Blue Moon Brides: The Complete Series (3 page)

He pulled his hands away, but not before she got a good look at the nicks and scars carving up his fingers. Knives, fishing lines… She didn’t know what would mark a man so deeply, but his hands were strong and capable, a road map of doing what had to be done. Some primitive part of her responded to the way he wore his scars like a badge of honor. He was strong.

She reached for a sheet of lacy paper, rolling the flowers up into a neat cone. They were almost done here. He’d leave, get back in his boat and return to the bayou. And yet, for some reason, she wanted to prolong the moment. Keep him with her.

He turned away, examining another table loaded with lilies. The stargazers filled the greenhouse with their lush, exotic scent.

“These,” he said, reaching out.

“Don’t touch.”

Too late. He jerked back, head swinging around to hers, frozen with his fingers brushing the stamen. Like he’d done something far worse than touch a flower.

“No touching.” His deep voice was more growl than anything. “You got it,
chère
.”

“They stain,” she explained awkwardly. Grabbing a damp cloth from the table, she took his hand in hers before she could think too much, swiping carefully at the pollen. His hand was warm and firm, deliberately relaxed in hers. Despite her best efforts, the stamen left a dark orange-red streak on the masculine hand cradled in hers. Curious, she ran a finger over his palm. Blinked. She'd thought she’d seen something. A strange shimmer and a hint of fur.

“I need to tell you something.” He paused, his gaze pinning hers. She let go of his hand and retreated backwards a step. “I need you to listen to me,
chère
.”

“Okay.” She cut stargazers, giving the pollen-heavy stamens a hit of hairspray to hold the pollen in before adding the fragrant buds to Rafer’s bouquet. When his hand on her arm gently turned her to face him, the greenhouse felt too small. She felt too feminine. And yet she could see the farm's other workers through the glass walls, so everything had to be okay. She didn’t feel threatened. He was big and dominant, but he was being deliberately careful. “You  changed your mind about the flowers?” she asked lightly.

“No.” An indecipherable look flashed over his face. “Your
nannan
ever talk to you about the families living out in the bayou?”

She’d lived almost a lifetime here on the bayou. The Breaux brothers weren’t entirely unfamiliar, although she’d never had more than a passing glimpse of one brother or another before they’d been gone. Spotting them had been like spotting a wild animal. A quick flash that had her doubting her eyes and then nothing, the men blending seamlessly into their bayou surroundings and disappearing. She didn’t even know how old they were. They were fine-looking men, and at least one of them had to be her age, but she’d met none of them in school. Some of those old bayou families didn’t bother with a formal education, so she’d thought nothing about it. She hadn’t met them in town or at the market either. The Breaux brothers were a mystery. Six feet of tall, dark mystery.

“Sure she talked.” She stared at the lacy scrap of ribbon she’d tied around the paper-wrapped bouquet. That stab of pain was back. Her grandmother wouldn’t be telling any more stories.

“She tell you about my brothers and me?”

“She mentioned you Breauxs.” A smile spread across her face. “Once or twice.”

He nodded. “She warned you about us. That’s a good thing there.”

She shrugged, testing the string. She didn’t want his flowers to blow apart on that boat of his. God knew how far into the swamp he lived. “Not really. Just said you and your brothers were trouble, and I should run like crazy if you ever came knocking on my door.”

“Run.” He shook his head. “That’s the last thing you should do,
chère
. Don’ run unless you mean it.”

He stepped forward, trapping her between him and the worktable.

“Are you planning on hunting me down?” she said the words lightly, but the sensual tension in the room ratcheted up. He suddenly seemed larger. More feral.

“Of course,” he said. She looked for the laughter in his eyes, but there was none. She could almost swear he was serious. “We like to hunt, and we do everythin’ together.”

A zing of heat hit her at his words. He couldn’t possibly mean
everything
.

“You know about the blue moon?” he asked.

“I’ve heard of it.” She’d heard stories, warnings. Her mother didn’t want her anywhere near the bayou. Those stories couldn’t be true—and yet nothing seemed impossible anymore. The bayou was a place for dark magic. She fingered the gris-gris Mama Jolie had given her.

“Wolves go out huntin’ during the blue moon.” He watched her intently, his face turned towards hers.

“That doesn’t have anything to do with me.” She wondered if he could smell the lie. His big body didn’t move.

