Marked

Marked

Aline Hunter

Fantasy becomes reality if you
carry the mark.

Chloe Bryant doesn’t know what to
expect when she enters The Wolf’s Den. Drawn to the werewolf tattoo parlor for
reasons she can’t explain, she soon discovers the sexy man from her dreams
isn’t a figment of her imagination. Not only is Jackson Donovan real, but he
explains the dreams they shared are due to a destined mating.  But it can’t be
possible. She’s not a werewolf. Even if he swears the mark on her wrist
indicates otherwise.

Jackson is stunned to discover the
beautiful minx from his dreams isn’t a full-blooded werewolf but a Halfling.
The only way to uncover Chloe’s past is to stake a claim to her future. Taking
the delectable female into his bed, he’ll unlock every secret she has to
hide—as well as awaken the passion she’s tucked away for too long—by exploring
her mind, body and soul one sweet inch at a time.

Marked

Aline Hunter

Dedication

An enormous thanks to my adoring husband, my awesomesauce
editor, my amazing readers and my kick-ass critique partners Fallon Blake and
Rosalie Stanton. I couldn’t do this without you.

Chapter One

Chloe Bryant studied the moon, shivering despite the fact
the glowing orb wasn’t entirely full—
yet
. For two more nights it was
safe for the average person to venture into the city. Although supernatural
creatures would be out and about, none would slip into violent tendencies.

At least, she
hoped
they wouldn’t.

A loud, ear-piercing shrill attracted her attention. She
looked out the window of the cab, watching a police car rush by. The blue and
red lights on the top flashed like Christmas lights, bright and blinding.
Sadly, the sight didn’t give her a large measure of comfort. Mortal law
enforcement could only serve and protect in a limited capacity. She hadn’t been
born before the world discovered things like vampires and werewolves were real
but she’d heard about how things used to be. Human governments had changed
decades ago, after they’d discovered they were pretty much powerless against
things that went bump in the night.

When you couldn’t fight an enemy, you acclimated.

Fight the fights you could win. Turn a blind eye to those
you’d lose.

The cabbie shifted in his seat and hit the meter. “Cash or
credit?”

“Credit.”

She tried not to fidget as the driver—a man who wasn’t
entirely
human—pushed a few buttons on the dash. The device for credit cards bolted
into the mesh screen separating the front and back seats blinked to life.
Trying not to wince at the ungodly cost, she swiped her card and pushed the
necessary buttons to complete the transaction. Her heart raced, fear and
anxiety bleeding together.

The driver looked at her through the rearview mirror, his
eyes an iridescent shade of red. “It’s not too late to go home, Little Red,” he
said quietly, the words a throaty whisper. “The big, bad wolves will eat you
up.”

“Excuse me?”

“A human shouldn’t be alone around here.”

She started, her gaze meeting his through the mirror. “How
did you know?”

“That you’re human?” When she nodded, staring at the man in
horror, he laughed. “Are you kidding?” Rotating in his seat, he studied her.
“Have you looked in a mirror recently? You scream young, innocent and human.
Those eyes of yours might fool some people but not me.” He tapped the tip of
his nose and sniffed. “My sense of smell is better than most. You’re different
but you’re definitely human.”

She felt a blush heat her cheeks. So he’d noticed her oddly
colored green irises—irises that had started to change recently. Yes, she was
different. How? She didn’t know. She was only aware of the mark on her wrist
that had seemed to come to life in the last few weeks. Strange sensations and
occurrences had soon followed, starting with sensitivity to scents. After she’d
gotten her nose under control, her sense of taste kicked in.

Gorging on meat? Fine and dandy. Nibbling on salad and leafy
veggies? No way in hell. Even slathered in dressing, a salad tasted like
sandpaper. Her stomach and taste buds rebelled, modifying her food choices.

Then the changes in her body had started.

Her skin had started itching without warning, and the mark
etched into her flesh sometimes burned horribly. Her grandparents had become
concerned, noticing the changes in her behavior and the lightening of her
irises when she became angry or upset. Their constant staring at her
birthmark—at dinner, when she helped with chores or when she was relaxing in
the living room—prompted her to venture to a tattoo parlor in a dangerous area
to remove any trace of the dark crescent shape decorating her pale skin.

