Читать книгу: «Her Wicked Wolf»
Writer Brienne Fox can’t stop thinking about her sexy new downstairs neighbor. But the chances of living out her X-rated fantasies with the man are slim when they’ve barely exchanged two words.
Alistair Locke has good reasons for staying a solitary wolf. With his enemy on the hunt, anyone close to him is in mortal danger. Yet no woman has ever stirred the beast within the way Brie does, and they can’t resist the erotic pull drawing them together when they get snowed in together.
But giving in to one night with the woman he desires may provide the perfect opening for his mortal enemy to destroy the exiled alpha wolf for good....
Her Wicked Wolf
Kendra Leigh Castle
Contents
Chapter One
Chapter Two
Chapter Three
Chapter Four
Chapter Five
Chapter Six
Chapter Seven
Chapter Eight
Copyright
ONE
She needed to quit daydreaming about the guy downstairs.
Brienne Fox dropped her pen onto the table, barely hearing it roll off the edge and clatter onto the linoleum. The half-finished grocery list in front of her vanished from her thoughts like so much smoke. All she could hear was the key in the door, the footsteps...and the murmur of that dark, silken voice as he greeted what she assumed must be his cat. Not that she’d spent too much time thinking about what might or might not be in his apartment. Or what he did while he was in there.
Or anything.
Brie closed her eyes and dug her hands into her hair, resting her elbows on the table and slumping a little as she castigated herself. Every day was the same. She was a perfectly normal, well-functioning human being until that car pulled into the driveway they shared. But as soon as she heard the steady hum of his sleek little sedan’s engine, all of her functioning brain cells dropped whatever they were doing to focus on one thing, and one thing only.
Him. Or more specifically, him naked and in one of a wide variety of compromising positions, all of which involved her.
It wasn’t exactly productive, since Alistair Locke had barely given her the time of day the few times she’d managed to bump into him. When speaking was almost out of the question, a torrid affair didn’t seem all that likely.
Brie pushed back her chair, got up and wandered over to the window to look out at the fresh tire tracks in the snow-dusted driveway. Alistair’s car would be parked by her sand-and—salt spattered SUV, as it always was, in the old carriage house that had been converted into a garage. Just as she had boxes of stuff next to his in the upper level of the garage. Unfortunately, her possessions got more time with him than she did. There was plenty of space for two people here—almost too much.
She hadn’t been sure about renting an apartment in such an old house, no matter how beautiful it was. She’d had visions of lousy heat, electrical and plumbing issues, and of course, a resident ghost that would doubtless terrorize her into leaving anyway. But the place had sucked her in, from the high ceilings and gleaming wood floors to the big window that looked out on the wide street lined with old trees and stately old Victorians much like this one.
The upstairs was hers, apparently ghost-free, and she loved it. It was the perfect hiding place for somebody like her, a working writer who thrived on a certain amount of quiet and personal space. Of course, having Alistair downstairs had provided a little too much fodder for what was already an overactive imagination.
If she hadn’t been so boringly normal in every other way, she might have been really concerned about herself instead of just uneasy. She’d liked guys before. She’d lusted after plenty of them. But this didn’t feel quite...normal.
Brie’s eyes rose to the sky, and she found herself momentarily diverted. The snow clouds that had hung heavily on the horizon all day had darkened to an ominous slate-gray, and they seemed to be moving in swiftly. They were predicting that the massive nor’easter would start hitting by early evening. She’d promised herself she’d get to the grocery store before the snow started falling, just in case. With luck, the power would stay on. Without luck...well, she’d cross that bridge when she came to it.
And of course, Alistair had the only working fireplace in the house in his apartment....
Brie squared her shoulders and headed back to the table to grab the grocery list. Food first. She’d just figure the rest of it out as she went. And along the way, it would be nice if her mind could focus its energy on something actually productive, instead of creating scenarios with her neighbor that involved firelight and a soundtrack loaded with songs by Enigma.
Minutes later she was headed out the door and down the stairs, cozy in bulky boots and a heavy coat. She purposely avoided looking at the door to Alistair’s apartment. He never came out when she was around, and he wasn’t going to—
Oh God, there he is.
The door opened, and well over six feet of dark, shaggy, antisocial male walked out. Brie stopped short three steps from the bottom, so startled she could do nothing but stare. She rarely got this close to him...which was a shame, because up close, he was even more delicious than he was from a distance.
Then again, considering the sudden pounding heart and lightheadedness, a little distance might be the healthier thing. She just wanted to climb him like a tree, wrap her legs around him, and bite.
Brie’s eyes widened in horror at the images that flickered, unbidden, though her mind. Biting? What the hell?
