Awakened by the Wolf (16 page)

“Do you believe it exists?” Cassie flicked her loose curls over her shoulder, then pulled his sore leg onto her lap. She pushed up his pant leg and began a slow, gentle massage.

“I've seen how the bond works between my parents. Rafe and Lexi were bonded, too.”

“He's so lost without her.” Cassie's voice squeaked. “I can't imagine someone loving me that much.”

“I can, if you'll let me.”

Cassie's back stiffened. “I'd prefer if you kept me out of your wolfy courtship rituals.”

In the early stages, a mate-bond could be rejected by either party. If that happened, Cassie would never find another man who would love her as completely as Brice when fully bonded. And he would spend the rest of his life mourning her loss.

Fighting against utter desperation, Brice peered into the black expanse of the night sky and, with all his being, wished on the twinkling stars that he and Cassie wouldn't suffer that fate.

Chapter 24

S
urrounded by bloody feathers and mutilated chickens wasn't how Brice had planned to spend the morning after last night's confessions to Cassie.

At breakfast, he couldn't have been happier with the aroma of bacon and pancakes, butter and syrup. He even detected the fragrance of Cassie's hot tea and the milk he guided her to pour into his coffee.

As much as he loved those smells, he was most grateful for the scent of Cassie's desire when they'd kissed. Leaving her had been damn near painful.

This morning, she opened herself to him. Brice saw it in the way she looked at him, felt it in the way she touched him. He wouldn't have taken things as far as he did if he hadn't sensed her readiness.

Now, instead of making love to Cassie, Brice stood in the midst of a massacre inside Mary-Jane McAllister's farmyard, suffocated by the stench of death. Sickened by the brutal carnage, Brice's stomach churned mercilessly. Maybe wolfing down those pancakes before he'd left wasn't such a good idea.

“Why would someone do this?” He studied his father, who seemed to stomach the slaughter much better than Brice.

“Maybe some wolflings came for Cybil and decided to have a go with the chickens instead.” Gavin swiped the back of his hand across his nose. “This is why I always told you and Rafe to be mindful of your pranks.”

Brice refused to believe that any of the Walker's Run wolflings were responsible. “Where is Cybil?” he asked, alarmed by her empty pen.

“In the house,” his father replied. “Mary-Jane spent last night with her cousin in Blairsville. She locked Cybil inside so she wouldn't get loose and roam the woods.”

Mary-Jane loved that pig like a child. Brice couldn't imagine how heartbroken she would've been if something had happened to Cybil.

“When Mary-Jane came home to this mess, she called Cooter. He's with her now,” Gavin said.

Noting the gouges in the dirt made during the frenzied attack, Brice limped to the coop that until last night had been a haven for Mary-Jane's chickens. Half of her stock never made it out of their pen.

Inside, the stink was twice as concentrated as the smell in the yard. Turning to leave, Brice caught wind of a faint, sour odor.

He stood in the middle of the coop, hoping to isolate the scent.

After a few seconds, beads of sweat broke out across his skin. The uncomfortable prickle in the pit of his stomach rushed into his throat. He made it outside and around the corner of the coop before his hands and knees hit the ground, followed by his partially digested breakfast. Even after his stomach emptied, he continued to heave.

“Easy, son.” Adam gripped Brice's shoulder.

“Don't touch me,” Brice snarled. “And I'm not your son.”

Adam removed his hand.

“What are you doing here?” Brice spat out remnants of bile.

“Abby told me what happened. I knew Gavin would drag you here.”

Brice rolled from his hands-and-knees posture to a seated position and leaned against the chicken coop.

“Go back to the resort, Adam.” Gavin knelt beside Brice. “You aren't needed here.”

“He isn't ready for this, Gavin. You push too hard, too fast. Let me take Brice with me.”

“Never again, Adam.” Gavin's tone held a definite finality that Brice appreciated.

Adam hesitated, his eyes fixed on Brice.

“I don't need you, Adam. Tell Mom I'm okay.”

Adam nodded. His shoulders sagged, and for the first time, Brice thought his uncle looked old and haggard. He trudged toward his car, the driver's door wide open, the engine still running.

Irrational, bordering on idiocy, a little piece of Brice's heart hurt for Adam. His uncle loved him to a fault but his betrayal, no matter how well-intended, was too new to forgive.

Gavin clenched the scruff of Brice's neck and Brice tensed. A grown wolfan upchucking at the sight of a feeding frenzy signaled a weak stomach and a lack of self-control.

