Gemma curled herself carefully back among the bedcovers, eyes unfocussed on her book as she listened for the click of front door closing behind her parents. There. Gone. A morning alone. Well, almost. Her 19 year-old brother Adam had been left on nominal nurturing duty downstairs, but he was on his PS3, so unless she really shouted, this counted as alone. As good as. Good enough.
Time to think. It wasn't that she hadn't needed, didn't appreciate all their care, but there was never time, space to think over -. It wasn't something she could bear her parents watching her think about. Or listen to her dream about. So she'd blocked it all out, to the best of her ability - and she was quite impressed, somewhere, internally, how good the mind actually was at blocking things out.
Initially it had been a huge relief, not remembering, not dwelling on it. It wasn't that she didn't know what had happened - she thought - but the black and yellow warning "not now - do not enter" mental tape she'd stuck over the memories had worked, had held - mostly. Now the barrier was fraying, and the images and questions that shot through when she was unprepared were driving her nuts. Had that really happened? If it weren't for the wound on her neck and the other sore or raw spots, she'd begin to think she'd just imagined it all. Let's face it, she must have imagined it.
Lurid, ludicrous imagination? You should be ashamed of yourself, girl, she thought. A light tingle of unease down her spine followed her self-sarcasm. She suspected this was a bit too far-fetched even for her own fantasies. Suspected - that some of it was true. All?
She had denied rape to the police. And she hadn't appreciated the look in the female officer's eyes when she'd given the quick, nervous negative, but the assault charge had been bad enough to deal with. Gemma had had to describe that dark, elegant, predatory stranger she'd found in their flat to the authorities, and explain that Mac - it had been strangely hard to say his name - had been injured too. She hadn't mentioned a spear. Or asked if they'd found strange hairs on the rug.
And the weirdest thing was, for a split second when they initially asked how she'd got the wound on her neck, she honestly couldn't remember. Mind blank, she'd tried to find a reasonable reason. Neck? That hadn't been the centre of attention at the time, and it had all happened so fast. She'd thought she must have banged hard against something - it wasn't like she hadn't been - banging- hard-. She blushed, sitting alone huddled in her bedclothes. She still didn't really believe how good she remembered that feeling then, either, considering how that part of her had felt after.
Good? Good? Come off it - understatement of the century - it was-. She cut off her own thoughts.
Describing the stranger had been difficult, as the clearest things she could recall were the feral grace and that wild glitter in his eyes -- like in Mac's. Black eyes. Another memory that didn't make sense, Mac had green eyes, but she clearly remembered the hollow black glitter when he'd told her to go. Green usually, except when -, she slammed the mental brakes on again. She did this wearisomely often at the moment, especially around her parents. Better not to think about - stop it.
The cuts on her back and inner thigh, where the stranger had ripped her clothes off, they were healing fine. The police described them as knife wounds, but after thinking back through all the happenings of that night, Gemma had her doubts. She'd seen the claws on one huge paw only inches from her face, and they had looked fairly sharp and lethal. She shivered, and tucked the covers slightly closer around herself.
The unmentioned rawness at the mouth of her vagina was also easing, the pain not so noticeable now, the third day on. But although they'd asked her again, she still hadn't found a satisfactory explanation for the nastiest injury - the raw contusion on her neck. The doctor was pretending not to be worried, but after two days it had started to fester. And he was clearly a bit bothered that she 'couldn't remember' how she got it.
Gemma herself was a bit bothered - understatement again - remembering how she actually had got it. What she thought she did recall. The "real" version had come back to her immediately after she'd told the police that she wasn't sure what'd happened and had suggested that maybe she'd been hit with something.
Something with teeth. It's not like they'll believe me any better if I tell them what I do remember now.
No-one had commented that it could be a bite mark - it would've had to be a pretty ludicrously big dog to get his jaws that wide, and Gemma hadn't mentioned any - pets.
Enough. She shivered again.
It was all so ridiculous. Unlikely. Impossible. The police and the doctor and her mother had all spoken to her about counselling, but what was the point when the counsellor would clearly think she was a lunatic? Gemma wasn't absolutely sure she hadn't just been injected with some strange hallucinatory drug. The needle entry point could be hidden among the cuts and scratches - it was feasible. Much more feasible than the idea that -, her mind threw up the last, the clearest image. That white wolf on the hearthrug.
Hah! she scoffed inwardly. An uneasy, automatic reaction. As if.
But why wouldn't her neck heal? It wouldn't even close over, the nurse re-taped it every day and it looked and felt worse now than it had two days earlier - swollen, seeping, fiery red and aching, despite the palmful of antibiotics she was bolstered with every mealtime. The blood samples they'd rushed through had so far come up completely negative.
Should I tell them to look for werewolf saliva? How?
Gemma huddled deeper into the covers as she thought things through again, yet another fruitless search for sense, reason, rationale -- in the effort to hit upon what her reaction and response should be. She was so out of her depth here. She was staring blankly at her palms, trailing her inattentive gaze idly along the lines, her book dropping unnoticed to the floor.
What was she supposed to believe nowadays? That was what was most bothering her. Was it true? Was it all true, what she remembered? And the other legends - the stories about werewolves - about - victims - after. What about what happened to people bitten by werewolves -?
Despite huddling in her duvet, Gemma felt cold, with a deep inner tremor that wouldn't go away. It was impossible. But the whole thing was impossible. Was she going to become a danger to her family? To her friends? All humans? Did she need to leave, now, before it happened, to protect them from herself? And go where? Why the hell was she even thinking this?
What the hell had Mac done to her?
The image of him wouldn't be banished this time. Him trembling, straining, sculpted, growling "Go." Yeah, so the fact that I didn't go - does that mean it's all my fault it turned out my flatmate was a - a - werewolf-. Gemma snorted to herself in disbelief even as she stuttered over the word in her mind, and I've been bitten and think maybe I'm turning into a - rabid maniac? Hah. How come he wasn't a rabid maniac himself? Usually. I'm sure I'd have noticed if he disappeared once a month.
Stupid legends.
It was ironic. She could see that her mother couldn't voice her inward concern, her worry that Gemma might be pregnant. Gemma couldn't care less about that right now, but she felt some sympathy - she couldn't voice her own overriding concern either: that she might be becoming a bloody rabid werewolf. Her hand strayed to the aching sore on her neck. Fingers hovering protectively, millimetres above the fresh gauze. OK, yeah, so I kissed him. But I don't think the punishment fits the crime - the sex, yeah, that was down to me too. But this?
Hah. There's no chance your idiotic wolf fantasies are true. Don't get so hysterical, girl.
