I glanced at the digital clock on my nightstand and sighed. It was just past six o’clock and I was less than an hour away from my private dinner with Mr. Dante— with
Jarred
. Nerves made my stomach squeeze, so I fell face-first onto my bed and tried to smother myself in the pillows. Unfortunately, my survival instincts were too strong and I ended up rolling onto my back and staring at the ceiling.
What did he want from me? We could discuss my plans for the clinic anytime. Actually, I had no plans for the clinic. It practically ran itself. I knew Jarred had chosen me for my desperation rather than my skills (obviously). He needed someone in the profession to run his clinic, but more than that, he needed to control that someone.
Despite that whole serial-killer debacle, I wasn’t a bad therapist. Not that my session with Mr. Danvers was any proof. I sighed. I wanted so much to help him, and the others. It wasn’t entirely an altruistic goal. I wanted to feel like I was doing something right, something good for people. I wanted to wash clean my sins by paying penance here. Unease fluttered through me. Why couldn’t I ignore the feeling that all was not as it seemed at the clinic? I couldn’t point at anything or anyone and exclaim, “Aha!” I had no proof of nefarious dealings. I just … freaking didn’t like it here. My mind circled back around to Mr. Danvers. Should I have at least poked at his emotions, see what was twisting him up? No. Not yet. If I hadn’t tried to use my gift to manipulate Robert, to fix him, things might’ve ended differently. You can’t fix empty. You can’t give a soul to a man who has none. As much as I’d wanted to wiggle into the cracks of Mr. Danvers’s emotional barriers and help him see the truth about the nonexistent Malphas … I would wait.
I yawned. I hadn’t realized how tired I was until now. Lolling on the bed was a bad idea. But maybe … a teeny-tiny nap would help delay the threatening headache. No doubt that was a physical response to the stress of having dinner with Jarred, who so did not want to talk about the clinic.
I yawned again and let my thoughts drift. Then I curled up around a pillow and fell asleep.
In the dream, I wore a frilly blue dress. Its crinoline skirt brushed my knees. My feet were bare, my toes digging into the soft grass beneath my feet. It was dusk. I stood next to a large tree that was an amazing shade of purple.
“Late,” said a growling voice. “Late. Always late.”
I looked around, trying to see who was speaking. The forest around me looked as though it had been created by a five-year-old on a sugar buzz. I saw no one else—nothing else.
A huge black wolf jumped over a mossy log and stopped short. He looked me over, tilting his head. I saw the jade green eyes, and gasped. “Damian?”
“Late,” he said with a bark. Then he turned and took off.
I followed.
“Wait!” I cried.
The wolf was fast and nimble. He sailed over fallen limbs and scrubby bushes, and darted past trees in Easter egg colors. I tried to keep up, but he was too quick. Then I stumbled into a small clearing. We were at the massive purple tree again, only this time, I could see a gaping, dark hole in its thick, gnarled base.
The wolf looked into the hole, and then at me.
“What?” I asked. I crept closer, staying clear of the hole. “You want me to go in there?”
He nodded.
“I can’t,” I said. I smiled weakly. “I’m not Alice.”
“Mate,” he said. “Mate.”
“Don’t you mean late?” I asked.
“Save me,” he said. Then he leapt into the hole.
I screamed, and lurched for him, my arms wide, and then I fell, tumbling, tumbling into the dark.
I awoke gasping for breath. I shot off the bed, the pillow still clutched in my arms. I tried to get myself together, but I was shaking.
Way to be helpful, subconscious.
I sucked in some steadying breaths, not even remotely ready to dissect the meaning of that dream.
I glanced at the clock on the nightstand and cursed. If I didn’t get my ass in gear, I would be late for my dinner with Jarred. Like it or not, he was my boss, and I wanted to keep my job.
Damian. I paused. I really did want to save him. Despite my stern self-lectures, my unrepentant pulse gave a little leap. How could I ever hope to treat Damian if I couldn’t stop drooling over the man?
Argh!