“Easy, son.” Gavin's thumb slipped beneath Brice's hair to the secret patch of blond. He applied a gentle pressure, massaging slow circles into Brice's scalp.

The gentle gesture soothed and confused Brice. His father had never coddled or comforted him. He'd never had the time.

The contractions in Brice's stomach eased.

Gavin offered him a frazzled cotton handkerchief with threadbare embroidery that once declared Best Dad Ever.

A different kind nausea rocked Brice.

Mason had taught him how to draw those letters. Afterward, Granny helped Brice stitch the words so the sentiment wouldn't wash off in the laundry. He had been so excited to give the handmade present to his dad on Father's Day.

And utterly devastated when Gavin tossed the unopened box into a drawer and rushed off without so much as a thank-you.

“No, thanks.” Brice used his shirtsleeve to swipe the sweat from his face.

“I've carried this in my pocket for almost twenty-five years.” Gavin fingered the frayed letters. “It's the best gift I ever received.”

Those words would've put a four-year-old on the moon. A lifetime of shuns and slights kept Brice grounded. Since he hadn't signed his name to the present, Brice assumed his father had forgotten which son had given him the gift.

A forest-green SUV flashing the emergency lights embedded in the grill pulled to stop behind his father's black truck. Tristan stepped out and walked the maze of dead fowl. “What a damn shame.”

“Find who did this,” Gavin said to Tristan, then offered Brice a hand up, which he grudgingly accepted.

“Dad believes our wolflings are involved.” Brice dusted the dirt from his jeans.

Tristan scratched his head just above his ear. “We have a few pranksters in the pack. None with a vicious streak, though.”

“What about Vincent Hadler?” A worry knot tightened in Brice's gut. “Considering his reputation, it isn't hard to imagine him doing this.”

“Never had problems with him before.” Tristan squatted next to a patch of mud in front of the chicken coop and inspected a small depression. “But, I broke up an argument between him and Shane last night at Taylor's.”

Hadler was at Taylor's last night?

Brice's gut began gnawing at him. When Hadler had harassed Cassie at the resort, Brice had detected a sour odor. Later, he'd tracked a similar scent around the cabin. Last night, he smelled it again in Cassie's hair.

Doc had warned of the likelihood that Brice would experience a confusion of scents for a while. Each time he'd encountered the odor, his emotions were running high. He hope it was a coincidence because if he discovered Hadler was stalking Cassie, Brice wouldn't hesitate to put an end to it, permanently.

Chapter 25

“I
t's a shame to call these Georgia peaches,” Cassie muttered to no one in particular. Disgusted, she walked past the arrogantly labeled fruit. Bland in color and lacking the trademark fuzz, the state fruit looked no better than the last batch, which was why Cassie had baked Rafe a cherry pie rather than his favorite, peach cobbler.

This morning, she'd hoped he would change the clunker's oil while she picked up a few items from the market and helped Brice pick out his grandmother's memorial flowers at the florist across the street. However, Rafe had greeted her at the R&L with bloodshot eyes, a rough beard and uncombed hair. In no shape to work today, he said if she stopped by after class tomorrow he would complete the oil change before she had to be at work.

Cassie wouldn't have minded postponing the service another week, but Rafe insisted it had been too long since the last automotive checkup. Because of the car's age, he didn't want to delay service longer than necessary.

She strolled down the produce aisle. Blackberries occupied the space where the cherries had been last week. They didn't look any better than the peaches. On her small budget, she refused to pay the outrageous price for the blueberries.

Tapping her nail against the plastic handle of the shopping basket, Cassie dismissed the notion to purchase a can of pie filing. Imogene had thumbed her nose at that particular convenience and taught her daughter to do the same.

Cassie's heart smiled. The good recollections of her mother were rare and all involved the kitchen. Those memories were a radiant shield against the fallout from her mother's reputation.

Imogene had shacked up with any man who'd take them in.
Sugar daddies
, she called them, although Cassie saw nothing sweet or fatherly about them. All of them had used her mother. Then again, Imogene used them. For food. Shelter. And whatever else mother and daughter needed.

The irony of Cassie's current situation wasn't lost on her. Neither were the lessons she'd learned from her mother's mistakes. A man couldn't give her a better life, but he sure could wreck it.

Regardless of the undeniable attraction between them, Cassie would not sleep with Brice.

Okay—technically, they slept in the same bed. However, they wouldn't have sex. And she would not fall in love.

