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  The walls had obviously been patched up many times, but there were no obvious markings from claws, no blood smeared on the floor or walls. Too much blood was spilled each month from the werewolves trying to free themselves from their chains.

  Sebastian, Cael and Alex waited at the far end of the room. Alex paced, with Sebastian glaring at him irritably, but Cael stood eerily still, his eyes following Heath and Raphael’s entrance.

  “Well, everyone’s here.” Heath shot Sebastian a pointed look.

  Alex rubbed his hands together, his rings clack-ing against each other ominously. “Let’s start with Jeremiah’s involvement in human trafficking. Now that’s someone I want to judiciously determine my fate. Don’t you guys think so?”

  Jeremiah’s job wasn’t only to report their wrongdoings to the Elders, it was also to report their progress in rehabilitating into valuable members of another werewolf pack. Without Jeremiah’s word, none of them would ever be freed. Heath had been here even longer than Raphael, and they had been the only two in the clan prohibitum for fifty years before Alexandre’s arrival, two hundred years before their relocation from France to New Orleans.

  From what Raphael knew, no one had ever been freed from this clan. At least, not with Jeremiah as lupus dux.

  “No, but our word means nothing,” Sebastian said. “We can’t do anything about Jeremiah.”

  Which was why Raphael and Heath’s fates were sealed.

  “We can still do something about the botos and human women they’re hurting,” Raphael said.

  Alexandre looked at him in disbelief. “Even with all of us fully armed, with Jeremiah on their side there’s no way we can beat them. Not to mention we’d have to kill humans in order to get to them.”

  Heath looked at Raphael, understanding dawning. “Jeremiah said the weres won’t get involved unless one of our females is kidnapped,” he said. “If that happened, this city would be crawling with free weres trying to get her back.”

  “No,” Cael spat. He smoothed the rolled-up sleeves of his button-down. “We don’t know what they’d do to her. I won’t be responsible for another woman being hurt.”

  “I’m with him.” Alexandre’s mouth was drawn down, his eyes narrowed. “I don’t see how putting one of our women in harm’s way will help anything. Extend our sentences, probably—”

  “Our sentences are never-ending!” Heath shouted, kicking a mini-fridge. It spun across the room, ripping the cord from its socket before slamming against the wall. “Don’t you see? I’ve been here for almost six hundred years, and do you know what for? I challenged the alpha of my pack, but I didn’t kill him. Does that sound worthy of six hundred years to you?”

  No one spoke. As far as Raphael knew, none of them ever talked about what they’d done to merit the New Orleans clan. They were the only wolf pack here—others steered clear, thought them too dangerous for their young to be around.

  Maybe they were wrong. Raphael might be the only one of them who still deserved to be here.

  He’d known Heath’s story for a few centuries. Heath was also the only person who knew he’d sentenced himself and why. “You were brainwashed,” had been Heath’s response. “If it hadn’t been you, Hans would have found someone else to do the same thing. Only he may have convinced them to torture women and children.”

  “You shouldn’t be here, and neither should I.”

  Hans had tried to bring a woman or a child to Raphael more than a few times, arguing that they could also be converted to werewolves. After all, most witches were women. Raphael had so hated disappointing the man who’d treated him as a father would, praising him, criticizing him when necessary, feeding and clothing him. But he’d never considered doing as Hans asked. If only he’d looked beyond his seldom refusals, he would have seen that everything he’d been told to do was wrong. So wrong.

  Raphael’s only solace, his ray of light in a storm of guilt, was his refusal to harm, or even interrogate, women or children.

  “We would tell this woman exactly what botos are, what they do,” Raphael said. “She will know everything we know. I don’t want her harmed—as soon as we’re sure they have her, we’ll alert her pack. They’ll get her back within hours, and help us end the botos.”

  And I die knowing I helped, rather than harmed. The thought was supremely satisfying, but it wasn’t enough.

  Mary. If he died after having Mary, bringing her joy and saving those women, he would die happy. It was far more than what was due him, but he would have it all anyway. I’ll make Mary proud to have been with me.