Yet this morning, when she'd woken abruptly, she had known her mother was outside the door before she even opened it. And she could smell her across the room. Alright, so her mother wore what she was beginning to realise was an overpowering floral perfume, but she'd never been knocked over by it from yards away before. An overactive imagination? Psychosomatic smell enhancement? What - if anything - was happening to her? It was all idiotic, but it was also driving her nuts. She had to keep the window open because of the smell of the carpet freshener, and it had never bothered her before. And the cold air from the window didn't seem to bother her much either. She hated this. It wasn't real. It couldn't be.
In some ways she wished she could talk to Mac. At least he could bloody explain. She wouldn't be shocking him with her questions - she hoped, or she truly was insane if she really had just imagined it all. Was that worse than the memories being true? But when she'd selected his number in her phone, she'd just stared at the picture on the screen: Mac grinning happily, flourishing her birthday cake, and then quietly closed the handset. No. She couldn't deal with him. No.
Green eyes in the photo, she'd noted absently, sadly.
This was why she felt so alone in her parent's home. In their care. Because this thing was separating her off from them. This thing in her. It might do so permanently if the legends were true and-- no, she bit the word at herself, savagely cutting off the thought.
But her mind kept circling back. Inevitably.
If the impossible was happening - if she was turning into - one of them - how long did it take? She'd had to know, and had looked up the next full moon on the internet. Two weeks. Did she have two weeks before she'd go insane? More insane than now, anyway. She suspected she was fairly nuts already the way her thoughts just kept spinning in her head.
The hairs on the back of her neck were prickling.
Scared of yourself already? Gemma thought sarcastically. Then slowly became aware that her attention wasn't entirely focussed inwards any longer. Something, something that was nothing to do with the self that she knew, was pulling it away.
Her heartbeat was picking up and skin starting to tingle. This new, unwanted, inhuman sense was telling her that something was coming. Outside.
Like, yeah, you now have extrasensory perception.
Edgily, annoyed at herself for being so - irrational - and despite her own, internal, sarcasm, Gemma lifted her head and scanned the hillside outside her bedroom window. Nothing.
Told you.
Her goosebumps weren't entirely laid by the empty view, however. She was feeling - anticipation? Eager anticipation? What on earth -?
See? she snapped at herself. This is what comes of sitting in your room brooding over idiocies. Frustrated, Gemma decided to go down and sneak herself the golden opportunity to make her own sandwich for the first time in three days, while Adam was preoccupied stealing cars or whatever on his machine. Normal life.
A feeling of tension started to filter into the anticipation. Fear -? What was this? Where was it coming from? What did it mean?
The tension was growing stronger; fear and happy anticipation, melding into an incomprehensible churn in her stomach.
Stop being such an idiot. It doesn't mean anything.
These new feelings were so annoying. It was like being two years old and first falling two feet out of a tree - the rush of gravity's pull, not knowing what it was, how to react, screaming, embarrassingly, for fear that it might be really bad. How did she judge what these stupid new instincts were shouting at her - was she just being hysterical? A minute ago they had been telling her to dance with joy. Now they were telling her to run. Run fast. That way. And dance with joy. She was quivering on the bed, trying to make sense of it, trying to hold herself still. She was being bludgeoned by a new bit of herself that she didn't understand, couldn't interpret, rationalise or control. She hated it, it wasn't her.
The fear ratcheted up another notch, making her muscles tense and sending her eyes darting, combing every inch of the opposite hillside. Her heart was beating faster, faster, but there was also a strange shimmer of - delight? - starting to quiver in her belly. What on earth was she thinking? Or not thinking, actually, just feeling, being, blindly?
Furious, she decided that this was stupid. She was letting her own thoughts terrify her, unnerve her, bewitch her. Sitting brooding on the bed. Shivering. Do something, she ordered herself.
"Adam!" she hollered abruptly, mouth dry. Pride had its place, but this wasn't it, she wanted her annoying little brother in here bugging her, teasing her, allaying all these irrationalities by being incorrigibly irritating. Normal. Human. Then a twinge of fear spiked at the thought of Adam in here too. What had she just let him in for?
The door opened, just as she caught a flash of movement in the trees at the top of the hill. Straining to see, Gemma lifted her chin off her knees, scowling out of the window. Then, sharply, her skin prickled to an urgent warning and her head snapped around to the figure in the doorway as that new awareness screamed a warning in her ear. The wrench shot a jolt of pain through the wound on her neck but she barely felt it as her eyes focussed on the figure in the doorway. Her heart stopped.
Lean, elegant, horrible. Him.
What the hell? What is he doing here? Why is he following me?
Then abruptly, rending her, Where was her brother? Panic overrode fear and Gemma's heart suddenly started pounding again, urgently. "Adam?" she questioned the intruder on a barely controlled breath of sound.
Her former attacker stepped into the room and closed the door softly behind himself, with a casual ease which made Gemma's fear ramp up further. The ripples of tension over her skin were almost shaking her, and her jaw clenched. She became angry at her own fear. Angry at him for causing it, and she unfolded swiftly, jerkily, to slide to the floor on the opposite side of the bed, trembling.
Ignoring the twinges in her abused flesh, she faced him in a fighting crouch. The fear was cold in her weak limbs, but she had clear control of it now. She knew she couldn't stop this guy, but that didn't mean she wouldn't try her damndest. And - what had he done to her little brother? The thought kept the fire of anger burning despite the clamminess of her skin.
"Adam?" she queried again, a hoarse sound through dry lips.
His voice was again soft, cultured, dispassionate, yet with a harsh edge, "The boy is asleep. I drugged his drink. I have no interest in him." She remembered the coldness from that night, 'I told you not to say no,' was all he'd said then. Well, I'm going to say no as clearly as I can, thought Gemma grimly, anger and pride straining through the fear. Cold knowledge on her skin. It wouldn't work.
"What is your interest in me?" her whisper shook, despite her best efforts, and the sick feeling of dread sank deeper into her stomach as she watched the intruder pace coolly around to the foot of the bed. Smoothly. That instinct to run had been so right. There was now only one corner between them and she didn't want, she really, really didn't want there to be less space between them than there was now. But he wasn't stopping, and the uncanny fluidity of his movements made the fear on her skin colder. The tight glitter of enjoyment in his expression as he watched her increasing tension was worse. This creature was just wrong, really wrong.
He smiled, baring his perfect teeth. It looked like a snarl with the complete lack of warmth in his eyes, and an uncontrollable shudder ran down Gemma's spine as she flinched backwards. The smile widened, a snake enjoying the mesmerised fear in its prey. Horrible.
"Let me show you what I want from you," he murmured with an inflection of dark anticipation, eyes gleaming as he advanced gently around the foot of the bed.
She could smell him, smell that horrible, tainted tang from that night, and hear his rapid, light, revolting breathing, feel the hot stir of it on her face as he stepped in, too close, and she found that, after all, she was unable to move. She was screaming invectives at herself inside her own head to shake herself out of the paralysis, but the look in his cold, glittering eyes overrode her mental orders, instinct warning her to stay still, very still. Frozen in revulsion and terror, she watched the gleam in his eyes deepen to an eerie glow, the light reflecting deep under the surface.
