Chapter 4 4

MALCOLM

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The sweet smell of vanilla washes over the room when she walks in.

My mate.

My chest tightens when she comes closer with that blasted trolley. Her blonde hair is secured in a tight coil at her nape and like always, I am filled with a desperate desire to see it unbound, tumbling down her slender back.

Her guileless green eyes take me in and she offers a tentative smile. "Hey."

"Release me," I say.

For the past four days, this has been my reply to her greetings. It has become a ritual of sorts, with her giving me an exasperated reply.

But as the days go on, I realize I don't know what exactly I'm asking release from. This god's forsaken place, or the spell she seems to have woven over me.

I crave the sight of her.

My mind is a whirl of depraved thoughts surrounding her hair, her body, her lips--what the red, succulent buds will taste like, what it'd be like when I feed my dick through them.

I should be ashamed.

She is a Hunter.

I almost scoff. My f*cking mate is a Hunter.

I suppose this is the Moon goddess's way of punishing me for what I did all those years ago.

To my earlier statement, she says with a sigh, "I can't do that."

"Why?" I ask, feeling irritation well. "I'm your mate."

Her brows pull down. "I don't even know you! I doubt you even know what my name is."

"I do."

A brow lifts. "What is it then?"

I shrug. "Piper."

A sound escapes her, a mix between amusement and exasperation. "Wrong." She turns away and starts to lay out food from the trolley. In a quieter tone, she says, "It's Gwen."

"Gwen," I repeat slowly, loving the way her name rolls over my tongue. I frown.

The smooth curves of her cheeks redden and soon after the sweet scent of her arousal hits my nose. A low growl escapes me.

She jumps at the sound, eyes snapping to mine.

"I could bring you to release," I say, my voice gone husky. "Hike up your skirt and come sit on my face. You could be riding out your release in seconds with my name on your lips."

A scandalous expression widens her eyes. "Malcolm!"

"Exactly." Then I laugh. The sound is foreign.

It sobers me up. To anyone without eyes, we could be enjoying each other's company. But no, I am chained to a bed while my brother is getting tortured for all I know.

At her embarrassment, I say indifferently, "Indulging in your mate is nothing to be ashamed of. The average number of times werewolves f*ck in a day is ten. Twenty isn't unheard of."

If possible her face reddens the more. Her mouth opens and closes a few times before snapping shut. She straightens and points a ladle in my direction. "Well then, good thing I'm not a werewolf or your mate--"

A growl rips from me, sudden anger tightening my insides.

She goes on, "Hasn't it occurred to you that maybe we've been paired wrongly? That happens, doesn't it? Of course, it does, because it's the only explanation for our pairing. We couldn't be more different. I'm human, you're werewolf--you could outlive me--"

"Not if you're turned into a werewolf."

She halts mid-sentence. "What?"

"I could turn you, make y--"

"And why would you think I want that?? I'm perfectly okay as a human, thank you."

I shrug. "Suit yourself." It won't matter what she is in the long run. Not with what I've planned.

She remains silent for a few seconds, then continues to cut up my toast.

I take in her side profile. Sunlight washes over her slender form, setting her skin aglow. She looks serene, a delectable flush staining her cheeks from our argument. My gaze drops to her pencil skirt and I feel my wolf rise, a familiar sensation seething to life within me. I want her.

No.

I need her.

It is only when my hands are met with resistance that I notice I am straining toward her. I curse and pin her a glare as she nears.

She mirrors my dark look, placing a piece of toast in front of my lips. "Are you normally this bad-tempered?"

"Only when my female connives with my enemies."

She puts the toast in my mouth. "It is criminal to use the word connive in the twenty-first century, and I'm not your female."

To make a point, my lips clamp around her fingers and I give a greedy suck.

She gasps and her cheeks flush. I shoot rock hard at the sound, growling low in my throat.

The sound vibrates down her arm and I see gooseflesh break out around her supple skin. She wrenches her fingers away and shoots me a dark look. "What is wrong with you!?"

Despite myself, a smirk tips my lips to the side. "You liked that."

She does that thing where she opens her mouth and closes it wordlessly, ears reddening. She's so expressive. Unbidden, my cock swells even more when I wonder what other expression I could put on her face.

Oddly I find her discomfort amusing. "My offer still stands," I say. Lift your skirt and come sit o--"

She drives another toast into my mouth with such force I almost choke. But I'm laughing again. When the plates are cleared, she tips a glass of water in my mouth, drawing away. She starts to pack up.

Not ready for her to leave, I ask, "Why do you say your life is in danger?" Sudden anger fills me. "Have the Hunters threatened you?" I tamp down the emotion when I realize I have no right to be angry, not when I'm no better than them. I plan to do the same thing... Put her life in danger.

But why she could possibly be unsafe from the Hunters is a puzzle I haven't been able to fix. Or want to. If it turns out that it's truly the case, then she isn't any better off than I am. And what would that mean?

That I couldn't hate her completely.

Or use her for my callous plans.

It just wouldn't do to assume she isn't fully in with the Hunters. She is one of them.

Responsible for my capture.

And Bowen's suffering.

Rather than answer me, she pushes the trolley out of the room, saying over her shoulder, "Have a nice rest of your day, Malcolm."

The door closes shut and I'm left to the silence of the room.

At once, I begin phase one of my plan.

With a deep grunt, I twist my wrist against the manacle. I go faster, feeling a deep grove cut into my flesh. But even as blood starts to flow I don't falter. Clenching my teeth I clamp my eyes shut as the pain intensifies. Then with a groan, I rip my hand free, a chilling crack echoing in the room.

When I raise my hand to eye level, my stomach clenches. Bloody ropes of muscles, broken fingers, and protruding bones greet me. I've already started to feel the dull throb of pain that told me regeneration is underway.

I close my eyes against blinding pain as I make quick work of the other wrist.

Once it is freed, I lay staring up at the white ceilings, chest heaving. Sweat slicks down my temples, blinding me momentarily.

For the first time since being captured, I drag myself up to a sitting position. I take in a deep breath, catching a whiff of vanilla.

My muscles shoot tight.

The claws on my left hand shoot out and I set on the bindings around my legs. At the first swipe, the chains give away and I rip at the manacles. Bits and pieces fly around the room and after a few more strikes, it falls away in half.

Once I work through the second one, I drop back against the bed, boneless.

Breathing in heavily, I let my eyes slide close.

Then I lay in that position for long moments, waiting for Gwen...