Page 61 of Purchased

“Go to the bedroom,” I tell Beatrix as we pull to a halt outside the chateau. I have chosen the rear entrance, because showing up covered in blood is not going to be a good look for the pack. “I will come and deal with you later.”

“I’m not invited to the funeral?” She pouts at me, then dares to laugh, her eyes sparkling with some deeply feral amusement.

“This is not funny, Beatrix. This is going to cost the pack in numerous ways. What if there were cameras there? What if we just revealed the existence of modern wolf shifters to people?”

“They wouldn’t believe it even if we did it right in front of them. Nobody believes anything they see anymore,” she says, getting out of the car and standing languidly on the back steps, her legs long under my shirt, her expression completely without remorse. “Nothing matters. You worry too much. I did what I was supposed to do, what any proper wolf would have done.”

I move faster than I realized I was capable of, pinning her against the wall with my body, one leg between her thighs as I snarl down at her, my teeth snapping a fraction of an inch away from her nose.

“Oh? And what would a proper alpha do to his murderous little mate? What brutal punishment would she endure?”

I smell her arousal immediately. This was the wrong approach if I wanted to get actual contrition out of her. She likes it when I am rough; she responds to all things vigorous and animal.

“You didn’t tell me not to kill them,” she points out. “I didn’t know I was doing anything wrong. You have to be more specific with your expectations if you expect me to follow them. I’m not a mind reader.”

She’s right. Goddammit, she’s right. Yes, most people can be expected at baseline to not kill people the moment they seem slightly threatening, but the more I look at this from her perspective, the more I realize she didn’t know any better. Our freedom was under threat, and I was tense in that interaction. She would have picked up on my fear, the fear of losing her to the system because she has no official paperwork. She felt it, and she dealt with it.

I should have been the one to make her feel safe. I should be the one who makes her submit, not because I am overpowering her, but because she trusts me to handle things.

I kiss her deeply, and yes, roughly. But I am no longer doing it from anger or fear, I’m doing it because I am deeply in love with this feral creature who behaves so much like the perfect animal she is.

“I am going to put these two men to rest, and then you and I are going to have a good, long…”

“Mmm, yes,” she interrupts with a sexy little grin.

“Discussion about my expectations,” I finish the sentence.

“Oh, no!” She pouts.

“Go to the bedroom. Get cleaned up.”

“You need to get cleaned up too. You look like you’ve been in a human abattoir.” She grins and kisses me on the nose, then sticks out her tongue just a little and licks some of the dried blood from my neck.

“Delicious,” she says, her eyes sparkling.

Christ. What have I claimed as my mate?

* * *

Beatrix

Armand grabs me, tosses me over his shoulder, and carries me upstairs. He might be mad at me, but he is also really fucking turned on. His desire for me, as bad as I am, is unabated.

He smells like blood and fear. Not his fear, the fear of the men who died because they thought I was going to be easy prey. He thinks they were trying to help me. I don’t believe for a second that they had any good intention toward me. They looked at me the way I look at a good pie. Their last emotion has drenched him. He could almost pass for a pathetic human predator, except for the strength that emanates from him with every breath he takes.

I am not afraid of him. There will be consequences, but those consequences will not hurt me. I bet I’ll like them. The chemistry between us never fades, even when he’s furious with me. Even when he wonders what he’s gotten himself into with me. He doesn’t falter. He doesn’t waver. He doesn’t threaten to get rid of me.

They used to always threaten to kick me out of the orphanage, but he hasn’t said that once. Not even when I almost got him shot. This man loves me in a way that is completely new to me.

So he could tell me he was angry at me for years at a time, and I would not believe that anger was his primary feeling when he looked at me like this. There is passion and fire in him that makes my blood charge with desire.

“Unbelievable,” he says, pulling the bloodstained shirt from his skin over his head and dropping it on the floor.

He finishes stripping, yanks his shirt off me, and steps into the shower, dragging me with him.

“You make messes, you should help clean them up,” he says, handing me soap and a cloth.

I blush a little, because suddenly this feels very vulnerable in ways I’m not used to, but I set to my task because touching him is not a hardship. Exploring his body with the soapy cloth, helping the muck of death slide down the drain feels very intimate to me.

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