Page 8 of Protected By the Wolven

I can’t control the growl that bursts from my lips. It’s all I can do not to turn to look, half wondering if the picture in my mind is worse than reality. My hands are balled into tight fists, my claws digging into my palms as I fight the urge to sniff the male out and make him pay.

“Zoya, can I ask Lash to go to his bedroom? Just for a minute?”

“No? Please?”

“Zoya,” Marissa’s voice is a whisper. “I need to ask if there is any… damage between your legs. It might be better if Lash doesn’t hear.”

Marissa’s mate is an orc. She’s lived in the Zone for over a year. She has to know all Others have superior hearing. If that didn’t give it away, my whimper and yip of pain at my powerlessness must have told them both that I heard every word.

“No. Nothing there.”

As Zoya gets dressed, a plan forms in my mind. I’m going to get some other Wolven Warriors and we’re going to pay Max a visit. No Other has killed anyone, Other or human, since we arrived on Earth. I think I’m going to be the first.

“I have a friend from undergrad,” Marissa explains when we’re sitting at the table, sipping coffee. “I went into nursing. She happens to be an immigration attorney. I’m going to call her andsee if she can tell us how to proceed to deal with your issues and keep you here and safe in the U.S.”

Zoya is even quieter than usual. She simply nods.

“In the meantime, Lash, maybe you could keep her occupied? She’s wound so tight. Could you help her relax? I’ll be in touch.”

I’m filled with guilt at the inappropriate pictures flying through my mind of how I could help Zoya relax. Luckily, by the time Marissa leaves, I’ve pushed those ideas far away.

When the door clicks shut, I ask Zoya, “Marissa’s right. It’s best to keep you busy having fun. What do you like to do?”

Instead of her face brightening, it squeezes in pain.

“It was the one thing Max did that he promised. The day I arrived, he gave me a puppy. Little Miska is still at our apartment. She was the only thing that kept me sane.”

The earthy musk of her sorrow slams into me and takes my mind off killing Max.

“What hours does Max work? I’ll do everything in my power to get your dog, Zoya. Today.”

Chapter Eight

Zoya

I knew there was a reason I trusted Lash. The moment I tell him that Saturdays are Max’s long days, he bursts into action. He calls a few friends, has one of them drive by my old address to make certain Max’s car isn’t there, and asks the others for help even though it’s their day off.

“I’ve got to bounce. Here’s the TV clicker.” He tosses it to me. “The next time you see me, I’ll have Miska in my arms.” He flashes me a smile that shows all four of his fangs. Although I’ve only known him a few hours, those long teeth don’t terrify me at all anymore.

“No. No TV. I go with you.”

Marissa was kind enough to have brought over some clothes for me: leggings, tees, and some casual dresses. I’m wearing a pink dress with yellow daisies around the neckline. It’s too big for me, and gapes a little, but I’m happy to have it. I stand and slip into my shoes.

“I’m ready.”

For the first time since I met him last night, Lash treats me to his serious, angry face.

“No, Zoya. I want you to feel you have the power to make your own decisions, but this is too much. What if he comes home early? You won’t be safe.” His brow is knitted, telling me just how hard it is for him to be so firm with me.

“You wait here. Trust me to bring your dog.” As if things are settled, he changes the subject and asks, “Where do you keep the dog food? I’ll grab it.”

I haven’t had enough to eat for years before coming to America and it hasn’t been much better in the five months I’ve been here, so needless to say, I’m skinny and weak. For some reason, though, I feel strong in Lash’s presence. Strong enough to argue.

“I’m coming with you. You’ll scare Miska. She’ll bite you if I’m not there.” My big lie pulls a laugh from Lash, though he tries to hide it. He’s right, though. It’s funny to think of my little white furball hurting the big wolf-man even if she were to bite him.

Although it’s a warm day, he pulls a hooded sweatshirt from his closet, stalks to the front door, and stands still as hethinks things over. His ears pull back, communicating his inner conflict.

“Any chance you’ll give in on this?” His tone has already admitted defeat, so I shake my head in defiance.

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