"I'm afraid I will have to hurt you a little," he continued, purring with pleasure, the crooked smile at the corner of his - its - mouth setting fear writhing in her belly. "But in time you will come to see that my satisfaction is of greater import than your pain." A tiny corner of Gemma's brain queried the strange cadence, the choice of period-drama words further unsettling in their incongruity. She was still also furious, behind her fear, that this bastard was enjoying this. That she was letting him enjoy this. That she couldn't seem to make herself do anything, couldn't move against her instincts, which were still screaming at her to stay still. Perfectly still. Prey still.
The predator was now smiling in deep pleasure as he watched the anger and rebellion within her struggle against the frozen terror. Perfect. He lifted a hand and slowly, delicately, picked open the top button on her soft cotton pyjama top. Watching her watch him. Her shivering increased and she felt a whimper rising in her throat.
Damnit, I may not be able to make myself move, but I am not going to let myself pathetically whimper at him.
"You have lovely, lush, breasts," he commented, eyeing them in detached assessment as they heaved against the material in time to her short, staccato pants. He smiled down into the fear in her face. "Excellent curves." Words, gaze crawling over her skin. This was wrong. So wrong. It wasn't her curves that were exciting him, it was her fear.
No. No. No. No. No. No. No, the word was whispering like a prayer, a mantra in her head. Frozen. She couldn't stop him. Couldn't fight, couldn't run, couldn't even seem to move, no matter what he was going to - No. Please, no. At least I liked Mac. He didn't want to hurt me. Unlike this sick - no. No. No. No. Bastard.
The whimper was rising against the back of her gritted teeth despite her fury, and she flinched slightly as he peeled apart the material to the next fastening. But she remained on the spot, glaring, unable to move her feet, as his hand drifted down to the second button. His smile widened further, stained teeth now clearly visible.
Tremors were lightly shaking Gemma's frame, and they increased as the second button was carefully undone. The eerie glow of vicious, vile, predatory enjoyment deepened in his eyes, and his excitement rang in the short, quick breaths that fouled her skin. She refused to stop glaring stubbornly through her immobility, but could feel the tears starting in her eyes. Damn him.
"I will enjoy this," he murmured in pleasure.
Abruptly, shocking in the reprieve, the feral, predatory intruder snapped alert, spun, and launched himself in a fluid, impossible leap across her bed towards the doorway. He was caught midair by a snarling body hurtling in through the open window, and the two figures landed together with a resounding crash on the mattress.
"I don't think you fucking will, Nick" Mac snarled into the face of the man pinned under him.
Mac.
Gemma's heart leapt as she relaxed out of the fear- slumping back relieved, elated against the wall. Safe. He was here. Wet warmth surged into her aching pussy at the brief, clear glimpse of him she caught before the bodies tangled on the bed exploded into a hurricane of impossibly swift movement. His taut muscles were covered in sweat, chest heaving with the deep breaths of extreme, pushed-to-the-limits exertion. He was flushed, with tangled, windswept hair- and he was unutterably irresistible. Her frozen blood ignited at the sight of him, seeming to strain towards him, every pore, every atom eager, ecstatic, and searing with abrupt arousal, with thanks.
And she was furious with herself. How could she react this way? After all the pain, heartache and worry of the last three days, the strain and unanswered questions - still unanswered - yet her body was practically singing, the shimmer on her skin and in her blood so tangible, so vibrant, so alive. It was idiocy. It was embarrassing. It was irrefutable. Damn.
Safe, her heart sang.
Shut up.
Backed into the corner, hugging her arms in a tight grip around her torso, she tried to hold steady against the incandescent feelings rocketing through her body at the memories suddenly invoked. She remembered, re-lived in technicolour surround-sound imprints, the feel of him: in her, on her, scent and limbs surrounding her , pushing her higher, higher, through, further, implacably-.
Stop it. She screamed the order inside her own head, and twisted her neck violently, trying to shake the images, the sensations from it. Her incautious movement wrenched the wound under the gauze into raw, weeping pain, and agony spiked over the arousal, reason cutting back in with it. Remember that you half-wit?
Eyes half-closed, she leaned back against the wall and fought down the irrational delight, the desire, purposefully twisting her neck slightly to shock herself. Eventually, exhaustingly, she hauled her emotions back in line and tamped the lid down tightly on them, neck tilted slightly to the right to maintain the pressure and the painful reminder. Then, inexorably, her eyes were drawn by the fight.
The dark predator - Nick - was so fast, breathtaking, his skill and lean power apparent in every feint, every block, each snarling, sinuous attack. She couldn't follow half of the movements, they were so swift that her eyes just couldn't seem to refocus at that speed; all she could track was the rough blur of tumbling, retreating and entangling bodies around the room.
Yet he was totally outclassed. It was like watching an adult control a hysterical, flailing child. With an almost lazy air, Mac was shadowing and containing his every move. Nick was not allowed to hit Mac, not allowed to leave, definitely not allowed to approach the corner where she stood. Gemma watched, spellbound, her other impulses distracted by the sheer effortless mastery of Mac fighting. He'd always been so gentle - concealing this, this graceful dance of power.
And Mac was carefully, seemingly idly, stripping his opponent of all his clothing. For a moment Gemma wondered if this was a power play, revenge for what Nick had done to her, to them, but then she realised that Mac must have another purpose. Despite the violent, increasingly frantic struggles of the half-dressed figure, there was not a single drop of blood staining the pristine white shirt now revealed. Or the skin underneath that. The clothing was not being viciously torn, but stripped in careful, controlled packages, each flung into her corner. And the desperation in the attempted escapes was growing.
Part of the intruder's trousers - with the right front pocket - flew further toward her, something small and hard inside the cloth pulling the material to fly further, before bouncing on her stomach and landing in her fist as she unthinkingly caught it. She gasped, her eyes, which had started to drop to the cloth-wrapped object in her fist, jerking back to the fight as abruptly Mac twisted in an impossible- to-see blur of movement and smashed the other figure backwards across the room to slam hard into the wall. Mac's attacks multiplied tenfold, with a speed and unleashed ferocity that brought Nick's fists up in protective block after protective block as his hopeless, despairing attempts to dodge, to divert, to escape each furious blow became increasingly ragged, sluggish. Panicked.
No holds barred now. Gemma found she was smiling a little grimly. It wasn't nice, but damn, it felt right.
Then a gleam of hope shot across Nick's face, and six wolves erupted through the window in a sea of fur and teeth, leaping onto Mac. He snarled and threw them off easily, eyes glittering black anger as he dived after their ragged, semi-naked leader, who was scrambling frantically out the way that his pack members had come. One of the wolves jumped towards Gemma, jaws agape and eyes gleaming enmity, and she let out a gasp as she slammed back into her corner, trying to dodge.