  “No pack would just allow those things to continue,” Alex muttered. “But would a woman put herself in that position?”

  “We can’t let her. There’s no woman strong enough for this,” Cael growled.

  “Oh, there is.” Sebastian ran a hand through his hair, making it stick up even more than normal. “I know the woman who’d want to do this. She could probably make the botos cry if she wanted,” he said under his breath. He pointed a finger at Raphael, then Heath. “But if she is hurt in any way, I will take it out of your hides. And then I’ll let her do the same.”

  “Agreed,” Heath said.

  Raphael nodded shortly. “Who is she?” he asked.

  Sebastian cursed. “My twin sister, Sophia.”

  Cael turned to Sebastian, his face twisted into a grimace, his eyes slits. “You deserve whatever hell you’ll find yourself in, my brother,” he snarled. He roared, his claws coming free, before he stomped from the room.

  “I wonder why he’s been exiled,” Alex said lightly.

  “Can Sophia hold her own? Does she know self-defense?” Raphael asked.

  Sebastian barked out a sardonic laugh. “She grew up with me, kicked my hairy ass half the time. Trust me, she’s exactly who we’d want.”

  Heath clapped Sebastian on the shoulder. “Then it’s settled. Contact her and let us know if she agrees to come.”

  As they left the garage, Alex caught Raphael’s eye. “This sucks,” he said.

  Raphael considered his friend, Alex had always been the most even-tempered of the group, the one who’d tried to bring everyone together with humor. He probably shouldn’t be here. “You have no idea,” he said. Alex cocked his head in confusion, but Raphael strode past him, unwilling to waste a second he could be spending with Mary.

  He found her in his room, sitting cross-legged on the end of his bed with a tattered paperback in her hands. When she saw him she smiled welcomingly, marking her place with a frayed bookmark. “How did—whatever that was—go?” she asked.

  “Well,” he said truthfully. They finally had a solution for the boto problem. Not that Raphael would allow the free pack to do all the work. He wanted to kill Richard himself.

  “What’s this?” He lifted the book, which had a pair of headphones on the cover. “A music book? Do you write music?” He imagined Mary could do anything.

  She laughed, shaking her head. “It involves music, but it’s really about family and growing up, overcoming obstacles thrown into our lives.” Rising, she placed the book in her drawer. “I’ve read it over and over again since Mom and Dad died. It helps.” Despite her words, she didn’t seem sad. Mary was confident as she stood before him, one hand on her hip as she assessed the man perching on her bed.

  “If not music, then what?” Raphael asked curiously.

  “I used to paint,” Mary said wistfully. The corners of her lips tilted up. “I’ll paint again, someday.”

  Someday would be soon, once Raphael bought her supplies. If it made her happy, she shouldn’t have to wait.

  Mary moved to stand in front of him. “Don’t feel like you have to turn away,” she said. It was her only warning before she took off her shirt, allowing the thin material to float to the floor. It took longer to peel the jeans from her shapely legs. In only a plain white bra and a pair of barely-there underwear covered in small strawberries, she climbed under the sheets of his bed. Her delicate hand patted the space nex
t to her.

  Raphael didn’t need a second invitation. Too impatient even to take off his own clothes, he slid in beside her, molding her warm body against his. They fit together like pieces to a puzzle. Mine.

  “You said I needed rest,” she murmured, her body completely relaxed against his. She’d given him her complete trust, again. “Will you sing me to sleep?”

  Raphael sang the Estonian lullaby as he held her, reveling in her forgiveness, healing and acceptance. She’d been through hell, and she wanted Raphael to sing to her. She trusted him to protect her while she slept. She was his, and he would give every part of himself to her. He felt light. This moment, knowing Mary was smiling without seeing her, knowing she would share her bed with him this night and all the others until his death, was the happiest of Raphael’s life.

  For the first time, he fell asleep with a woman in his arms. He would never willingly let this woman go.