I plopped back onto the bed, thinking about Jarred, which wasn’t exactly a safer area. Maybe my discomfort with this place had to do with the niggling suspicion that Jarred had picked me for
me
—a far more terrifying consideration than the idea my patheticness had driven him to an act of unimaginable kindness. Despite my lapses in judgment over the years, I had never told a soul about my empathic abilities. I can’t exactly remember what it was like for me as a child, but I’m sure any weirdness I displayed was shrugged off as my imagination gone wild. I was nine years old when I figured out two things: First, being able to “feel” the emotions of others was not something everyone could do. Second, people didn’t appreciate it when you dug around their emotional landscape and talked about their unsightly weeds.
So, yeah, very early on, I learned to keep myself to myself.
A low, mournful howl lurched into my thoughts.
I blinked and sat up. For a crazy second, I had a dream-within-a-dream moment, like maybe I hadn’t actually woken up from the weird forest and the talking wolf, but instead had fallen into this space that looked like my bedroom, but wasn’t.
The howl echoed again.
What the hell?
I stood up and looked around trying to get my bearings. I wasn’t in Wonderland. I was awake. Probably. I pinched my arm and yelped. Oh, yeah. Definitely awake.
My apartment was at the end of the facility’s east wing. In fact, my living quarters were the only thing at this end of the second floor. The place was huge and luxurious, filled with marble counters, hardwood floors, silk fabrics, oversized furniture, and an impossible array of polished knickknacks. I mostly stayed tucked into my bedroom, which had its own fireplace, big-screen television, and mini-fridge. The rest of the place felt too much like a museum (or like my mother’s own haughty abode) for me to feel comfortable within it.
Another howl reverberated, much louder this time. Whatever creature was making that racket was in this part of the facility. Did Oklahoma have wolves? I didn’t think so, but getting the skinny on the state’s known wildlife had never been a goal of mine. Of course, I dismissed the idea of a patient causing the ruckus because none had ever displayed animalistic tendencies.
Except … well, Damian.
I hurried into the living room, bumping into the various tables and chairs positioned just so around the ornate fireplace. Above it was an abstract painting of red slashes and purple spatters, which lifted to reveal the flat-screen TV hidden behind. I had only flipped on a couple of the numerous lights available in the cavernous space, so I was maneuvering (ineptly, of course) through the shadowy recesses.
Despite bruised shins and one stubbed toe, I made it to the door. I grasped the knob and hesitated. I was not gonna be the too-stupid-to-live girl (er … again), so I pressed my ear against the thick wood and strained to listen.
I heard rhythmic thumping, a series of noises that sounded like … okay, like light sabers clashing, and then …
hoooooooowl!
“Shit! He’s going for the doc,” yelled a woman’s voice. “How the fuck did he find her?”
“Goddamned werewolves.” Sven! He sounded pissed off. I mean, more so than usual. And werewolves? Really? I’d never be able to help Damian if people catered to his delusions. “Dante will strip our hides if this ass-hole gets close enough to touch her.”
I had a terrible moment where I almost yanked the door open and demanded an explanation. I managed not to turn the knob, though my fingers were trembling with the urge to follow through.
I heard shouts, pain-filled cries, bangs, and thuds.
And then there was nothing but an awful silence.
Something large smacked into my locked front door. I bounced off and stumbled back, heart thudding as I heard ominous splintering sounds. I stared at the cracking, buckling door in horrified awe. I had automatically put up my mental shields, so I had no empathic sense of who was trying to get in … but I knew anyway.
I wouldn’t open myself up to him—keeping myself as closed as the door. I knew too well the mistake I’d made last time and what it had cost so many.
I wished I could say that I did something sensible, like run away, or lock myself in the foyer closet, or grab something with which to defend myself. But since it was me, and not someone with common sense, I stood there like my feet had been glued to the floor.
The door snapped in the middle and the man on the other side grabbed the pieces and yanked them out, tossing them into the hallway beyond.
Damian crouched down, naked and bruised and furious. His nostrils flared, his eyes narrowed, and even through my psychic shields, I felt the sudden, brutal shift of his anger into fierce, ugly need.
“Mine,” he growled.
Then he leapt through the door, howling in triumph.
My fight-or-flight impulse finally kicked in. With my heart trying to claw its way outta my throat, I spun around and darted back through the living room.
Damian followed. Sorta. I heard the whumps of his feet hitting the couch cushions and the crash of items he knocked off tables as he cut across the area I’d avoided. Just as I got to my open bedroom door, he landed in front of me, crouched on all fours, his head cocked as he studied me.
