Page 22 of Feral

“One of their own. Ya haven’t got any Weres on staff, have ya?”

“Not anymore I’m afraid.”

“One of their own you said?” Daphne asked.

Something told me I’d regret answering her, but I did it anyway.

“Aye.”

“Would a mate do?”

The air in the room thickened around me, and all I could see was this woman with her eyes as green as the hills. Her expression was so open, so innocent. She had no idea what she’d just proposed to me, what it could cost her.

But if she’s right, and the artifact is going to make things a lot worse, do I have a choice?

“Aye,” I said, my mouth dry. “But you need to slow down, lass. This isn’t just a matter of sayin’ it and it’s so. This would require somethin’ more.”

“What is that something more?” she asked, brows furrowing.

She was approaching this professionally, clinically even, and I could admire that. But just the thought of putting my mark on this woman had my insides burning. Mating bites were sacred, part of our culture dating back to when the Druids first created us. It was also dangerous between a Mundane and Werewolf. Sometimes, accidents happened. If a Werewolf was too rough, and allowed the rutting frenzy that usually followed to take over, the woman could be harmed.

I didn’t worry about the frenzy; that only happened between mates that had a true connection and I didn’t ken this lass. But the way she was affecting me could cause me to slip up, to let my primal side out a little too much. I could scare the shit out of her at the very least. Or worse.

Either I do this and she comes with to solve the problem, or I’m on my own. Och, this is a right mucked up situation. Damned either way.

I ran a hand through my hair and let out a long sigh.

“I would have to bite ya,” I said, not meeting her eye. “I can’t tell ya much about the bite, it’s a sacred thing to Werewolves. But I can say that my saliva would make ya smell like me, signalin’ to the other males that yer not free. It is seen as a sign of devotion, of belongin’. In days of old, only this was needed to be mated for life.”

“Oh,” she breathed. “That is…quite serious.”

“So you see, it’s not somethin’ to be entered into lightly.”

“Is it reversible?” she asked.

“Aye. Our witches have a way to remove the mark, though from what I understand, it’s not pleasant.”

“Ms. Reynolds, you don’t have to do anything you’re not comfortable with,” Director Dearborne said.

“Do you have anyone else that can do this?” she asked.

“No.”

“Well then,” Daphne took a deep breath, walked toward me and…

Bloody hell, she’s baring her throat to me.

A growl rolled out of me in spite of all my attempts to hold it back, and my body stirred in ways I hadn’t felt in a very long time. My hand went to her jaw, my calloused finger tips grazing her soft skin, dragging a gasp of surprise from her mouth. I wanted to seize her, haul her full body to mine and taste her. It would have been easy; after all, she was offering it to me without any hesitation. But it wasn’t right to do it here, in front of these people as if she meant nothing, as if she were just a tool to scratch a confusing itch.

“Naw, lass,” I ground out, gently putting my hand on her shoulder and pushing her away from me. “This isn’t some nip and we’re done. It’s not for public consumption.”

“Wait a minute, Mr. MacDonald,” Director Dearborn said. “You said a bite, not a fuck.”

“Don’t be crass,” I spat at her. “I would never take advantage. And even though we would be mated in the eyes of my clan, and I am fully within my rights to take the lass, I would never, ever do it. That’s not part of the deal, I swear to that.”

“But this is a sacred thing, correct?” Daphne asked.

“Aye.”

---