“If you say so,
chère
.” He reached down beside her, picking up the paper cone of flowers. “What do I owe you?”

“Nothing. Consider them a gift.” She licked dry lips, unsure of what to do next. Of how to handle this inexplicable, intense attraction to a stranger. He was so alive and certain. So completely out of her league.

“That’s real nice of you.” He moved swiftly, leaning into her before she could so much as blink. His heavy weight pinned her against the table as his hand came up and cupped the side of her jaw. “May I?”

God. She’d let him do anything he wanted.

“May you what?”

“Touch you,” he said hoarsely.

He didn’t kiss her, not quite. His face pressed against the skin of her throat, her head falling back in a strangely vulnerable gesture. He inhaled roughly, his breath a hot brand on her ear, his mouth moving over her jaw to the corner of her mouth. To her eternal embarrassment, she moaned. She wanted more. More Rafer, more touches.

He stepped away, the flowers cradled gently in one massive arm.

“Tomorrow night, you stay home, stay inside your
nannan
’s place. You’ll be fine. Or…” his voice dropped lower, a heated drawl, “…you come on out and see us. But we’ll be hunting.”

He turned and headed down her dock, back out into the bayou, but he’d be back. She knew it.

The sun tucked down behind the horizon of the Gulf, and the bayou night exploded into life around the Pack. Egrets shot out of the cypress trees with their veils of silvery moss, escaping up into the night. Expanding his senses, Rafer sucked in the heavy air, content to simply
feel
for a moment. A long fucking moment. He was sensually aware of the blue moon rising above them, filling the sky with possibilities. Those soft, light-filled rays were like fingers stroking him. Deep inside him, his wolf whined to be set free. Hunt. Seek.
Find
.

As soon as the moon cleared the tree line.

“I have a good feelin’ about tonight’s hunt.” Crouched beside him, Dag tipped his own head back and eyed the sky. Water lapped against the bank where they’d tied up, lending the boat a seductive rock as the hull rolled with the unseen current. The swamp was a dark shadow surrounding them, the water beneath them hiding secrets. The night world here was one of power, where all of the bayou came out to play. To hunt.

Rafer tore his gaze away from the blue moon. The whole “admire nature” thing was foreign to him, but the unexpectedly vivid blue shadows playing out over the surface of the full moon demanded his attention. His brother stood next to him, looking up at the blue moon, stroking his thumb over the edge of his hunting knife. Maybe he felt that sensual pull, too. Dag didn’t look any different. He sported his usual military-style cargo pants, a worn T-shirt stretched over his broad shoulders and a pair of shit-kicker boots. Standard dating wear for the Pack.

Hell, Rafer didn’t look any different himself. He ran a hand over his short hair. Wondered what the woman they hunted tonight would think.  There was a reason he almost never left the bayou. He and his brothers were big, mean, dark-haired brutes. On the outside, there was nothing pretty about them. Or gentle. He didn’t know what was on the inside, man or animal or some combination of the two. That blue moonlight had all his senses coming alive, however, and he wanted desperately to know if
she
was the bride the moon had picked out. Lark Andrews.

Moon or no moon, he’d want to go back to her farm. He’d want to taste her. Eat her up and make her holler from the pleasure.

“You think we'll find her tonight?” Rafer voiced the question they all were thinking. Part of his concern was purely selfish. He wanted Lark Andrews, but even if she turned out not to be the woman chosen by the moon tonight, he needed to find this blue-moon bride because he knew—they all knew—Dag was running out of time. This was the first time Dag had shifted back from his wolf form in weeks. Soon, he wouldn’t shift at all.

Unless Dag found his mate.

Rafer was a bastard to even dream of the bride choosing him.

“Yeah.” Male satisfaction filled Dag’s voice, which was hoarse from disuse. “That’s how the blue moon works, right? At least one of us finds his mate tonight. Maybe more. Maybe she’s the kind who likes to share.”

The blue-moon brides always had strong connections to the bayou’s black magic. Those women were the predestined mates for the Pack and the only ones capable of mating and breeding with the wolves. Although the Pack sometimes found a hint of a bride’s scent, that scent could only be tracked on a night with a blue moon. Over the centuries, fate had sent the Packs very few mates and even fewer blue moons. Maybe that was why, if the woman was willing, she might take two mates. Might allow the other Pack members to touch, as if nature wanted to compensate for the rarity of their women.

