Page 12 of Wolfgang

“Get the fuckoffme.”

“I—” The guy seemed at war with himself, leaning in toward Eric one moment and moving back harshly the next. Eric tried to shake out of his grip, and the man fuckinggrowledat him.

Eric wriggled with more purpose. “Did you just growl like a fucking jungle cat?”

“Ours,” the masseur bit out in response.

Eric paused in his struggles, thrown off by the odd statement. “Excuse me?”

“Ours,” he repeated, his voice no longer refined but harsh and guttural. “MINE.”

The man tugged him closer, Eric’s scalp stinging as he gripped his hair. Eric couldn’t be sure, but he thought he heard a whispered, “Forgive me,” before that sharp biting pain ran through him again. It didn’t last long though. The pain. Pleasure followed in a rush after, lighting up Eric’s nerve endings like a goddamn Christmas tree.

Was Eric really so fucked up that even being bitten by a weird, demonic massage therapist turned him on? Maybe he needed to make a therapy appointment next.

And then the man was drinking his blood, Eric was pretty sure, judging by the gulping sounds and the fact that he was losing both strength and consciousness fast.

His last thought before something warm was dribbled into his mouth and his veins caught on what felt like actual, literal fire was,This massage wasn’t as relaxing as I thought it would be.

four

Wolfe

Thiswasnothowit was supposed to go.

Wolfe had only wanted a little taste of connection, a chance to meet his future mate in a low-risk environment, get his eyes and hands on him properly, most likely compel him to forgetfulness afterward.

And it had started out just as he’d intended. It had been easy enough to compel the masseuse into taking an unexpected day off, then to compel the front desk girl into thinking him a replacement for the day.

It had all been a bit of fun, a way to pass the time until he could come up with a proper courting strategy. It wasn’t that hecouldn’tstay away from the delicious human—that sort of helplessness would be absurdly out of character—it was just he didn’t want to. And why should he? Why should he resist such a choice opportunity to feel out fate’s intended match for him? And his beast had been all for it—any excuse to be close to their mate.

And then, with his handsome, muscular human under his hands, so responsive to Wolfe’s touch, to his very scent, he hadn’t been able to resist a different sort of taste. The doctor had refused his sexual advances; that was fine. But his beast had wanted a little sip.Blood of our mate, it had urged.Bound to be sweet. So sweet.And really, Wolfe had been just as eager. They’d have a little drink, compel the doctor to forget, and plan their next move.

All part of the chase. Part of the fun.

But now here he was, wrestling his damned beast for control.

Stop drinking, he ordered in his head, his mouth too full of blood to speak.You’re draining him.

But the stubborn creature wouldn’t cooperate, just kept filling their mouth over and over with the rich, coppery blood of their intended mate. Their hands were on the smooth skin of their mate’s broad, muscular shoulders, holding him in place now that his body had gone slack.

This had never happened before, this loss of control. First, the wretched thing wouldn’t compel the doctor properly—and never since his earliest days as a vampire had Wolfe ever failed at compulsion—letting him panic and struggle needlessly. And now it wouldn’t stop drinking.

Ours, it kept repeating, the mantra ringing through Wolfe’s skull like a bell.Our mate. We’ll have him.

Wolfe had always thought, if it came down to it,hewould have the ultimate control over their body. He was the one with the restraint, the resolve, the humanity (however pared down his personal version of humanity may have been). But he’d never had to test it. Not really. He and his beast were usually in harmony. They both enjoyed a bit of bloodshed, the thrill of the chase, but the beast usually listened—even if it didn’t agree—to Wolfe’s insistence on discretion.

But now it wouldn’t stopdrinking. Wolfe could smell the first real frissons of fear coming from their mate—Dr. Monroe had been more confused than properly afraid before—now that he was losing consciousness fast.

You’re going to kill him.

Going to turn him, the beast countered.

And what else could Wolfe do but agree? It was too late to take any of it back, even if he had wanted to (and did he really want to?).

He lifted his head from their mate’s neck—his beast allowed it now that it could sense his capitulation, of course—and bit into his own wrist, dribbling the blood into the doctor’s slack mouth. He held the human tight as he began whimpering with the pain.

“Shh,” Wolfe soothed. “Shh. It will be over soon.”

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