Mac made an impossibly swift about-face with a hand on the frame, and whirled back towards them, snarling. He smashed her attacker to the floor uncompromisingly, creating an inanimate heap which he didn't even stop to monitor land as he spun to face the other five. They made no bones about their undignified, panicked scrabble to escape out of the window after the vanished figure of Nick, each fighting to crowd through first. Mac just watched, standing in an easy, protective wall in front of Gemma, breathing deeply, then he picked up the unconscious body on the floor and slung him casually after the last escapee.
Gemma sighed. She relaxed further, and felt the gentle shimmer of the muscles under her skin releasing the final strands of tension, letting go totally for the first time since the intruder had appeared in her doorway. Eyeing the expanse of Mac's shoulders under his smooth t-shirt, she sighed again. Safe.
He's a bloody werewolf, she reminded herself caustically. But her instincts didn't seem to care; she couldn't seem to wring any sense of threat out of the occasion. Other feelings were rising again, and with them her irritation. He was standing with his back to her, across the room, breaths gradually slowing. Unbidden, Gemma's eyes were trailing appreciatively, lingeringly across the muscles under his loose t-shirt. Idiot, she snorted at herself, and tilted her neck to make herself wince.
His shoulders and the hard muscles etched across his back actually looked more tense now than they had at any time during the fight. He still hadn't turned around either. His stance , his whole demeanour even from behind - well - he looked - worried. About facing her. The grim little smile returned to Gemma's face. Good. It eased something in her heart. Mac had hurt her. And he was worried about facing her now. That felt - good. Then the smile softened, and she sighed for a third time, watching his shoulders crease with increased tension at the sound.
Told you you were safe. The words echoed smugly in her head.
"What is going on?" She'd been dying to ask for days.
An echo of her sigh escaped slowly from the large form in front of her, and the shoulders slumped slightly. "How are you, Gem?" The question was very low, a tinge of shame to the words.
"Never mind that," Gemma returned. It was novel seeing him afraid of her. "Just answer the question, will you - what's going on?"
"I don't exactly know, it doesn't make sense." He still hadn't turned around. "But -- how are you, Gemma? How are you coping, how's your -?" he broke off, voice dry. The novelty was wearing off. His back was very nice to look at but it was beginning to irritate her that that was all she had to look at - and that annoying little droop to the shoulders was also beginning to pall. He did need to face up to this.
"Turn around. Then you can see," Gemma replied somewhat tartly. The muscles rippled as he winced slightly. But he did turn. His green eyes were shadowed, wary and sad, but something in the familiar, human warmth of them seemed to reach out and embrace Gemma.
"And what do you mean, you don't know?" She was not going to let her irrational attraction to this - this monster (yeah, right) let her forget that she was a significantly injured party. "You didn't know you were a werewolf? You 're not acquainted with that guy called Nick, who told you not to say no to something?" she continued sarcastically. "You didn't know that he'd be here - you just happened to arrive fortuitously?" Thank god. "You didn't just strip-search him in a very unorthodox way? For this little thing in my hand? Are you saying there's no reason to any of this?" Her voice was rising in an increasing crescendo as she berated him for his pathetic answer. It would have worked better if the sight of his chest packed inside that T-shirt hadn't made her voice breathless too.
Idiot. Idiot. Spineless idiot, she berated herself.
He hesitated. Sighed again, eyes hooded, then looked down into hers, sombre. "I can explain as much as I know, as far as I can, speculate, but first - Gem, I need to heal you. Your neck. Please."
The room suddenly felt hotter, for no reason she could understand. His eyes were sincere, deep pools of green, the tawny hair flopping across his forehead in that familiar, careless, 'I am such a cool dude' way - just like -.
Adam.
Her heart contracted again, and she levered herself abruptly away from the wall, dropping the bundle in her hand onto the bed as she pushed into a run. She winced against the familiar ache of her sore spots as she moved suddenly, and sucked in air against the pain as she tried to dodge clumsily around Mac.
An arm hooked around her waist, pulling her gently, implacably back against him. "You need to heal," murmured Mac softly. "You should be lying down."
She didn't even bother trying to struggle. She'd seen that fight. She obviously had to persuade him to let her go, because that arm wasn't going to budge otherwise.
"My little brother was downstairs!" she answered breathlessly. That arm was doing something to her lung capacity, despite her worry, "He - that creature, Nick, he said he'd drugged him. I have to check he's alright," she couldn't help squirming against the arm holding her, despite what her logical brain said, the images her imagination was throwing up of what she might find downstairs were too horrific to stay still against. She winced sharply as a raw nerve in her neck caught while she twisted. Mac sucked in air sharply himself, and abruptly they were out of the room and halfway down the staircase. She barely registered that he'd picked her up and was carrying her easily, a soundless lope, before he'd crossed the hall and they were in the living room.
What-? Wow. That fast, that easily-? stuttered across her brain just before she saw Adam.
Gemma's heart contracted with relief as she focussed on the mop of brown hair and pile of gangly limbs stretched out on the sofa, a half-empty glass on the floor beside him. His game was still flickering. Adam looked all right. Just asleep. Was he just asleep? How had Mac known exactly where to find Adam?
She dismissed that to think about later, as her escort lowered himself easily to a crouch beside the sofa, where she could hear and see Adam's soft breaths as he slept. She reached out a hand and stroked it gently over his hair, relief shimmering in her limbs.
He must be deeply asleep. He'd never let me getaway with that otherwise. 'Ew - big sis - gerroff!' Her mouth quirked at the thought.
"He looks OK," she whispered.
"He's fine," rumbled from the wide chest against her side as suddenly they were out of the room and heading back upstairs, "It's a common sedative, he might be a bit dehydrated when he wakes up but nothing a glass of water can't fix."
How does Mac know this? Gemma felt as though her mind was overloaded, and starting to get a bit slap-happy. Maybe it was the scent of him in her nostrils, so close. How does he know his way around my parents' house? A cheeky little smile crossed her face, Maybe he's secretly been watching me the same way I always secretly watched him. Maybe he followed me home at Christmas and checked out the house. Lovelorn baying under the moon. The frothy, idiotic thoughts that kept surfacing made her want to giggle
"It's you who I'm worried about," continued Mac as he lowered her gently back onto her bed. Bed and Mac, mmm, darted across Gemma's brain flirtatiously, and she repressed the increasing urge to laugh as her blood started to simmer gently under his concerned gaze. The door was shut behind them. She also wanted to lick her lips. Obviously. He moved so fast, so smoothly, with such effortless stealth - it made his strength all the more apparent-mmm. A pool of warmth was gathering between her thighs.