As though reminding her of its presence, her birthmark
started to itch. Despite becoming a recent habit, she managed not to rub the
spot. It felt as though the skin heated from the inside when she thought about
the inch-long crescent shape, throbbing in harmony with the drumming of her
heart. Since her mother had died when she was only a baby—leaving her in the
care of her grandparents—she was afraid to ask too many questions about the
damn thing.

Gram and Gramps didn’t like the reddened skin and told her
she could never let anyone see it. To complicate matters, the only person she
could talk to was her best friend. Of course, personal conversations of the
kooky-kind only happened when Rachel was in the
mood
to discuss such
things. Her childhood confidante seemed as skeeved-out by the strange mark as
her family. Not to mention Rachel tended to avoid things that made her feel
uncomfortable—meaning all things preternatural. That was the primary reason
Chloe had made the trip to The Wolf’s Den alone, without asking Rachel to tag
along.

“Listen.” The driver cocked his head, watching her closely.
She tried not to stare at his slightly pointed ears, wondering for a moment
precisely what kind of creature he was. “Once you leave this car, you’re on
your own. A temptation like you won’t make it out of The Wolf’s Den. Is what
you’re here for worth the risk?”

A shiver ran down her spine and she averted her eyes.

Was it worth the risk? Hell if she knew.

She hadn’t thought coming to Atrum Hill—a dangerous part of
Black County—would be
that
dangerous. All she wanted was to slap a
tattoo over the mark on her wrist. She didn’t plan on sticking around. In fact,
she’d programmed the cab company’s phone number into her cell. Her grandparents
were celebrating their anniversary with dinner and a movie so time wasn’t an
issue. If she stayed inside the parlor, no one would see her. She just had to
make it inside, get what she came for and return home before midnight like a modern
day Cinderella.

But why do you
want
to make it inside? What is it
about this place you can’t shake?

“It’s worth the risk,” she mumbled, getting back on track.
She was here now. There was no way she was running like a coward.

“You’re sure?”

No, she wasn’t sure. That was the reason she hadn’t climbed
out of the vehicle. She was waiting for a dose of courage to kick in. Her
birthmark ached, a sharp, biting burn like needles in her skin. An inner
compulsion told her she was doing the right thing, even though she had no idea
what the right thing was.

Damn it.

Hiding the mark wouldn’t stop the weird things she’d been
experiencing recently—things her doctor hadn’t been able to explain. Anxiety.
An increased appetite. Dreams of a man who made her heart race and her body
tingle.

She’d never seen her dream lover’s face, but she couldn’t
deny the connection they shared. Somehow she
knew
him, and it was more
than dreams of sexual grandeur. Deep down the man felt far more important. It
wasn’t about sex. It was about a deeper bond, bringing them closer and closer
together. She knew one day the dreams would take on an importance in her life.
She just didn’t know how or why. If she were being honest, during the last few
weeks nothing seemed to make a whole lot of sense.

“If money is an issue,” the driver offered when she didn’t
respond, “I know of a parlor you can visit in the county. But I have to warn
you, you get what you pay for.”

Damn it.

What he said was true enough. Human tattoo artists could
give her what she wanted. However, they didn’t appeal to her—they didn’t
call
to her—like The Wolf’s Den. Something deep inside her felt drawn to the
place. Why? It was another mystery she’d yet to solve. She’d never ventured to
Atrum Hill before, viewing the city only through the television when she
watched the news. Her friends avoided the area and her grandfather would kill
her for even thinking about coming here.

If Gramps finds out, there’ll be hell to pay.

“Thank you for the concern but money isn’t an issue.” She
tried to sound amicable but the man’s interference was beginning to annoy her.
“I’ve waited weeks for this appointment. I’m not backing out.”

The driver’s eyes narrowed. He pulled his lips back and she
saw pointed canines. “Then by all means.” He motioned to the door and snapped
his fingers. “Go get what you came for. I have a job to do.”

Asshole.

“We don’t want to keep you from that, do we?” she snapped,
flustered by her aggravation and spider web-thin nerves. “You were the one who
wanted to talk. I was being polite.”

Her shaking fingers slipped on the handle but she managed to
open the door. Cold autumn air slapped her in the face, taking her breath away.
Atrum Hill was aptly named—a small city nestled on top of a mountain. The
temperatures were always lower here, although she didn’t believe the rumors it
was due to the supernatural residents and not Mother Nature. Placing her feet
on the concrete, she steadied herself and climbed out. Her jacket wasn’t enough
to ward off the elements, allowing the wind to cut through her clothing.

