Page 41 of Feral

Sprite nodded, looking the lingerie over with a critical eye.

“I think this should do. I’ll make the adjustment on the other one too. They’ll be calibrated for you alone to not only fit you, but protect you as well.”

“How? You mentioned bullet proof but what else?”

“There’s a spell woven into each one of them. It will protect you against most artifacts. You’ll still probably get hurt, but you won’t die.”

I nodded, mouth suddenly dry. It foolishly hadn’t occurred to me to be worried about dying on this mission.

“Well, hello there,” Marcus said from somewhere in my apartment.

A familiar growly burr answered him and I gasped.

“Oh no, that’s Fraser. I’m not even packed or ready!”

“Relax, Marcus will explain everything.”

I nodded, still not sure Fraser would be understanding.

“Should I wear this all the time or…?”

“I just give you the stuff. Not my job to tell you that,” Sprite said abruptly, and walked out.

I stared at myself a little longer, wondering what I’d gotten myself into. I was no field agent; I was a researcher, a glorified librarian on most days. I belonged at a desk, pouring over old manuscripts, not being fitted for a bullet proof bustier!

It was getting hard to breath and tears fell in hot drops down my cheek. The mark on my shoulder began to throb and I ran my hand over it, clutching it for some reason, as if it were a life line.

A moment later there was a hard knock at my door.

“Lass, ya alright?” Fraser asked on the other side.

“Uh, yes! I’m-I’m fine! Just a little behind that’s all.”

“Well, don’t worry. Our train isn’t for another two hours.”

“Okay…great.”

I heard him walk away and closed my eyes.

I can do this. I can do this.

By the time I’d taken a quick shower, and packed my suitcase and largest tote with a week’s worth of clothes, toiletries, and research supplies, Fraser had been alone with Marcus and Sprite for nearly forty-five minutes. I worried there might nothing left of the two agents by the time I got out there, considering how taciturn Fraser could be.

Imagine my surprise when I walked into my living room to see Marcus laughing loudly, Sprite smirking into their coffee cup and Fraser standing there with the biggest grin I’d ever seen on the Werewolf. Of course, he had his glamour on so he looked like a tall, bearded Scotsman with a body that would have made teenage me lost for words.

And, really, before I’d seen his true form last night, I would’ve thought that nothing could top Fraser’s glamour. He was the fantasy of anyone remotely attracted to men.

But I found myself stifling a dual disappointment as I parked my suitcase in front of the front door. I wanted to see the real Fraser, the Werewolf with the strong arms and primal growl. And I wanted him to laugh as easily with me as he seemed to do with Marcus and Sprite.

When he saw me, his smile slipped a little, and it was like a knife to my chest. I reached up and absently rubbed the bite, as if that would sooth the ache his dislike of me caused. His gaze snagged on the movement, eyes flaring yellow for a moment and his jaw tightening before he turned away and focused on drinking his own cup of coffee.

“We understand you’ve got a train to catch,” Marcus said, “so we’ll make this quick.”

I nodded, pushing my complicated feelings about Fraser aside. This was my job, not a hook up, for Christ’s sake.

“These have been sanctioned by the director for your use,” Marcus pulled on some protective gloves and picked up a pair of sparring gloves. “Amanda Nunes’ training gloves. They’ll give you speed, strength and agility in a hand to hand situation. The draw backs are minimal but you may experience some…well, rage issues.”

I slipped the gloves into an artifact retrieval bag to keep them neutral until I needed them and put them in my tote bag.

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