He's never moved like this before - around me -I've spent enough time watching him to know. Gemma smiled impishly at her own thoughts again as she slid her eyes delightedly over his taut arms muscles, distracting Mac during his urgent recital, "The - toxin - inside you, it's dangerous, and needs counteracting fast - or you - your neck - will never heal right. I brought some cream as well, which my doctor prescribed for me once he'd - isolated the heavy metal, which I probably bled onto you. The cream should absorb it."
Or something like that. She wasn't really paying attention, too rapt, watching the play of sunlight down the strong column of his throat to his chest.
"Let me see," murmured Gemma. She lifted her hot, dreamy gaze up to his and grinned at his bemused expression, then put on a concerned expression and stroked her gaze over his chest, looking for his healing wound. Or pretending, not very hard, that that was why she was looking. Appreciation is no crime.
"What?" Mac was startled. She liked Mac startled. His expression made him look younger, more vulnerable, approachable. Accessible.
She smiled up at him joyously. Maybe this is what reaction feels like, when you suddenly feel safe after unbearable tension. It's nice. Intoxicating.
Not as nice as Mac.
"Take your shirt off. Show me your wound." Gemma fluttered her eyelashes up at him as he leaned over her. She knew she was being silly but didn't really care, was enjoying it in fact.
His startled expression faded into thoughtfulness, then a slow, warming smile. Mac had never had trouble following her. He lifted an eyebrow. "I'll show you mine if you show me yours," he drawled back on a teasing note. His eyes, behind the gleam of appreciative amusement, were a little sad. They were always a little sad. She wanted to change that. She'd always wanted to.
Abruptly, fear shot back into her and she tensed. Shivered. Where was this leading? Obviously, he'd think she wanted - . No way. Ow. Understatement. Eugh. She remembered the pleasure, and delighted in looking at him, but the pain was still right there aching through her torn flesh. Her eyes pulled away, connected with the headboard, traced the familiar pattern in the wood. Her right hand had come up automatically to cover the bandage at her neck, protectively hovering a millimetre away from the cloth as the other arm wrapped tightly around her midriff.
"Gem," his soft tone called her back and their eyes connected. He was so sad. Angry in there too, somewhere, but the surface of his expression showed mainly just a strong level of compassion, and resolution. "I'm sorry, I'm so sorry it happened - that I couldn't control - that you were -," a spasm crossed his face, and he halted, looking down at a small pot in his hand, like for face cream. He'd apparently picked it up from somewhere in one of the seconds while she was blinking. He stared at it, breathing deeply into the silence for a moment or two as she studied the lines on his face. He looked tired. Weary and sad, and resigned - to what-?
"I'm sorry." The deep voice was only a thread of sound, "But I need to massage this into your back. To counteract any heavy metal that may have been absorbed by your skin. And I need to remove that bandage. I need to heal you. Please." He met her eyes again on last word. His voice had a deep resonance, sorrow.
She swallowed. She didn't like to see him this sad, but - there were other things to worry about. "Am I turning into a werewolf?" she murmured. The figure standing before her sighed and ran a hand through his tangled hair, then sank down tentatively onto the edge of her bed. Yippee! An incorrigible little voice at the back of her head rejoiced. She ignored it, together with the rapid acceleration of her blood flow.
"You are," he replied. "But I can halt it if you let me heal you now. You still have enough of your human immune system left to drive out the - infection, if I - remove the source." His musk at this close range was driving her insane, she seemed to smell him to much more clearly - he was so much more divine - more intoxicating than ever before.
"Will I stop having these overpowering new feelings?"
"You should." Then he grimaced. "Well, I believe so. There are very few humans who've been half turned, and then healed."
But her feelings for Mac weren't exactly new. And they were simply heightened by her ability to smell and see and sense him so much more clearly.
"They are a bit irritating," she understated.
His winced, then his expression hardened. Darkly sombre now. "Yes, I believe you. I was born a wolf and the instincts aren't new, I've had a lifetime learning to control my-." He broke off at the memory of losing control, and fresh anguish twisted his face.
"Stop it," she growled up at him. "I kissed you, remember? You weren't to blame."
"I knew that I'd cause you severe damage - that I'd bite you - I should never have -," he answered caustically, self-loathing evident.
"Mac," she hissed at him, exasperated. The dumb overprotective idiot really believed it was all his fault, that he should have been strong enough to protect her even when she'd ignored his warning to leave.
"Believe me, Gem, I wouldn't be here inflicting myself on you again if I didn't have to heal you. I have to stop this."
Well, gee, thanks. Nice to know you missed me.
"So stop whining and heal it," she snarled back, interrupting his penitence. Enough.
There was a shocked silence, before he lifted startled, angry eyes to hers and they glared at each other. Then the corner of his mouth twitched.
"Whining?" he said.
She reached up a hand to lay her fingertips against his cheek, assuring him softly, "It wasn't your fault."
"Yes it was," he returned stubbornly, and the black burn glinted across his gaze again. Angry for her. Not at her. He always had to protect her. Mac. Mac hadn't wanted her to get hurt. She'd known it then, when he'd tried to persuade her to leave against both of their enflamed instincts, and she knew it now, looking up at him. She didn't want him to be hurting like this, either.
With a soft sigh, Gemma turned herself over cautiously onto her side, the wound on her neck facing up, and lifted a hand to peel off one of the pieces of tape holding the gauze. His fingers were gentle, swift, easing off the other pieces and peeling back the covering. Suddenly she realised something. She blushed.
"Do I need to take my shirt off?" she asked. It was different in reality, here, now, thinking of undressing in front of Mac. She felt a gentle finger begin to circle soothingly over the vertebrae at the top of her neck, under her hair. She sighed softly as the tension in her eased again. Well, easing the embarrassment. There were other sources of tension
"Not if it'll make you uncomfortable, I can work around it," Mac replied. The gentle fingertips were magic, working down her spine over the brushed cotton, melting her bones. Relaxing, her mind drifted away from tension and she wondered what she was worried about. This was Mac. Shirtless back massage? You bet. She'd be face down anyway. Pity.
She began to undo the remaining buttons on her top, facing away from him, and flinched again as arousal pulsed liquid between her thighs, and the raw spot at her entrance reacted in pain. Maybe not such a pity. Wavering between lust and fear was really getting tedious.
He helped her out of her shirt, and she shut her eyes, rolling onto her front away from him, and buried her face in the sheet with a sigh, feeling the blush burn into her cheeks despite the face-down position. He was pulling the pillows out from under her head as she relaxed, murmuring, "This won't hurt - my neck - will it?"
There was a moment of silence, then, "No, I promise your neck won't bother you at all," he growled softly in assurance. She heard his hands rubbing briskly together before they settled gently on the dimple in the small of her back, warm pads of his thumbs rubbing in small, light circles.
Mac massaging her back. She had a brief, naughty urge to text Bethan and Kate.
He began to glide the ointment up her spine in long, strong, smooth strokes, careful to avoid the healing cuts, his touch seeming to heat and relax every pore as he ministered gently to her. Gemma's blood swam slowly through her veins, thickening with each caress, pulsing heavily, sweetly through her melting limbs. Mmm.