Alistair froze for a moment when he realized he wasn’t alone, and they stared at each other in the silence. Brie drank him in, unable to help herself. He was wearing all blacks and grays, which seemed to be a habit of his—black peacoat, gray-and-black scarf, black pants, all covering a long, lithe form that moved with sensual, effortless grace. His hair was black as a raven’s wing, and seemed less to be cut in an actual style than simply overlong. It waved slightly, falling around a face that was a study in hawkish beauty. His cheekbones were high and sharp, a perfect match for his blade of a nose. Handsome was probably the wrong word for him, Brie thought. Compelling was probably a better one.
Alistair’s lips pressed into a thin, hard line as he watched her. His eyes—big, thickly lashed, and the blue of the deepest ocean—seemed to exert a gravitational pull that she had to struggle to resist. And she would keep struggling, Brie thought as she collected herself as best she could. Because she was reasonably certain that Alistair was not thinking “Please, hurl yourself at me right this instant,” no matter what his eyes looked like..
“Miss Fox,” he said, his deep, cultured voice making a formal address sound more like a lover’s endearment.
“Mr. Locke,” she replied, her lips curving up into a small smile despite herself. He couldn’t be much older than she was, early thirties maybe, but he’d never addressed her by her first name. The combination of his British accent and his old-fashioned manners fascinated her. It was like meeting a character from a Jane Austen novel right outside her door.
She’d certainly pictured him in breeches enough times.
Alistair inclined his head and hesitated. Brie imagined he was trying to decide whether to continue outside and risk actual conversation with her, or simply slink back into his apartment and wait for her to leave. Her smile faded in the face of the usual hurt and confusion. She wasn’t some troll, and as far as she knew her conversational skills were just fine. So what was his problem? For about the millionth time, Brie wished she could take this ridiculous attraction, light it on fire, kick the ashes away and move on with her Alistair-free existence. He was probably like this with everyone, she told herself. The man never had company that she’d seen. And some people simply didn’t like other people. But it got harder all the time not to take his repeated snubs personally. They were neighbors. She was low-key, neat, didn’t throw wild parties, never blocked the driveway, and had never reacted to his presence by turning into a slobbering idiot. Despite all that, all she generally had to do was say hello to get him to bolt.
So she found herself shocked when Alistair shut the door behind him, locked it and continued speaking to her of his own volition.
“And where are you off to before the storm, Miss Fox? Somewhere safer, I hope.”
TWO
Alistair had promised himself he wouldn’t get this close to her, but surely a walk to the garage was safe enough.
Though of course, nowhere with Brienne Fox would be completely safe, he thought. At least, not where he was concerned. The woman had no idea how appealing she was. How much he wanted to explore every inch of that curvy little body with his lips, his tongue.
His teeth.
That last impulse was the most worrisome. It had been a long time since a woman had stirred his senses this way—if one ever had. No matter what he tried to tell himself to rationalize it all away, some deep, dark part of himself kept quietly insisting that Brienne was different. Singular. Which would explain why he was compelled to spend an unreasonable portion of every evening simply breathing in her scent, which seemed to permeate every nook and cranny of the house, and wishing he could just...roll around in it. Preferably with her.
Frustrated, Alistair forced the unwanted thoughts away. He had good reasons for staying a solitary wolf, and he had no intention of endangering anyone...no matter how mouthwatering she might be.
“I’m just headed to the grocery store, actually,” Brienne said, blissfully unaware of the heated images cascading through his thoughts. “You?”
“I have a few last-minute things to pick up. Nothing more,” he replied. Such a casual way to put it, Alistair thought, smirking at the dark humor in the moment. Brienne was talking about buying milk and bread to weather a storm. He was talking about making final preparations to take on an enemy that had been snapping at his heels for years.
It wouldn’t be long now. He could scent trouble on the wind, pressing in all around him. Owain was close by, searching. This time, he would allow his brother to find him...and somehow, he knew that the end of their long battle would come during this storm. It didn’t just provide convenient cover to avoid human attention, it was dramatic in a way that would suit Owain—howling wind, blinding snow, and a bloody crescendo.
Alistair often wished his brother had decided to channel his impulses differently and just become an actor instead of a psychopath. In the meantime, he would rather not give Owain another weapon to use against him. Enough people had been punished for earning his affection.
Alistair drew in a deep breath and opened the front door for Brienne, catching the scent that had slowly been driving him mad for months now—vanilla and apricot, a breath of summer on a blustery winter day.
“Thanks,” Brienne said, the look she gave him bemused. It would be, he supposed. Chivalry was basically dead these days, but old habits died hard. And his were very old indeed. Old enough to terrify a beautiful young thing like her.
“Of course,” Alistair said, hoping his voice sounded steadier than he felt as he stepped out after her.
“My first real nor’easter,” Brienne said, her tone as warm as it always was when she tried to speak to him. “I’m not sure whether to be excited or worried.”