  * * * *

  Mary woke to a warm body curled around her. It was the same feeling she’d had sitting in Raphael’s lap—she was ridiculously comfortable, mattress commercial comfortable. If she could sell whatever it was about Raphael that caused her to relax, to finally rest her head, she would be an instant millionaire.

  She squirmed in his arms, just to see what he’d do. Raphael grumbled under his breath in his sleep, the bands around her tightening protectively. She sighed, contented, deciding to give him this battle.

  Yesterday, she’d been crushed by his words, but when he’d tracked her down, she could see his remorse. It physically weighed him down, as if it sat upon his shoulders. She didn’t want to be the cause of such pain to anyone, and especially not Raphael. Besides, it was obvious there was something else at play, something that absolutely infuriated him. She had no idea what it was, but she hoped he would tell her.

  They were running out of time. Mary didn’t fully understand why, but she couldn’t pretend to be an expert on werewolves and their rules. For all she knew, werewolf packs banned human-were relationships. Still, she wanted to know what angered him yesterday. He’d done so much for her, for Leila—she would help him through this, no matter what it was.

  She turned around to watch him as he slept. It felt slightly creepy, but she couldn’t help herself. The man who, out of all the werewolves in their pack, looked the most dangerous, with his rippling muscles and general darkness, literally and figuratively, was cute when he slept. His long, curling lashes fanned at the tops of his cheeks. Stubble shadowed his jaw. He wasn’t tense or wary, but peaceful. She’d never seen him so at peace while awake. Maybe I can change that.

  Raphael blinked his black eyes open, frowned at her, and pulled her tightly against his chest. “You’re supposed to be resting, ülikena,” he mumbled.

  She laughed. “I think I’ve rested as much as my body will let me.”

  His huge hands ran up her arms, resting on her shoulders. He opened his eyes fully. She felt like she could lose herself in their opaque depths. Maybe she already had.

  As he awakened, his body became more and more rigid, tension showing around his mouth, tendons jumping at his neck.

  “Let’s see your injury,” he said gruffly. Mary pulled down the sheets, again revealing her underwear-clad body, as well as the cut on her thigh that had completely healed, thanks to Aiyanna tending to it a second time. Her gris-gris didn’t extend to aesthetics, however—there was a jagged, puckered scar where the cut had been. It was objectively hideous, but Mary didn’t care too much. It no longer hurt her; she had nothing to complain about. She was grateful Aiyanna had extended the energy to finish healing her.

  He looked at the mark, intensity flaring in his eyes.

  “I know it looks ugly.” She tried to cover it with her hand. “But now I can shower without hurting myself,” she said lightly.

  He only looked at her, his expression unreadable.

  “I’m just glad to be healed,” she continued.

  Raphael shook his head, strands of black falling around his face. “There is nothing about you that isn’t beautiful.” Conviction laced his every word.

  Mary smiled. “You really mean that.” She wove her fingers through his hair and gently pulled her face to his. “I’m going to kiss you. I’m not asking if I can.”

  Her lips met his, and for a long moment, Raphael did nothing. Then he growled, his lips softening, mouth opening, his tongue seeking hers. She caressed his face as she nibbled his lip. Raphael groaned against her lips, his hands curling into fists at her waist.

  She kissed him harder, grabbing his wrists and placing them on her breasts. “Yes,” she whispered. “You can touch me whenever you like, however you like, for as long as you’ll have me.”

  Raphael looked like he wanted to respond, his mouth opening and closing, but instead he pressed his face against one breast, and then another. “So soft,” he said wondrously.

  He kissed every inch of them, kneaded them gently. He hissed in displeasure when she leaned away from him. “I’m taking my bra off.” She laughed.

  Gazing at her breasts like they were precious, Raphael palmed them softly as if afraid she would cover them back up. His tenderness brought tears to her eyes. “Kiss me again,” she implored.

  He did, taking her mouth in a kiss so passionate, he couldn’t possibly want to leave soon. She ran her hand up and down his T-shirt-covered chest and torso, finding herself sinking her fingers into the chiseled grooves of his abs. This was a body she wanted to explore in-depth.