She could feel herself slowly surfacing, sinking, surfacing, drifting through the gentle, strong massage. His hands glided gently, firming messages of calm into the tension in her back. She was weightless. Sloughing off the days of pain and tension. The fear. The worry. She didn't need to think. Move. Plan. Nothing. Mac was here. A happy little smile lifted one corner of her mouth. Bliss.
She floated in a bubble of gentle, happy arousal. He was touching her. It was enough.
Gemma felt a soft brush of a kiss on the vertebra at the base of her neck.
She thought she felt it.
It felt lovely.
She was sure he'd just kissed her. While still those sinfully seductive hands were smoothing over her back, stroking her into total relaxation.
She hoped he had.
"Mac?" she murmured, drowsy with heat, and peace.
"Shhh," he answered softly. "Let me heal you."
He pressed another gentle kiss to the next vertebra, and her skin tingled, little circles of pleasure shimmering out from the feather touch of his lips. Gemma let out a soft sound, half sigh, half purr, as she felt the liquid heat gently begin to simmer again within her.
This is so worth dying for.
His lips and the gentle sweep of his tongue were caressing over one of the scored scratches on her back, made when -- her brain stopped following the thought further back, drifting in the pleasure of now. She realised she was purring, gentle murmurs of pleasure sighing from her mouth as she began occasionally to move with his hands, moulding herself into the gentle strokes. A light pang at the cut was barely felt as she arched gently against his touch, murmuring an incoherent sound into the sheets. His lips were pure delight, smoothing the light pain into a deep pleasure and quickening heat.
Mmm.
Her brain could barely arrange any thought, mind close to complete, replete shut down.
Why think?
She sighed.
Just feel.
His lips reached a second cut, and she arched sensuously into his caress, welcoming the light pain for the pleasure that followed it, subsumed it, heating her blood and peaking her nipples against the sheets. She rubbed herself delicately against the fabric, feeling the urgency began to build at the fire shot from her nipples to her belly. Mac moved onto another scratch. Mmm. Another. She lost count, sliding under his hands continuously now, gliding her legs to rub searchingly against the sheets.
One of the cuts extended underneath the fabric of her loose, soft pyjama bottoms, and he was gently peeling them back, following the mark with his lips, tongue delicately gliding in the wake of the fabric. He settled over the deeper cut on her cheek, his teeth quickly, firmly pulling off the plaster, making her gasp and surface briefly before the swirl of his tongue pulled her back down to his touch. The gentle lips were even more electric against her sensitive buttock, and she began to tremble, rubbing her thighs together insistently as the juices beaded the soft hairs at her entrance. Her trousers were gone.
Good.
He licked his way lightly, sensuously to another scratch on her buttock, and she groaned softly, delightedly into her pillow.
Divine.
There was a scratch on her inner thigh, where that other one had ripped off her panties. Unthinking, swirling in heat and lightheaded pleasure, Gemma parted her thighs as Mac's lips left the pleasurable site of the last former pain point on her buttocks. His hands were now gliding with a playful touch over her smooth back, turning her gently onto her side. In a blink he was in front of her, she just managed to focus on him - unbelievably gorgeous, crouched on the bed and lifting her upper thigh. He sighed gently as he saw the cut.
"Poor Gemma," the air suspended in her lungs as his tawny head descended and she moaned, long and low as he began to lick gently around the area.
"Not," was what the breathless groan sounded like, and Mac lifted his head that so he could gauge her meaning. Did she want him to stop?
"Mmm?" he asked. Beautiful, he thought, eyes dancing over the sculpted curves of golden skin laid out before him. His wolf side bristled with a protective inward growl. He was here to heal only. He snorted lightly. No argument. Although it didn't stop him from aching appreciatively.
"Not poor. Rich. Here. Please," Gemma arched against the sheet for emphasis as she struggled to get the words out, and let escape another long, soft cry of pleasure as Mac smiled and bent his head again.
The feeling was so incredible. Just. Nothing like it. His lips and delicately sweeping tongue on the soft skin of her inner thigh. Bliss. Tingling, almost too intense. The pain at the entrance to her pussy was melting in building anticipation and she was moaning as she felt the light dance of his tongue stroking softly closer, closer. Her pussy hurt, but oh she knew he would make it feel better. So, so much better. Oh please, please, the little croon was echoing within her head.
Then the soft tip of his tongue brushed over her labia and the voice inside her stuttered into, Oh.
Oh.
Oh. Oh. Oh.
My.
Oh.
His tongue was deeper, sweeping up her cleft, swirling, and her head fell back, neck unnoticed as she moaned again, again. Groaned. The incoherent croon in her head was rising to a begging keen, and she could hear gasps of it escaping her lips as she pressed her hips up against him, whimpering.
His tongue pressed firmly inside her, and the last fleeting pain signals were swamped under the rushing wave of pleasure sweeping over her. Gemma cried out, lifting her hips totally off the bed as she ground her face against the stiff, probing swirling organ within her. OW, she thought as the pain in her neck spiked, but the feeling was lost instantly as his tongue began to thrust. Completely lost. She knew those whimpering moans must be hers, but she didn't seem to be connected to anything. Except that tongue. His tongue. Wow. It was like-, better, yet less - different - something, she wanted more, yet nothing could tear her away from this. The furnace in her belly was raging higher, tighter, tighter, building, building with the silken glide of that amazing-. Ung. And she was rushing toward -. Here.
Something burst within her, shockingly intense, and Gemma screamed hoarsely as a white sheet of fire scorched through her, convulsing her hips as she rocked against his face, trying to twist out of his grip as the unbearable pleasure pulled her in all directions. His clasp around her thighs was firm, gentle and unyielding and his tongue continued to glide smoothly inside her, lips joining in as he suckled.
Unbearable. Incredible. Unbearable. Gemma found that her fingers were twisted in Mac's hair as she peaked again, again. She was trying to pull his head away, give herself some respite, moaning, begging incoherently as the shock waves continued to rock through her body. He didn't even seem to notice her desperate clutch as he withdrew his tongue, slowly, allowing her to tremble back into awareness of herself. Then he carefully stroked it up, up, and finally, gently, there. The bud at the head of her pussy lips.
Oh god.
A pause. Gemma tried to remember how to breathe. It felt like her body had just been beginning to drift down, shuddering, amazed, dazed, overloaded, from wherever it had exploded across the heavens. Now suddenly, he'd reached out and nudged her back upwards again. Higher. Back towards -. She couldn't. Not again. Not yet. Not again. Wow.
Very, very delicately he caressed her clit with the very tip of his tongue, a second time, and Gemma shuddered, a second step, ratcheted rush of tension shooting back into her shuddering limbs.
