasn't, either, as the alpha had kept the patrols high ever since their last encounter.

Hanson was tired and weary. He was starting to feel as if he were always on patrol, always trying to prove his loyalty to his new pack alpha, to his new packmates.

It had been months since Jack had killed Karl Ryker—the last alpha—and taken over the pack, but still, Hanson almost always felt like an outsider. He dreaded to think how many of the other wolves felt. He, at least, had been invited to live in the manor as a fellow military man. But perhaps that was just a case of keeping one's friends close and enemies closer—Hanson couldn't say.

Either way, he was determined to prove his loyalty, to assure Jack that his word as alpha was law, and that he was perhaps the best alpha their pack had ever had. Considering the tyrannical rule of Karl Ryker, that wasn't saying all that much, but Hanson believed Jack might well be one of the most honorable werewolves he had ever met. And he wasn't about to fuck up his position within the pack for anything, even if he had fallen back to pack omega of late. He'd rise again once Jack knew his loyalty, he was sure of it.

And so he took whatever patrols he could and did extra chores for the pack wherever possible.

But even a werewolf had limits, and he was dragging his feet as he made his way back from the forest to the manor, his head hanging. Even the almost-full moon couldn't seem to give him the strength he needed tonight.

But the sound of a vehicle approaching up the hill caused Hanson to pause on the porch.

Who the hell was hightailing it up the hill during the middle of the night?

When he spotted the cherry-red pickup coming over the hill, he became even more intrigued. Everybody knew everybody in a town like theirs, or at least, they recognized their vehicles. But Hanson most definitely did not recognize this truck.

Hands balled into fists, he tensed his entire body, prepared for whoever or whatever might arrive from within.

The truck careened into the yard so violently that Hanson sensed the driver must be pissed about something. Whoever they were, they were in a hurry.

He tried to get a look at the driver, but the tint on the windows made it exceedingly difficult even for wolf eyes, and he was forced to stand guard and wait.

The engine was killed, and the night seemed to fall to utter silence. Even the bugs in the woods seemed to have stopped their chirping, as if the entire forest around the manor was holding its breath.

When the driver's side door was shoved open, Hanson lifted his nose and sniffed.

The scent hit him like a ton of bricks, almost sending him right off his feet.

What the fuck? he thought, his entire body tensed now, not with caution or protectiveness for his pack, but with something else entirely—something that made him tingle all over.

That scent, it was like nothing he had ever smelled before. A thousand different layers hit him all at once. Wolf, earth, wild flowers, the scent of a late evening rainstorm. It crackled like lightning and made his heart hammer as loud as thunder.

But even that experience could not compare to how he felt the second the driver's door was slammed shut and he saw her for the first time.

The thundering of his heart stopped immediately, and it rose into his throat so violently it made his head spin.

What the hell is wrong with me? he asked himself, even as he heard the sound of sniffing. She was scenting him, too, he knew that much, but did his scent do to her what hers had done to him?

The way her head snapped around, her gaze meeting his, suggested that perhaps it had.

Hanson's heart remained in his throat at the sight of her. Even from a distance, her eyes glimmered a beautiful cornflower blue. Her hair was so pale it was turned silver by the light of the moon, falling in long glossy waves over one shoulder all the way down to her waist.

And what a waist it was. With a feminine yet athletic figure, she had curves in all the right places, and damn, those hips were childbearing hips if ever he had seen them.

The mere thought made him want to slap himself silly. What kind of thing was that to think? He hadn't even spoken to the woman. For all he knew, she was one of Christopher's pack, come to cause trouble.

She stared at him for several long moments. Perhaps it was only seconds, or it might have been hours, but either way, it wasn't long enough. Hanson could have stared into those deep blue pools for eternity.

But far too soon, she blinked, and reality seemed to come over her in a wave as she started to march towards the stairs.

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