  Too soon he broke away, placing unnecessary distance between them. “There are things I have to do,” he said raggedly, vaguely. Mary hoped it was as hard for him to stop as it was for her. She was nowhere near ready to be separated from his body. She positively ached for his touch.

  Raphael stood. The hand he held out to her shook. She was glad. He helped her rise before he changed into a clean set of clothes. His erection stood proudly under his shorts until Raphael adjusted himself, shooting her a half-amused, half-accusing look that did nothing but feed the fire inside her. She barely kept her hands to herself as he strapped a covered machete to his back.

  Raphael marched to the door and turned, cursing, before sweeping Mary to him and crushing her mouth against his. For a long moment they kissed, his tongue dancing with hers. When he pulled away, Mary so badly wanted to ask him what he was about to do, if she could help.

  The question died on her lips when he brought the palm of her hand up for a kiss. “We will continue this later,” he told her, his expression grave. It was a promise Mary prayed he would be able to keep.

  Mary couldn’t stop herself from saying, “Please be safe today…in whatever you’re doing.”

  For a moment, he looked as if he wanted to smile, his shoulders straightening. Instead, he kept his expression stern as he finally left the room, his “I will,” drifting back toward her.

  With Raphael gone, Mary decided to rinse the rest of the horrible dye from her hair, no matter how many washes it took. She needed a cold shower, anyway. Today she would make herself feel beautiful. She would buy herself a couple of new things, just like she used to, to boost her confidence. She could use some mascara and lip-gloss.

  It wasn’t for Raphael, but for her. He’d made it perfectly clear where he stood on how she looked, the truth of how he felt making her spirits soar. But after her time working for Richard, she needed to reevaluate her own image of herself. For too long she’d been afraid to feel beautiful.

  Now, she needed to. She wanted to make the best of her time with Raphael, and she wouldn’t allow herself to feel anything less than gorgeous with him. It was only fair, considering his incredible sex appeal. She was turning her life around. She wanted to be with a man for the first time since college. She knew she was taking a risk, being with this man for such a short time, knowing he would leave her.

  The thing was, there was no real choice for Mary. She wanted Raphael however she could get him. But will I ever want another man?

  At that partic
ular moment, she didn’t care.

  Chapter 7

  Jeremiah’s phone rang, and most of his callers didn’t react well when their calls went ignored. He didn’t mind. They paid him so handsomely that he’d have daily phone sex with his “clients” if they so desired. Money was money, after all.

  Jeremiah excused himself from his titillating conversation with Richard, the leader of the encantados who’d recently relocated to the largest mansion in Lakeview. As he waved away the two women assigned to him for the night, he laughed inwardly at the confusion in their eyes. The river shapeshifters really did a number on their women’s minds. It was pathetic, really, how weak humans were. He was genuinely surprised there were still so many of them—by now, he would have expected them to be closer to their inevitable extinction.

  On the third ring, he picked up. “Hey,” he said, careful to keep his voice pleasant.

  “Is it done?” the man demanded.

  Jeremiah sighed. “The Elders are being difficult—” A dissatisfied grunt on the other end. “—but I’ll make sure your problem is eliminated.”

  “You’d better.”

  The other man clicked off. Jeremiah stuffed his phone into his pocket and rejoined the party, more than one feminine hand slipping around his waist.

  His plan was taking longer than he’d anticipated, but eventually he would get what he wanted, what his “client” so desperately needed. He was a lupus dux—his word was law.

  * * * *

  Sebastian ignored the constant buzzing of his flip phone, turning up the ring volume on his other phone, the latest souped-up smartphone. He peered out the large bay window of his office, hovering over the brewhouse below. His clan technically owned the brewery, as it would go to Cael in the case where something happened to Sebastian. They needed an income, and outside help would never be given to them.

  Nothing seemed amiss—there were no fires, no unauthorized workers. Then why was his second-in-command, a witch named Harry, blowing up his work phone?