Page 26 of Rogue Games

The boring sameness of it all is disconcerting. It’s just like any other packhouse.

My wolf is relieved, her adoration of the handsome alpha clouding her judgement. She wants him to be good. There are plenty of remote locations in a pack this big to hide someone, or something, that you don’t want found, I remind her. She pouts but says nothing, firmly on Team Dean.

Maybe spending so much time alone with just my brother has made her go gaga for the first non-related male we’ve seen in a while. Dean is sexy, I’ll give her that, in a strong, silent, kind of annoying way.

I’m about to give up and return to my welcoming bedroom when I spot another cupboard door, partially hidden by an umbrella stand, just inside the rear entrance. It’s not full height, but someone could fit through it, I reason, as my instincts draw me closer. With a quick glance over my shoulder to make sure nobody is watching me; I move further into the mudroom. There are semi-circular scratches on the floor in front of it.

This door is opened regularly. Then why put the stand right in the way?

To hide it, is the obvious answer. My heart hammers in my chest as I realise that I might have found something important here. Either that, or it’s where they keep the toilet roll. Really, really expensive toilet roll.

Quietly, I push the umbrella stand to the side and stare wide-eyed at the last thing I expect to see—a fingerprint scanner. It’s attached to the wall, but down low, just above knee height. Also hidden. Knowing already it won’t budge; I push against the locked door to test its heft. It’s solid, heavier than the other internal doors in the packhouse. Whatever’s behind it must be important.

I stand back, hands on my hips and I know, just know, that I need to see what’s behind that door. Its location makes no sense. Safe rooms are always in the middle of the house, away from entrances and exits, making them easier for occupants of the property to get to at the first sign of trouble. If you have to run past your intruders to get to it, it’s useless.

This door hides something else entirely.

Ears pricked; I listen to the faint noises from the party down the hall. Laughter and music drift along the empty hallways. Everyone else is otherwise occupied and having way too much fun to notice little old me giving myself an impromptu tour of the house. I might not get the chance to be here alone again. The competition is tomorrow, and then after that, who knows what will happen.

Knowing Wyatt would be furious with me if he could see what I was up to, I scour the room, trying to find anything I might be able to open the panel on the scanner with. Briefly, I consider lifting the heavy stand and bashing the door in with it, but it’s too strong for me to break through. Plus, even if I get in, the noise will attract attention before I get the chance to explore.

Quickly, I pull open all the drawers and rifle through cubbyholes to find something, anything sharp that I could use to tamper with the scanner. Standing up on a bench, I scour the high shelf above, mentally rejoicing when I find an emergency supplies box, complete with toolkit, flashlights, candles and matches.

With an exciting fist pump, I drag the box toward me as quietly as I can until it’s hanging half off the shelf. Placing my palm underneath so I can feel its weight, I slide it further, trying to take it down without dropping anything.

“Need some help with that?” Dean’s deep voice, quiet but laced with anger, gives me the fright of my life.

I jump, startled, and with a humiliating shriek, lose my grip on the box. The evidence of my snooping slips from my hands. I reach for it in the almost pitch black, trying to catch it before it hits the ground, but I’m too late. It crashes to the ground. As I step away, wincing at the loud noise, I realise there’s nothing behind me to step on.

My foot meets fresh air and, arms flailing, I topple back, straight into the waiting arms and rock-hard chest of one very pissed off alpha. For a beat, I freeze, his warmth seeping into my back and marvelling at the ease with which he’s holding me. His scent wraps around me and my body melts where we touch.

His biceps flex as he lifts me carefully by the waist until I’m standing on my own two feet, but when I have my balance, he doesn’t let go. His palms burn into the bare flesh at my midriff, his grip possessively tight as he holds me in place.

I close my eyes, enjoying his touch far too much, and swallow back a moan of pleasure. How long has it been since I’ve had a gorgeous man’s hands on me?

Far too long, judging by my body's reaction.

My breathing is uneven, and adrenaline floods my veins. I wait, wait for him to yell or shout, but instead, he stays very still, his chest rising and falling quickly.

So briefly, I think I imagined it, his fingertips gliding over the delicate skin at my hip bones as he releases me. It feels almost like a caress when he gently catches the edge of my top and pulls it back down to meet the waistband of my trousers, covering me up. When he eases back, only a few inches, I’m disappointed. I want more touch, and more of his heat wrapped around my body.

Too nervous to turn around, too scared that my thoughts are written all over my face, I wait. I’m about to be unceremoniously dumped from the competition for being an idiot. Nothing I say here will matter anyway.

Instead, I concentrate on breathing. Something that should be easy, but not when Dean’s presence is filling my senses. All I can smell is him, and it’s making it impossible to maintain my train of thought.

When I pull in a ragged breath, all it does is pull his heady scent deeper inside me, branding the very fibre of my being, until I’m completely blown away by this power he has over me. I love it and hate it at the same time.

“What are you up to, little rogue?” His breath stirs the back of my hair, and I shiver, as he presses his nose to the back of my neck and inhales. A low rumble starts deep inside his chest, and I shift, pressing my thighs together to smother the tell-tale scent of my arousal.

I don’t like this guy, I remind myself. He’s not mine. But my wolf, and my body, don’t care. Instead of acting as disinterested as he is, I’m dripping wet for a man any smart she-wolf would be afraid of.

Dean groans, husky and raw, the vibrations of the sound travelling through my needy body, straight to my core.

“Jamie,” he snarls, as he leans down and whispers in my ear. “I think you’d better come with me. We need to talk.”

13

DEAN

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