"Mac, please," she was begging him to stop, but the final words stuck in her throat-- exploding as a sort of groan, jerking her pussy up towards him. God knew what he'd done but the shock waves pulsing out from her clit were unbelievable, undeniable. Her limbs began to shiver again in the rebuilding tension, hauling together the pieces of herself as she began to tighten under that insistent tongue.
Her fingers, she realised now, were tugging him closer.
Another brush against her clit, and she groaned deeply. His breath was hot against her, unbearable, and she whimpered as he blew gently on the sensitive bud. Then let out a desperate, squeaking grunt as abruptly that powerful tongue sheathed itself back within her pussy.
She didn't even try to stop herself moaning this time. Her body seemed to be shuddering incessantly, powerless against the unceasing ripples of pleasure pulsing out from the tongue in her cunt. Building, building, she was rocked in a cross-current as a gentle finger tapped against her peaking bud and cried out at the top of her voice, arching, begging against him. Again. Again.
Oh god, she thought, just before she exploded a second time.
Mac.
Wow.
That - he - oh.
Mmmm.
She floated down weightlessly, shuddering gently, cocooned in his arms. Mmm. He was curled around her snugly, his tongue sliding gently over the healing skin on her neck, a memory of pain fading as he stopped and nibbled wet kisses over the delicate pulse points. Her neck felt -- prickly, uncertain. There was none of the searing pain, but the skin still felt tender, unfamiliar. As though it wasn't quite sure what had happened to it and how it was supposed to react. Not quite pleasure. But definitely not pain.
Mac kept licking the tender skin, gently, rhythmically, snuggled against her back with Gemma tucked into the curve of him. He was also very aroused, but ignoring it. He liked the soft scent of her, surrounding him, it eased the tension he always carried. And he loved her total, utter relaxation. Limp and sated and happy in his embrace. Carefree.
Gemma lay in a blissful daze, her mind shuffling through a languid inventory as his warm tongue gently continued to stroke over the tender site of the old wound. Her neck was stiff, but no longer hurt. Her back didn't hurt. Buttocks didn't hurt. Thigh didn't. Pussy - erm. Her pussy couldn't actually remember what hurt was, it was so far from the current feeling.
Then a new sensation began to wriggle along her nerves as he continued to minister lightly to her neck. She hunched slightly, trying to escape his touch, but his tongue followed, and she wasn't sure he'd even noticed. She shifted gently as far as she could with his warm arms around her, arching her head away, but he moved a hand and drew her back. She started to squirm, and felt a slight rumble- chuckle? - in the chest pressed behind her as he held her firmly and continued to lick.
"Mac!" burst protesting from her before she broke into uncontrollable squirming, giggling as she tried vainly to escape from the feelings wriggling down her spine.
He was definitely laughing now as he held her in place for three more long, tender, excruciatingly ticklish strokes of his wet tongue before he stopped, sighed, and tucked his head over the top of her, hugging her in a brief, tight embrace.
"Ticklishness is the sign that your nerves have recovered fully," he explained virtuously, his voice reverberating oddly with his chin resting on her head. It was a bit annoying, having her relative tininess so blatantly evident in this embrace, but Gemma definitely didn't want to go anywhere right now.
"Yeah, right," she murmured drowsily, "and you weren't enjoying yourself at all, were you?"
"Oh, I'd never say I didn't enjoy healing you, Gemma." A sigh. "I just wish it hadn't been necessary," he added sadly.
"It was worth it," she murmured under her breath. He snorted.
They rested comfortably in silence for a long moment.
The feeling of dazed weightlessness began to disappear under a renewal of the taut thrumming through her veins from where every millimetre of her connected to Mac started to hum. Her nipples were still aching, and beginning to feel almost painful. Well. He was here. And she could -.
"My go!" Gemma exclaimed brightly, diving into a roll to squirm around to face him. Her heart jumped. Damn, she kept forgetting what those eyes did to her. Especially sleepily relaxed, with an undercurrent of lazy arousal, as they were now. He lifted an eyebrow.
"I'm not injured."
"I can bite you if necessary."
His snort was much louder this time.
"With those? Good luck getting through my skin."
She ignored his flippancy, and bent forwards to kiss her way softly down his strong throat. She wanted to change the mood again. Actually, she just wanted to kiss his throat. And shut him up. It worked. She could feel his pulse rate accelerating under the caress of her lips, as she worked her way nibbling kisses along his jaw, down the side of his neck, back up the column of his throat before drifting across to his full lips, licking, nibbling, kissing. God she was enjoying this. She could feel his cock hardening again against her leg, and smiled happily to herself as she pressed softly against it.
Abruptly, she was suspended in the air above him, her feet resting on the bed and hair falling about his face, hands resting on his shoulders. Startled, she looked down at him. His eyes were aroused, slightly amused, slightly hooded as he smiled ruefully back up at her. He shook his head.
"I'm happy you feel good enough to want to try that again, Gem, but not with me." Sadness deepened in his eyes as he said it, and Gemma could see the stillness he always wrapped himself in resurfacing. She whimpered in anger and pain and tried to pull herself down to him, trying to erase the distance he was putting between them. Physical squirming had no effect. As ever.
"Let go," she growled.
He shook his head again. "You can't -,"
"Stop telling me what I can and can't do," she interrupted him brusquely. "You can't leave without me having some fun," she swallowed on the word, and ploughed on slightly more huskily,"- with you too - fair's fair."
He just looked at her. She saw the heat in his eyes, though, and her own sparkled playfully at him, as she ran light fingers over the smooth muscles of his chest under his t-shirt. He just lifted her effortlessly so that his chest was beyond her reach, at his full arm stretch, and she clutched at his forearms to steady herself. Damn. Then she smiled impishly down at him, and began to stroke her fingertips lightly, sensuously over the hairs covering the taut muscle in those forearms, eyes lingering on the pleasing defined planes. Mmm. Nice substitute.
He groaned, and tilted his head back, looking up at her headboard with a mixture of exasperation and arousal in his glinting eyes. "You know what happened last time," he warned her despairingly. Gemma's eyes focussed on the bulge tenting his trousers.
"That's why I want more, again. Oh please, Mac," she broke off, teasing forgotten.
"I can't hurt you again," he whispered.
"You won't - I'm sure you -." Her cheeks were red, burning, but she couldn't stop herself from pleading. She didn't care if he hurt her. Her blood was blazing through her veins as all the other feelings he had shown her combusted in her nipples, between her thighs, thrumming through her whole body. She wanted that again. She squirmed incessantly, trying, trying to get closer.
"You're too small - too fragile," he cut her off.
"I'm not fra-"
"No." He stated with finality.
This time she really growled, and stilled above him. They stared at each other. He really meant it. Incredulous.
Frustrated anger growing, holding his gaze, Gemma reached her feet down to stand on either side of his waist, and pushed herself upright, out of his hands. He let her go. They started at each other for a moment longer, and Gemma's expression hardened as she read the implacability in his. She snorted herself, and jumped lightly down to land on the floor by the bed.