Why the hell was he naked again? And what could’ve possibly triggered his need to go into werewolf mode? I noted a small circular burn on his shoulder. What weapon in Sven’s arsenal made that sort of wound?
Oh, God. What had Damian done to Sven and the security team? Had he killed them? Nausea roiled and I pressed a trembling hand to my stomach. What on earth had made me believe that I could help this man? That I could help anyone? I’d demanded Damian be assigned a room because I wanted to believe he wouldn’t hurt anyone. I’d made a terrible mistake.
Again.
I had no idea what to do now. I wasn’t anywhere near a panic button, and there were several located within the apartment. Just how many homicidal maniacs did a girl have to face in one lifetime? Granted, this situation was different from the one with Robert, except that I still didn’t have a clue how to handle myself. I had no weapons, no clever ideas—just a terrible, numb sensation that felt too much like surrender.
Damian’s nostrils were flaring, and his eyes were strange. The pupils were large and round. They looked so different. I couldn’t quite wrap my brain around this observation. Could a person so lost in their delusion physically create characteristics that confirmed their beliefs? Damian believed he was a wolf, and so he was trying to become one. And rather succeeding.
His nostrils continued to flare as he stared at me. Then he growled low in his throat, baring his teeth at me. The growl sounded very much like it had issued from a wolf rather than a man pretending to be one. Fear chilled me.
I stepped back, and the growl got louder, meaner.
Catering to the delusion was not the correct therapeutic approach, but right now, I was more worried about survival. It seemed to me that responding to him as though he were, indeed, a wolf, might serve me best. Unfortunately, I knew zipola about wolf behavior. Why oh why didn’t I watch more National Geographic? All that knowledge gleaned from the Style Network certainly wasn’t helping me now.
Screw it.
“Damian,” I said in a sharp, firm voice. “You’re being rude.”
He stopped growling, and once again cocked his head, his gaze on mine. He looked startled. He sat back on his haunches, blinking. Panicked as I was, I couldn’t help but note that he had a fully erect penis, which did not reassure me about his intentions.
“Rude.” His eyes somehow changed again, reverting to a more human gaze. “I do not wish to be rude.” Slowly, he rose to his feet. My fear receded just a little. While I no longer saw evidence of the injuries I’d noted when observing him in the induction room (which was weird because those kinds of wounds shouldn’t heal in mere hours), I saw fresh bruises and cuts—no doubt from Sven’s attempt to recapture him.
And he still had that impressive erection, too.
Damian crossed to me in two long strides and grasped my arms. He had a firm grip on me, though not a painful one. His gaze was intense as he studied my face.
“What are you?” he asked.
“I’m not sure what you mean,” I said carefully.
“You smell so good. But not human. You’re wolf. You smell like wolf.” He inhaled, his eyes closing, his lips pulling back in a feral grin. Then his eyes popped open. He lowered his face to mine. “I want you.”
Dry-mouthed, I licked my lips, which drew his attention in a way that made my heart skip a beat. I couldn’t allow him to kiss me, even though a tiny dark part of me hoped he’d take what he wanted. Then I could have that kiss guilt-free. (Being a therapist made me an ace at creating justifiable behavior.) He was so close that his hard-on brushed my stomach, which was bare, thanks to the way the camisole’s filmy cloth parted in the middle.
“Permit me,” he said.
“I … uh, what?”
“I cannot take what belongs to you.”
What an odd way to express … um, whatever he was trying to express. Oh. He said the next time he’d remember to ask permission. And I’d assured him there would be no next time. Silly me. I quaked as emotions tumbled through me. My shields were feeling too thin, and no doubt I was honing in on Damian’s passion, which was mixing in with my own fear and consternation. Still, I had an opportunity to regain control, and I took it.
“Let me go, Damian,” I said softly.
“No,” he croaked. My shields dissolved under the weight of his desperation. His emotions flowed over me in tangled waves. He was afraid that if he let me go, he would be lost again. I ascertained he had not regained his memories, but obviously, his delusion of being a wolf was wholly intact. His emotions rioted through me—anger, terror, confusion, and, most of all, a passionate, urgent need to claim the female in his arms. His lust was more frightening than even the fury that had driven him to my door.