“Give the company a call if you decide it’s too much for
you. We can have a driver here in ten minutes.” He reached for the gearshift
and put the car into drive, waiting for her to close the door. “Good luck,
babe. You’re going to need it.”

She scowled at the nosy man and used all the strength she
possessed to slam the door. To her extreme disappointment, he didn’t seem
bothered by her outburst. The cab took off, traveling toward the heart of the
city. Lifting her head, she looked at the building directly in front of her.
For a split second an odd blast of heat swept through her, obliterating the
cold.

The Wolf’s Den.

A couple of cars were parked out front, next to an
intimidating-looking motorcycle. The outline of a howling wolf on the sign
above the brick building seemed to mock her, The Wolf’s Den written in a clear,
bold script beside it. The red neon sign in the large glass window cast a
shadow on the sidewalk next to the door, the word OPEN clearly visible. She
couldn’t see through the glass, so she didn’t know how many people were inside.

She took deep breaths, telling herself to remain calm. It
was nerves again. Making her think the worst. The parlor was inside the city
limits but not by much. In fact, if she put her sneakers to the test she could
probably run the mile-long distance to the county line. Police patrolled that
area more heavily, keeping their mortal residents safe from their preternatural
counterparts.

Summoning as much courage as she could, she walked toward
the door, opened her bag and removed a few pieces of paper. She wasn’t sure how
big the tattoo would need to be so she’d printed the image in several sizes.
She’d chosen to go with a simple design—a butterfly—that would mask the red hue
on her skin. The tattoo would be understated, enough to notice but not draw
attention.

To her relief, the shop seemed just like any other as she
opened the door and stepped inside. There were framed images along the walls. A
couch and several chairs created a sitting area. The large circular counter in
front had a cash register and a few portfolios.

See, it’s not so bad. You’re finally here. You can see
what all the fuss is about, get some ink and put this all behind you.

Tension drained from her. Although it was chilly inside the
building, warmth crept into her skin. She took a look around, searching for
people. Voices drifted from a hallway behind the counter, the cadences deep and
masculine. She shook off her worry, remembering the artist who’d booked her
appointment. Glancing at the paper in her hand, she saw the information she’d
jotted down.

The Wolf’s Den. Thursday. September 13
^th
.
7:30.

Jackson Donovan.

Out of habit, she went to look at her watch and released an
annoyed sigh. One of the positive aspects of having an unwanted birthmark on
your wrist—it was easily covered with jewelry. Unfortunately, she’d removed the
timepiece before she came, knowing she’d have to take it off anyway. She
glanced around until she found a clock nestled at the top of the wall.

Seven twenty-seven. Right on time.

The soft chatter drifting from the hallway stopped. She
heard a chair squeak followed by heavy footsteps. Her heart throbbed inside her
chest and her palms went clammy. The person she’d spoken with when she’d made
her appointment hadn’t given her his name, but he’d
sounded
like a
normal man. She’d assumed that maybe the owner hired human help. But what if
she was wrong? Perhaps it wasn’t easy to pinpoint a werewolf.

Maybe they look like everyone else?

A figure came around the corner, hidden by shadow. Goodness
he was enormous—well over six feet—with shoulders that seemed to swallow the
hallway. She didn’t want to stare but she couldn’t help herself. With each step
more of him was revealed, inch by slow inch. She started with his scuffed boots
and worked her way up. Worn jeans hugged his thighs, coming up to a tapered
waist. The T-shirt shielding his torso was snug, revealing the outline of his
muscular stomach.

She swallowed down the knot forming in her throat, waiting
to see his face. Dark stubble shadowed his chin and jaw, matching hair that
brushed his shoulders. The moment he stepped into the light she inhaled
raggedly. His brows were full, positioned perfectly over eyes the shade of
autumn leaves. They appeared almost gold, the color vibrant and stunning.

Gorgeous.

The man was absolute perfection.

Her birthmark burned white-hot, yanking her focus from the
eye candy she’d been ogling. She covered the spot with her hand, biting back a
wince. The papers slipped from her fingers and drifted onto the counter. She
realized how she must have looked—grasping at her wrist, dropping her things,
unable to meet the man’s gaze.

Just great. So much for playing it cool.

“Sorry,” she mumbled and tried to ignore the ache in her
wrist, reaching for the papers as she shifted her purse on her shoulder.