Their breakfast make-out session had nothing to do with magic bonds or soul mates or destiny, and everything to do with hormones. Hormones she could handle. She just needed to keep an iron grip on reality.

Cassie stopped at the apple bin. Margaret loved her apple strudel.

Remorse heated Cassie's throat. She should have called Margaret Granny, at least once. The opportunity had passed, and there would be no more.

Cassie adjusted the basket in her hands. Wallowing in regret made for a miserable life. Another lesson learned from Imogene.

Cassie picked through the apples for those bright green in color with a tart, mouth-watering smell and just beginning to soften. Careful not to bruise the fruit, she placed eight in her basket.

At the checkout, two women stepped in line behind her. Cassie guessed they were close to her age, but their vivacious energy made her feel dowdy and old.

Through the storefront window, Cassie watched a black truck park next to her beat-up clunker in front of The Flower Stop on the other side of the town square park. A few seconds later, Brice climbed out, then leaned back inside the cab.

“Mmm, mmm,” one of the girls behind Cassie hummed. “He has a fine ass.”

I know how fine his ass looks without pants.

Cassie squelched her grin before she got herself in trouble.

Brice closed the truck door and looked across the park, seemingly through the market's storefront window and straight into Cassie's eyes.

“That better be my ass you're thinking about, Sunshine.”

Crisp and clear, Brice's voice tickled her ear. Confused, she nonchalantly scanned the store to see who'd actually said what she heard. There wasn't a man in sight, at least not inside the store.

Annoyed with her imagination, she flipped through the latest edition of
Monstahz
magazine to an article on the sightings of Big Foot in the Everglades. Yikes! Not that Cassie believed in Big Foot; however, a few days ago she hadn't believed in werewolves, either. She shoved the magazine into the rack and stepped forward as the customer ahead of her finished.

“Oh, here he comes,” the girls behind her gushed.

Against her good sense, Cassie watched Mr. Tall, Dark and Handsome as Sin limp across the grassy square. Her heart fluttered the same funny little trill that first appeared when she hovered at the threshold of Brice's hospital room and recurred every time she saw him.

He waited at the curb for a car to pass on the one-way street. Cassie met his gaze through the window and offered a weak shrug. Something warm wrapped around her shoulders, and her neck tickled. She stopped herself from flicking away the fabricated sensation, afraid that the action would give credence to her ridiculous imagination.

“You're beautiful, Sunshine.”

The tips of Cassie's ears heated as hot as her cheeks. Jeez, if she fantasized about Brice calling her beautiful after nearly a week, what would happen to her brain after a month or two?

Placing her items on the checkout conveyor, she wondered if the hallucination might be a manifestation of the bond Brice mentioned. Excitement rushed through her head to toe. For all of three seconds before common sense flushed it out.

Brice drank two beers last night. Nothing he said afterward was trustworthy. Imogene made many promises when she drank. None came to fruition. Ever.

Cassie paid the cashier. Meager basket in hand, she walked outside, head held high and heart mopping the floor.

Brice stepped onto the sidewalk. Cassie's stride faltered beneath the turmoil in his eyes. “What's wrong?”

He gathered her in his arms, pressing intimately into her. His warmth soaked into her essence, and she was too indulgent to push him away.

“Someone killed Mary-Jane McAllister's chickens last night. Her farmyard is a mess,” he said in a soft heave.

“Is she okay?” Cassie bought eggs from Mary-Jane. Poor woman fussed over her chicks like a mother hen.

“Shocked, mostly.” Brice stroked his thumbs across Cassie's cheeks. “We think Wahyas are responsible. I doubt it's anyone from our pack, but we have a lot of wolfan visitors here for Granny's memorial.”

A tremor of unease ran through Cassie's body. Hadn't he told her wolf people were civilized?

He pulled a cell phone from his back pocket. “I got this for you.”

“I don't have anyone to call.”

“Me, Cas. Call me.” Brice smacked the device into her palm.

“This isn't necessary,” Cassie began. Brice's fingers fastened around her hand, his jaw frozen in a stubborn clench. “But if you insist.” She dropped the phone into her purse.

“I do.” Brice slung his arm over her shoulder. “And until we find the culprit who raided Mary-Jane's chickens, I don't want you out alone at night.”

They strolled leisurely toward the florist. When Brice opened the door, Cassie expected the heady scents of fresh-cut flowers. Perhaps Brice didn't. He sneezed several times. His eyes glazed, and he looked a little peaked.

