She didn’t make it a question and certainly didn’t wait for his answer, just sauntered out with those high heels slung over her shoulder. He stared toward the door for a long moment, even after it closed, before he reached for her bottle, aligning his fingers with the empty places her grip had left in the condensation.
By the time he closed the till—after finally booting Orson and his cohorts into the night at the end of one of their impromptu barbershop quartet sessions—and hauled the trash out back, the moon was directly overhead.
In the silvery light, the parking lot looked like a sea of ice, and a shiver raised the hair at his nape. He walked the bar’s perimeter once, running his hand over the seat of his Harley as he passed.
Since the Sun-Down was situated at one end of the main street, he looked straight up the dark asphalt to the slumbering town, all in classic-movie grays. From the alleys branching out to various backyards, Orson’s tenor warbled “Bright Was the Night” and his quartet answered from their own stoops. When their doors closed, the street was quiet.
Behind the tavern, a line of trees marched up to the ridgeline like a finger pointing to the forested mountains. The moonlight turned the pine needles to pewter, leaving the shadows underneath more mysterious in comparison.
Feeling the subtle prickle of a watchful gaze sweep over his skin, Beck faced the darkness. “I know you’re out there.”
The darkness held its breath, but it had been a long night—a long time—and frustration grated on him like the parking lot gravel.
“Quit hiding, little girl.” He knew that would work.
From the pitch-black under the pines glided a lean shape that did not give up its sable darkness despite stepping into the moonlight.
At a distance, the shape screamed wolf. Sometimes outsiders literally screamed wolf. But the faint glimmer of the verita luna lingering around her was a clue to anyone who knew to look that this was no ordinary canid.
She chuffed at him, a reprimand for the little girl remark.
He was in no mood to be scolded. “You forgot to pay for the beer.”
Quick as a thought, she dodged at him. Her shining teeth caught his pant leg and tugged him off balance before she jumped away.
He staggered and almost went down. “What, you left without a word, and now you want to play? You can’t have it both ways.”
She growled. Werelings in the verita luna were always more volatile, their human-style principles and filters stripped away.
He knew his complaint was stupid—werelings lived two ways every day—but the sight of her all dolled up had reminded him of the distance between them. And how easily she always walked away, whether in high heels or barefoot. “Go home. I’m done with your games.”
She stared at him. The moonlight couldn’t catch her plush, dark fur but it glimmered in her pale eyes.
“Shoo,” he said.
She charged.
He was hampered by the towering bulk of his human body while she was smooth and quick in her four-pawed drive. Her teeth caught his jeans again, higher on his thigh this time, too close for comfort. Denim ripped with a sound like laughter, and a gust of cool night air wafted across his privates before she danced back.
“Dammit, Mer!”
She darted forward again, but this time he was ready. As she came at him, he juked and caught her by her scruff and the thick base of her tail. She was a bit of a thing, especially for wolf-kind, and he was big for any man. He hefted her weight easily.
She yelped as her paws left the ground, but mercilessly, he tossed her into the stock tank he kept filled for the ranchers and pleasure riders who stopped for drinks.
The splash was mighty, but not nearly as impressive as the snarling.
He stood with his hands on his hips. Oh shucks, he had infuriated the beast.
She launched out of the tank with her back paws braced on the steel rim. He had just enough time to admire the wild ice shine in her eyes before she hit him square in the chest.
He went over backward like an axed pine tree, one arm curling protectively around her wet fur. Gah, his stupid body wouldn’t let her fall even though she was the one at fault.
He lay in the gravel, staring up at the moon, while she scrambled to her feet, her front paws braced on either side of him. She shook, sending a cloud of damp diamonds in all directions. The scent of her—pine duff and warm spices and secret shadow places—made his breath catch.
That and her back paw in his crotch.
He sat up to heave her off his chest. “Forget it, Merrilee. I’m not interested—”
She snagged the hem of his T-shirt in her teeth and sprang over him, skimming the fabric inside out over his head.
He swiped at her, but she was off and running, his shirt between her teeth and her tail between her legs.
Which was a load of horseshit. She wasn’t afraid of him or anybody. But she should be. That was his favorite shirt.
Chapter 2
She ran. It felt good to run with her kill in her teeth and the bright moon on her back. And Beck was behind her, which made running even better.
Weaving between the blackjack pines, she chanced a glance back. He would need a moment to recover from the unsettling transformation of the verita luna, when the beast was dominant, but she knew he was fast—There! That brindled flash between the trees was Beck’s rich brown hair streaked with sun-bleached locks and a bit of gray at the temples from being so damned honorable.
She thrashed her head from side to side, slinging the T-shirt through the pine needles. He called the shirt a classic. Most of the band members featured on the front had died of overdoses decades ago.
Which was still more recent than the decade Beck occupied in his head.
She had sensed his irritation when she talked about her job. In his 1950s mind, he probably believed she should stay home. Probably thought she should turn over her pack lands to him. With a belly roll while she was at it.
Although sometimes it might be nice to share the burden...
No. Her pack expected more from her.
A hundred years ago, her ancestress had defied wolf-kind patriarchy to kill the abusive Alpha who had battered the pack and founded a place for werelings with their own unique ways. But championing such a sanctuary required a leader tough enough to hold hidebound traditions at bay while still holding the pack together, a precarious balance upon which rested their independence. To each female Alpha since came the same warning: Be strong always.
She thrashed the T-shirt again as if it had questioned her vow.
From behind her, a low, deep roll like thunder vibrated in her bones. For half a heartbeat, she wondered if Beck’s inner beast still had the upper hand. Or paw, as it were. But it was rare that the verita luna, the Second Truth, completely eclipsed the more human aspect. Werelings spent most of their childhoods in their upright forms, learning the intricacies of the human world and human control, before puberty made the shift—and the passions of the beast—inevitable.
Of all werelings to succumb to the il-luna, it would not be Beck Villanova. From his strictly traditional upbringing, right down to a stint in the army, he was the perfectly controlled Alpha. She’d had to practically bite him to get him to shift. She shook her head at her own flight of nerves. Beck would never let his beastly side rule unopposed.
Although sometimes she fantasized about the possibility.
The whiff of his manly sweat was ripe in her nostrils from the T-shirt he’d worked in all night. The bite of whiskey and the smoky scent of bacon were heady enough, but the hints of leather, musk and books also made her senses whirl.