A man could dream.

The woman they tracked now smelled sweet and soft. The man in him had tried to warn Lark Andrews yesterday that the Pack wanted her. He’d wanted her to have that choice. Yes or no. Stay inside tonight and stay safe—or come outside to play with them. Play deeply sensual games with six wolvenkind who’d be happy to sleep with her singly or in a group, with sex or without it, because the Pack, his
famille
, was slowly dying without females. They needed to find their mates, and each day that slipped away was a ticking time bomb, counting down the hours to the Pack’s ultimate end. A mate grounded her chosen wolf. She was the spiritual and moral anchor that completed him. The missing half they all needed to find because they were unrepentant, soulless bastards who knew how to kill and how to fuck but not much more.

Eventually, an unmated wolf stopped shifting back, got lost in his beast form and stayed there because he was all animal and no heart, and nature had clearly figured that out. Dag was close to losing what humanity he had left. Hell, they all were.

So tonight Rafer hunted down this mate, and one of his brothers found a chance to be more than merely his wolf.  Whoever this woman was, she was far more than a one-night stand or even a lover.

She was special.

And damned if he wasn’t still hoping she was Lark Andrews.

Time to get the party started, because Luc was headed back their way. He’d slipped out of the boat a half hour ago to do a final recon. The moon had drawn them here, but he wanted to be damned sure it hadn’t lured the Pack’s enemies also. Luc, as their oldest brother and Alpha, pulled his T-shirt over his head first, closing the distance in an obvious all-clear. They’d strip and stash their clothes here, in the boat. Easier to come back since the shift shredded anything they wore.

The moon bathed them all in the blue light. A visceral need punched him in the gut, fire tearing through him, lighting up both his senses and his cock.
Find
.

“Time to hunt.” His wolf surged to the surface, even the brief effort to fight back the change making his voice guttural and rough. He wanted to run, nose to the ground, as his senses strengthened in that unnatural light. The blue moon’s rays were a delicious cock tease.

The question left Rafer’s mouth before he could bite back the words. “You got a definite direction?”

Beside him, Jackson perked up. Jackson was the omega, lowest man in the Pack’s hierarchy. He didn’t usually contribute to these convos, but he sure as hell listened in.

“Yeah.” Luc rattled off a list of coordinates like Rafer was going to plug the fucking numbers into a GPS, then shrugged. “But I’m thinkin’ we want Lark Andrews. Hers is the only family out that direction.” He turned to the others, his gaze inscrutable. “Rafer here knows the way just fine.”

Luc had come to the same conclusion he had. Lark Andrews was the one.

Such a pretty name. Delicate. Full of loops and curls and vowels that made her name sound like a song. The last name wouldn’t matter once she’d joined the Pack—last names were for the purely human and she’d become a Breaux like the rest of them anyhow—but he could imagine calling that name as he drove himself deep inside her.
Lark
.

Inexplicable happiness flooded him. She
was
the one.

“She picks,” Luc said, and there was no missing the warning in his voice as the Pack gathered around. All six of them, which made their Pack too damned small, but Lark Andrews would help them fix that problem. “Once we find her, you all back off and let her choose which one of us she wants to mate with.”

“The bride can pick anyone?”

Luc slid a glance towards Jackson when the younger male spoke up, and the omega quickly dropped his eyes.

“Anyone. Or no one.” His gaze shot to Dag. “That’s her right, and tonight we’re playin’ by the rules. The runnin’—that’s a real fun thing.” A wicked grin lit up his face. “But that’s the game. She don’ want to play with us, she don’ have to. You don’ chase after she says
no
.” Luc’s own mate had run from him. He didn’t talk about that night, but his mate had never come to live with the Pack, which was red flag number one. Mates always lived with their packs.

Always.

But choice was even more important. Like their wilder four-legged brethren, the Pack lived free. Free to go or to leave the Pack. Free to run as a lone wolf or to search out a new pack to join. As a mate, Lark would be an honorary wolf and wolf rules applied.

“Ready?” Luc made the word sound like a question, but it wasn’t. Luc was Alpha and that made his word law. Rafer might be second-in-command, but he still answered to Luc. Luc said they hunted, they hunted.