She seemed to be both, which didn’t surprise him. Their longest encounter to date, shortly after she’d moved in, had involved Brienne chattering happily about the “adventure” of moving to this small Northern town from the sunny Florida coast where she’d been raised. She seemed to carry that sunlight with her, he thought. The woman was so damnably inviting. What puzzled Alistair was why she continued to try and initiate contact with him when he was anything but. He was an unsociable creature who’d spent too long focused on honor, duty, and nothing else. He was under no illusions about his meager appeal to someone like her. Most women seemed to sense his otherness and steered clear.
And yet here she was again.
Fascinated despite himself, Alistair fell into step beside her, letting his eyes rake her from head to toe when she looked away. Brienne’s beauty was striking each time he saw her. She’d twisted up the loose curls of her honey-blond hair into a bun, though a few obstinate tendrils had already escaped to frame the perfect oval of her face. Alistair’s gaze lingered on the pretty pink rosebud lips, the pert little nose, and the eyes, wide and an arresting shade of forest-green that quickly returned to him. He already knew the body that was hidden beneath her winter coat was perfect, small-waisted and amply curved in all the right places. He’d admired it often enough from afar.
Not to mention imagined it enough in his unoccupied moments.
Alistair didn’t realize he hadn’t responded to her until she tried again, her voice taking on a nervous edge that he knew he’d caused. Good, he thought. She ought to be nervous around him.
“So do you think it’ll be bad? The storm, I mean? The weather people seem to think we’re going to get dumped on, but they’re wrong at least half the time.”
“I think they’re right this time,” Alistair said. He could feel the approach of the storm deep in his bones, could smell it on the cold breeze. They would indeed get hit. One storm among hundreds he’d experienced, and one more he would spend without the warmth of his pack to surround him. He let himself wonder, just for a moment, how they were before pushing the thoughts aside. They were safe, according to his last conversation with Edwin. His nephew was doing a good job acting as Alpha in his stead, but lately, he’d begun pressing Alistair to come back. Edwin was increasingly insistent that with Alistair now healed, they could fight off whatever army Owain could muster. He was almost tempted...until he looked at his scars. And remembered the bodies—the friends—they’d had to burn.
Alistair’s guess had been right—his brother hated him even more than he wanted control of the pack. As long as that stayed true, he would stay in this self-imposed exile and keep this the way it always should have stayed.
Between the two of them.
“Well, hopefully the power will stay on,” Brienne said, drawing his attention back to her. “I’m not sure the landlord has a generator to lug over, even if he could.”
He frowned. “One never knows. Surely you have friends locally who’ve done this before.”
She shrugged, flushing a little. “I’ve had some pretty tight deadlines since I’ve been here. And, you know, it’s kind of harder to make good friends when you don’t work outside your house. Not that I don’t have friends,” she added hurriedly. “They’re just mostly not, you know, here.”
It hadn’t occurred to him until that moment that the woman wouldn’t have a backup plan that involved leaving. Or that she wouldn’t have dozens of friends lined up waiting to help her, even though he’d never actually seen any of them. It was a shock to realize they had something in common.
“But you seem so”—delicious, beautiful, irresistibly lickable—”friendly,” Alistair finally managed, nearly choking on the word.
Now she looked amused. “Oh. Well...thanks?”
“You may want to think about visiting your family Miss Fox, or at least getting out of town if you don’t want to go that far. There’s still time to pack a few things and start driving. It’s likely to get very bad. Have you looked at the news? This is nothing like the hurricanes I expect you’ve seen. When the storm moves out, we could be snowed in for days.” And I’d hate to see you caught up in anything that might happen, he silently added. Surely Brienne had safer places to go, places she wouldn’t be alone without heat or light. Places where she wouldn’t be compelled to ask to share an unfriendly werewolf’s fireplace.
One look in those intelligent green eyes and he knew that was exactly what she expected to do. That, and perhaps more. There was no ignoring the desire he saw simmering just beneath the surface...though the gods knew he’d been trying for months now. This would be so much easier if everything in him didn’t want to respond to her need by revealing his own. Alistair swallowed hard.
“Please call me Brie,” she said. “And thanks for the advice, but I’m sure I’ll manage. You’re staying put too, right? If things get sticky, I’m sure we can figure something out.”
It was spoken innocently enough, but Alistair found himself suddenly inundated with visions of how it might be if he drizzled honey all over her body and licked it off. Sticky, indeed. He fought back a shudder, glad he was wearing a coat that covered the hard, throbbing evidence of his thoughts about her. It was time to end this before he did something foolish. Fortunately, they’d arrived at the garage. Alistair opened the side door for her, and she stepped inside. He followed, but she startled him by stopping short and turning to look at him, a determined look on her face.
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