Damn it felt good to be able to move without pain.
"I'm not as fragile as you think," she growled back at him.
"You're not as tough as you think," he responded tautly, sitting up and shifting to the side of the bed.
She'd had this all her life, and stepped in towards him, voice rising with her frustration, "You just believe that because I'm little -."
He cut her off, "Because you're human. Human's can't mate with us - they're not capable, not built for it."
Hah.
"We managed fine the other night," she growled back, the heat still racing through her blood increasing her anger. He was still saying No. She wanted Yes.
"Fine? You call those wounds fine?" his voice deepened with its own edge.
"You didn't have to bloody well bite me!" she stepped closer to him and glared into his eyes as she complained.
"I'm a wolf. I bite," he growled back, the glint in his eyes warning her.
She didn't care. The bite wasn't what she was really complaining about here. He didn't have to say no. She could take it. Dammit, it was worth it, especially with that healing. But he wouldn't listen.
"So stay human! It's not like you didn't manage it for six months around me before."
He closed his eyes. "I can't."
"Why not?"
"I find you too attractive, sexually."
That one halted her. Hmmm. Ammunition. Then she saw the unyielding look in his eyes. And wondered how long he'd been aroused for by those girls last time before he'd given in to his instincts. Jealously sparked briefly. She didn't think she'd be allowed the same foreplay time. And she didn't have ten men and a handy spear. Grump.
"But surely - that's - good. Can't we work it out somehow?"
"No."
"Mac! Why not? At least try!" They'd spent enough time together - they knew, he knew - surely friendship and attraction on this scale was worth-.
"Wolves and humans don't mate." He was so damn obdurate. So sure he was right.
"Then make me a wolf," she growled angrily.
"I can't," he ground out again, frustrated.
"What do you mean, you can't, you almost had done a minute ago!" she was snarling into his face now. A tear escaped from a corner of her eye and she dashed it away impatiently. This wasn't only about sex. Not any longer.
"Werewolf, Gemma," he snarled back, rising abruptly to tower over her. The angry power looming above her should have made her afraid, but all Gemma felt was frustration. He wouldn't accept her.
"A werewolf - especially a female, eventually loses all humanity and goes insane. Wolves are born wolves and stay that way, balanced between the loup and the human. It is illegal, callous and exceedingly dangerous for a wolf to create a werewolf." He growled out the explanation.
Gemma stayed motionless, staring up at him. Her breath seemed to have been beaten out of her lungs by his words. She had almost become -.
"Like the legends - the horror stories?"
"They arose from the days when it was more common for us to - for werewolves to be created."
She gulped. His eyes had softened, and he looked down at her sadly.
"I'm sorry, Gemma. Sorry you ever got involved, but Nick had never dared- before - I had been safely living among humans for years. Why he decided now to try and push further -. But I'll go, and you'll be safe. Fine. Forget about us. Forget you even knew me."
She swallowed. Eyes shadowed, looking down, she whispered, "Won't he just come back and bite - change me?"
Mac shook his head, reaching out his warm palms to cup around her jaw and lift her eyes back to his. Reassuring deep green. She loved his eyes. Mac said, "He can't. He's not an alpha. Hasn't the discipline." The edge of his lip curled in a slight snarl as a thought darkened his expression, "He used to try, before he was - stopped. He knows it won't work."
Gemma shuddered, and Mac pulled her forwards, resistless, into a comforting hug.
"What did he want?" she asked softly.
The warm chest against her heaved a sigh. Gemma leant further into it, resting. The sadness was contagious. He was going to leave. She couldn't stop him, couldn't persuade him, couldn't convince him. Tears began to leak silently from her closed eyes.
"He came here to collect you. New werewolves are very vulnerable and easy to control, they find it almost impossible to disobey. It's only as they get older that they start to - fight back." She shuddered again and burrowed into the comforting strength of his arms. But why was he undressing me? she wanted to ask. Remembering the predatory look in Nick's eyes, she was pretty sure she knew. A girl who couldn't say no, despite wanting to. Another shiver and Mac's arms tightened in a brief hug.
"No, I mean - back home. What did you say no to? What set him off?"
She felt a light rumble of displeasure in the chest she was leaning on. Could lean on for a few minutes longer. Just a few more minutes. Mac.
"He wanted me to change someone," he replied shortly.
"But -, you said it was illegal, that it was -. What made him even think you would -," surprised, Gemma looked up into Mac's face, and saw the distance, the shadows lengthening between them.
"He has a - hold. That was why I agreed to the exile. But now he's overstepped the agreement, and I'm back home." This, she could see, was as much as he would tell her. She was not part of this. Not part of his life, his real life. His home.
"He has no reason to come back now I've healed you, Gemma. It would be futile, there would be no point - just for spite, to mess with a human would raise the wrath of the warlords. He wanted to get at me - god knows why, suddenly - and get me into trouble, but pushing this with you any further - it would rebound on him. Nick is very calculating, and so his spite will be outweighed by his reason. He and I'll be gone from your life, picchu, you can breathe freely again."
Mess with a human. That's all any of this was. She dropped her eyes back to the notch at the base of his throat, the tears forming again in her eyes. Then she leaned forwards slowly, and rested her forehead against his chest, wishing. Longing.
A moment longer. Please.
She felt a sigh stir her hair, and then the soft brush of his lips against the crown of her head. He straightened and stepped back, holding her shoulders as he looked deeply into her eyes before dropping his hands. His sad green eyes.
"Forgive me?" Mac asked softly.
Gemma looked at him. Looked deep into those lovely, loving green eyes, and felt drained. Weary. She didn't owe him anything. As far as she was concerned he no longer needed forgiveness, but - he thought he did. The idiot didn't deserve it, for being so obtuse and unyielding, but this was Mac. He was going. Would leave in sorrow, if she didn't -.
Damn that.
She reached up her hands and pulled his head down to kiss him deeply on the mouth, savouring it this last time, the sensations rippling outwards through her body from where their lips joined. Then she nipped his lip sharply with her teeth, drawing blood. He flinched slightly and pulled away, licking the drop up slowly as he eyed her with an amused expression. He was a wolf, he knew body language, knew what she meant. Forgiven, even if you're an obstinate idiot.
"Told you I could bite you if necessary."
She didn't even see him move, but flinched back herself with a disgusted, "Eugh!" as that warm tongue slurped a wet trail from her chin to her forehead. Swiping at him, he was already out of reach, chuckling, and she saw a blur circle the room swiftly. Triumphal lap. She snorted a laugh and heard, "Still so slow, Gemma. Bye," as Mac leapt casually out of the window. Just like that. Gone.
Her eyes blurred again and she sank slowly back onto her bed, curling over to bury herself under the covers. He was gone.
Gone.