Cassie touched his face, allowing him to rub his nose against her wrist.

“Good afternoon,” Alethea Duncan, the florist, greeted them. “I'm sorry for your loss, Brice.”

“Thank you.” His grip on Cassie's shoulder tightened, and she stroked his hand until he relaxed.

“Please make yourselves comfortable.” Alethea walked them to a table. She opened one of four large three-ring binders. “I'll give you a few moments to look at the selections. Let me know if you have any questions.”

* * *

Brice's cottony mouth made it hard to speak. His heart beat out of rhythm, and he had a feeling of no longer being in his body. Only the heat from Cassie's hand resting on his thigh kept him anchored.

“Take a deep breath.” She brushed his hair from his damp brow.

Brice struggled to follow her instruction.

“Now let it out, slowly.”

He tried, but his breath came out in a rush.

Wouldn't his father be proud? His heir to the Alphaship not only barfed at the sight of blood but also fainted, or soon would, inside a fucking flower shop.

Cassie tapped his face. “You can do this.”

God, he was thankful she had come along. Her touch, her scent, her very presence soothed him.

“Breathe in.” She demonstrated. “Breathe out.”

Brice exhaled when she did.

“Good. Do it again.”

Such a trooper. He loved that about her. After a few more attempts, the probability of him collapsing on the floor passed.

Leafing through the selections, Brice linked his fingers with Cassie's. What did he know about flowers or what would be appropriate for a grandson to order for his grandmother's memorial? He didn't want to pick out the wrong thing.

“What is this?” He pointed at colorless buds woven together in a floral carpet.

“A white rose funeral spray.” Alethea appeared behind them. “It's placed on top of the casket during the service, then laid on the ground at the burial.”

“No, no. That won't do.” Brice wiped the perspiration from his forehead on his sleeve.

“Can I get either of you something to drink? Coffee? A soda?”

A bottle of bourbon would be nice.

Cassie frowned in the most disapproving way.

“No. Thanks.” Brice slapped the last book closed. “May I look at these?” He grabbed two more binders from the shelves above the table.

“He needs more time,” Cassie said to Alethea. “I'll let you know when he's ready.”

Brice thumbed the pages. Why hadn't he thought to buy Granny flowers before she died? Why was he expected to give them to her now that she couldn't enjoy them?

“These won't do.” He shoved the books away. Some tumbled to the floor. His elbows on the table, he pressed his forehead into his palms. “What kind of grandson am I? I can't even pick out the right flowers, for chrissakes.”

“Margaret thought the world of you,” Cassie whispered in his ear. “That's the kind of grandson you are. Forget those books. What kind of flowers would you give her right now if you could?”

Brice remembered the armful of bright-colored blossoms he'd picked from a meadow for her birthday when he was six. Granny said she loved the bouquet more than all of her other presents.

“Wildflowers.” He lifted his head.

Cassie motioned for Alethea. “Do you have wildflowers?”

“Yes, I have plenty of those. It's the roses and lilies that are running low.”

“I want your largest bouquet of wildflowers,” Brice said, his heart lighter than when he walked into the florist shop.

“Are you sure you want those for the funeral service?” Alethea's concerned expression made Brice uncertain about his decision.

Cassie's smile chased away his doubts.

“Granny would've loved them,” he told Alethea. “Can you deliver them to the church before the service on Saturday?”

“Of course.” Alethea scribbled on her order pad.

As he paid for the arrangement, Alethea handed him a card to sign. He couldn't fathom why Granny needed a card when she wasn't alive to read it. But she couldn't smell the flowers, either. Grabbing a pen, Brice wrote:

Granny, you are in our hearts forever.

Love, Brice and Cassie

He escorted Cassie to her car, cursing each step that would separate them for the remainder of the afternoon. He brushed the loose strands of her hair behind her ear. The innocent touch caused his fingertips to tingle. “I'm glad you came.”

“Happy to help. Have a nice lunch at Mabel's with Mr. Krussen and Mr. Bartolomew.” Cassie turned her face from him. She was blocking the mate-bond, again.

He wasn't worried. He knew she heard his thoughts at the market. Although she didn't respond telepathically, she had looked around the store as soon as his thoughts transferred and hid behind a magazine after his compliment. For now, he needed to be patient. Allow her to accept what was happening at her own pace, and give himself time to adjust to it, as well. This was a new experience for them, and there was no need to rush.