Page 4 of What a Wolf Demands

He led her up a short set of steps onto the shed’s tiny dock. The building perched on the edge of the bayou, its deep porch covered by a tin roof. He walked to the railing and leaned against it. Then he jerked his chin toward the bar.

“What happened back there?” In his accent, there became they-uh.

She hugged her arms over her midsection. “Just Luc and Charlie being jerks, as usual.”

“I don’t doubt it. But you can’t afford to make them angry.”

“I know.”

Bart glanced at the bar, then dropped his voice so low she had to strain to hear it. “Someone in your position can’t risk threatening pure-blood wolves, Lily. It only takes one or two people throwing the F-word around for shit to hit the fan fast.”

Feral. In their world, it was a much uglier word than the version humans abhorred. For one thing, it got people killed.

She swallowed. “I’m not . . .” The sentence stuck in her throat. Words had power in the bayou, where the air was soaked with old, unpredictable magic, and a stray thought could have nasty consequences. Even witches were careful with their speech.

Bart took pity on her. “I know you’re not feral. But it only takes a couple accusations for word to spread. Rumors like that take on a life of their own. Once the Alpha catches wind of it, latents don’t usually live long.” He sighed and studied the weather-worn planks at his feet. “I’ve seen it happen,” he muttered. “Over and over again.”

Despite the warm, sticky night, goosebumps lifted on her arms. With his blond man bun and tan skin, Bart might look like a twenty-something surfer, but his blue eyes told a different story. Anyone who held his gaze knew he was a lot older than he looked. Werewolves aged slowly, but there was something about the eyes that couldn’t quite muffle the weight of experience.

Bart never revealed his age, but Lily had seen a photo of him in a Vietnam War uniform tucked away in his desk. If he said he’d seen latents killed “over and over again,” he meant it.

“I’m not feral,” she said, chafing her upper arms. “I was just tired of their bullshit.”

He studied her for a moment. “You sure?”

“Yes. I have total control.” Even as she said it, she was glad he didn’t have a Tracker’s ability to scent lies. Because a niggling kernel of doubt made her wonder if her words were completely accurate. She couldn’t Turn, but her inner wolf was just as real as Bart’s or Charlie’s. Like any wild animal put in a cage, it was prone to lash out when provoked. Latents who couldn’t control their wolves were dangerous. Unpredictable. In a species whose survival depended on living side by side with humans undetected, an out of control latent was a liability.

But control wasn’t something she had to worry about. Her wolf was more of a poodle than a slavering beast.

Or at least it used to be. Lately, that strange pressure in her chest happened more and more often. When a bar patron got rude or handsy, it was all she could do to keep her temper in check. At times, the urge to round on the asshole du jour and sink her teeth into his flesh was overpowering.

Then there were the other urges—the ones that woke her, moaning and sweating, in the night. The ones that made her twist and turn in her bed, her hips rolling against the sheets, her nipples tight and aching. Sometimes, her skin was so sensitive even the touch of fabric was too much. More than once, she’d thrown off her clothes in her sleep . . . then pleasured herself until the powerful urges finally left her.

Her cheeks heated. She eased farther back into the porch’s shadows, grateful for the darkness.

At last, Bart nodded. “All right, cher. I trust you.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a wry smile. “I better get back in there and make sure those fools aren’t stealing my beer.”

“I think they’re too drunk to realize the bar’s untended.”

His smile grew. “More like too stupid.”

Even with worries crowding her mind, she had to smile. “I’ll come start the dishes.”

He waved her off. “Naw. You head on home.”

“Are you sure?” Her shift was over, but she usually stuck around to help clean up—and help herself to whatever burgers or chicken fingers Bart had in the back. Her diet might not like it, but her bank account did.

“‘Course I’m sure. I’ll go knock a few heads together. You go home and rest up for tomorrow.” He gave her a pointed look. “You know how Saturdays are.”

Ugh. How could she forget? He ran a special on Saturday nights—twenty bucks a person for a bucket of wings and unlimited beer. Most people couldn’t handle more than two rounds of Bart’s brew, so it ended up being a profit-maker for the bar. Each weekend, about half of Bon Rêve could be found elbow-deep in spicy wings, with the other half stumbling home drunk. It made for a busy night, but the tips were good. And the free flowing beer meant she didn’t have to worry about wolves using their Gifts against her. A drunk Finder was still fast, but they couldn’t move in the blurry bursts of speed that always caught her off guard.

She untied her apron and slipped it over her head. “Mind if I get my purse in the morning?” She wasn’t going back in the bar unless she had to.

“Not at all. I’ll put it in the safe when I lock up.”

On impulse, she rose on tiptoe and gave him a peck on the cheek. “Thanks, boss. For everything.”

It was hard to tell in the dark, but it seemed that a faint blush stained his cheeks. “Go on now,” he said. “Before I change my mind and put you to work.”

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