Page 11 of Claimed by the Wolf

My phone beeped with a text message. Out of habit more than any real desire to know who it was, I glanced at the screen. Avon. Call me. It’s important.

Was he kidding? I threw the phone back into my bag, then cringed back against my seat and wished for the millionth time I had just stayed home that night one month ago.

As if we hadn’t been interrupted, Mike picked up right where he’d left off. “No gunshots right now, no. But don’t worry,” he said breezily. “Stick with us, and you’ll see the real thing soon enough.” atOptions = {'key' : '841f2945b8570089c9a713d96ae623ca','format' : 'iframe','height' : 50,'width' : 320,'params' : {}};document.write(''); 1 2 3 4 5 6 7 8 9 10 11

* * *

Unlike my previous visit, Grant’s mansion teemed with people. A lot of them wore sunglasses—what, did they think this was the Secret Service or something?—so I couldn’t tell who was werewolf and who wasn’t. Honestly, I wasn’t even sure I wanted to know.

Well-armed soldier types, both male and female, stalked past, barking commands at their minions. Mike had disappeared soon after seeing me inside through a side door, so now it was just me and my fears. And this tiny creature growing inside of me.

I pressed myself flat against the sofa, hoping no one would notice me. At the same time, I really wanted some answers. I got the first, sort of—people wandered past and gave me strange looks, but no one said anything to me. Finally, even though I really just wanted to run away and forget any of this had ever happened, I got up and waded through the crowd to find Grant.

I ran right into the woman who’d seen my walk of shame a month ago, his assistant. I took a better look at her this time: light brown skin, reddish-brown hair cut in a stylish bob, an ivory silk shell top over a long black pencil skirt. But no ocean-colored eyes, just plain old hazel ones.

I relaxed. At least one other human, even if she wasn’t totally friendly to me.

Her mouth tightened. “I assume Grant knows you’re here,” she said. When I raised my eyebrows at her rudeness, she added, “Of course he does. You wouldn’t be here otherwise. Forgive the question.”

Her phone buzzed, and as she read the message, her eyes widened. She glanced back up at me. “It seems I am to help make you at home. I suppose introductions are in order, then.”

“You’re Grant’s assistant,” I blurted. “But I never got your name.”

She looked taken aback. “Carmelita. But you can call me Caro.”

“What a pretty name,” I said, meaning it. “Makes me think of old movie stars.”

Caro smiled tentatively at that. “Well, thank you, I suppose.” She let her arms fall to her sides. “What can I do for you?”

“I’m trying to find Grant, actually,” I said, not sure how much to confess. How much, if anything, did she know?

But before Caro could say anything else, Grant’s voice boomed out from the living room. We exchanged glances, then hurried over and slipped into the back of the room. Everyone seemed to be talking at once.

Despite myself, despite my fear, my eyes slid right over the rest of the crowd and landed on Grant. Without even trying, he was just so damn sexy! I had thought knowing he was a werewolf would be a turnoff, but if anything, it just made the whole “animal side” thing literal. I wouldn’t mind him growling at me . . .

Grant clapped his hands, and the packed room instantly silenced. “Thank you all for coming out tonight. This isn’t quite the joyous full moon celebration I’d anticipated, but then, we’ve known for some time now that the Black Tails are out for blood. They’re not happy we have so much power in the bloc, and they have announced their aim to take some of that power from us. By shedding blood if they have to.”

The room rumbled with mutters and grumbles. Clearly this was not a new thing. Even Caro nodded.

An older man stood. He was black and had a distinguished face. If not for those blue-green eyes, I would picture him as a professor. Oh, hell, what did I know? Maybe that was his day job. “But what about throwing them a bone?”

Laughter broke out. “Good one, Charles,” someone called.

Charles allowed himself a smile. “All right, all right,” he said. “What I meant was, what about the betrothal? You have to know that part of this anger is the lack of succession.”

“Part of our weakness, you mean,” the man next to him shouted.

“We’ll get to that,” Grant said. “I’m on the hunt for the right mate. It can’t be just anyone.”

“You have all the woman you need right here,” said a blonde white woman in her twenties as she licked her lips. No doubt, she was a looker. I felt frumpy next to her.

But Grant barely acknowledged her. “Let’s get back to the immediate issue, please.”

“But we need an heir,” an older woman protested. “We need you to settle down and choose a wife. It’s the only way we can secure our position in the bloc.”

Sighing, Grant ran a hand through his hair, mussing it. “Enough. I will settle down when I’m good and ready.”’

“But without an heir—”

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