“Sure am.” Dag whistled as he stripped off, as unconcerned by his nudity as the rest of them were. The Pack was unabashedly sensual, and nudity was simply part of their life, as was the need to touch. To lie skin to skin with each other, wrapped up in the scents and textures and
feel
of their Pack mates.

Luc was watching Rafer, though, which meant his Alpha knew Rafer had reservations. Still, he hadn’t expressed them and he’d keep it that way. Those icy grey eyes didn’t need to be crawling up his ass, because Rafer knew
precisely
how important this hunt was.

“We’re good,” he said. He figured his Alpha didn’t need decorative words and, true enough, the other male nodded curtly and backed the fuck off from his beta.

Although not without a parting shot. “We’re goin’ to take good care of her. She won’ regret this if she chooses to come on home with us.” Luc’s words were a promise, but they all knew the truth.

The skin hunters would also be hunting for the blue-moon bride. The same moon that drew the wolves drew their enemies as well, but the vamps wouldn’t be playing an erotic game of chase-me-catch-me. The vamps would be out to kill.

Fuck. Rafer was tired of nothing but bad memories. He wanted something new. Something sweet. The promise of honey and sage teased him, followed him as he shifted with a grunt into his wolf form.

His wolf was large and grey, the dark fur almost black. Larger than natural wolves, with a hundred-plus pounds of pure muscle, he knew precisely where he stood in his Pack. Second only to his Alpha, and only that because neither of them knew who would win if he challenged. Rafer didn’t want that role.

Didn’t want to hold all their lives in his hands.

Baring his canines, he inhaled sharply.  The night air smelled good, clear and crisp this far from the human cities. He scented other wolves, smaller animals.
Prey
. In his wolf form he was pure predator, but he forced himself to ignore the delicious tendrils of fear and panic from the smaller creatures he ran past. Those playthings were safe tonight.

He was after other prey.

Human
prey.

Nose to the ground, he picked up the trail easily and broadcast his discovery to his brothers in a low, long howl.
She’d
hear, too. He knew that. And, if she was as smart as he suspected, she’d know he was coming for her.

And she’d run or she’d stay.

It was time to hunt. Time to hope that Lark Andrews was ready to
choose
.

~*~

Oh God, God. God
. She chanted the name like a litany.  The wolf pack surrounded her, backing her up against the bottom of the cliff as the ocean crashed and shouted, teasing her with the promise of temporary safety a mere twenty yards away. No way she could cover the sand between here and the water. Not before the wolves took her down. Plus, once she hit the water, what then? The night air was cool enough that she could see her breath hanging in front of her in a white cloud. If she got in that water, she’d have to swim out and pray the wolves couldn’t follow. Maybe she’d buy herself a handful of too-short minutes before the hypothermia kicked in—and that was only if the waves didn’t drive her onto the rocks.

Drowning might be an easier death.

Fingers trembling, she fumbled in her backpack for a lighter. Found matches. God, she shouldn’t have quit smoking. Jamming the handheld torch between her arm and her side, she ripped a match off the crumpled book. The head snapped off.
No
. The circle of wolves tightened, drawing closer. She’d swear they were stalking her. Maybe they were. Wolves hunted in packs, didn’t they? Still, there was no mistaking the shadows of the large, powerful bodies moving closer as those golden eyes watched her.

Fear surged through her, no match for the adrenaline that had sent her running. She was going to die out here, and it wasn’t going to be pretty.

The match blazed to life—right before the ocean breeze knocked her flame flat on its ass. The spark died abruptly. Well, shit. The largest wolf stepped towards her, and he was a big, big motherfucker. He had to outweigh her by maybe fifty pounds.

“I’m not going to taste good,” she growled. “So you all should back off now.”

No surprise—the wolf kept on coming. She’d swear the beast was laughing at her. She slid the hunting knife from its place on the side of her pack. One blade wouldn’t be enough. Plus, she’d never stabbed a living creature before. There had to be a first time for everything, though, and this was a do-or-die moment if she’d ever seen one. She got the blade up and kept her eyes on the wolf’s face.

The wolf lunged.

Lark shot upright in her bed, legs tangled in the cotton sheet. The room was quiet, filled with the soft shush of the fan overhead, but fear plastered her chemise to her soaked skin.
Wolves
. She’d had too many dreams about wolves lately. Mama Jolie’s words haunting her perhaps.
You beware the wolves, sha. They gon’ eat you up.