Claimed (The Lair of the Wolven 1)

There was a pause, and then he did that head tilt thing again. “Well, it was nice to meet you, Ms.—what was the name again?”

“Susi. But call me Lydia.”

“Okay. Hope to hear from you, Lydia.”

He lifted his hand in goodbye, and then he turned away. And walked away.

As she watched him go, she had a sense of homesickness. Which made no sense. You couldn’t miss a stranger, who’d come in for a job, and been in your presence for, like, twenty minutes. Tops.

But he had fixed a toilet.

And he’d smelled terrific.

Down in reception, she listened to his deep voice, and heard Candy’s replies, and then the outer door creaked open and squeaked shut.

The speed with which Lydia returned to her office was nothing she wanted to dwell on, and as she went over to the window she’d cracked, she parted the venetian blinds. Out in the spring sunlight, Daniel Joseph was striding across to the parking area, his heavy boots crunching over the gravel.

His motorcycle was matte black and old-school looking, not that she knew a damn thing about Harleys. And as he threw a leg over it and kick-started the engine, she braced herself for a roar—but the thing had a good muffler that quieted the exhaust. Walking the bike backward, he checked over his shoulder, pulled a pivot, and hit the gas.

Again, she prepared herself for an explosion of sound. There wasn’t one. Just a deep, throaty growl as he disappeared around the bend of the lane, the steam trail from the twin tailpipes dissipating in the cold fresh morning.

Standing there at the window, staring out into a parking lot that now felt like a deserted wasteland, she tried to remember the last time she’d been on a date. As the year reversal closed in on grad school, she shook her head. Passion had welded her to the wolves, this preserve … this fight to protect a native species against humans’ bright ideas.

Not a lot of eligible bachelors in Walters—

The knock was sharp on the jamb.

Wheeling around, the blinds clapped as she dropped them. “Rick. Hi, did you do the analysis on the bait already?”

The WSP’s vet shook his head. “Not yet. I was starting some new coffee—oh, you got some.”

For no good reason, she thought about how that stranger had made such a huge impression and yet Rick, who she’d been working with for just over two years, hadn’t been noticed much at all. As a man, that was. He, too, had dark hair, and a nice enough face. Also, his eyes were a fine, warm shade of brown, and although he didn’t smile much, either, when he did, his off-kilter front tooth made him look younger … and charming. And he was in great shape from running the trails.

“Candy took care of me,” she murmured.

“She’s good like that. As long as you aren’t a deliveryman.”

“True.” Lydia looked down at her mug. Looked back up. “When did you say you were testing that bait?”

“I’ll get to it.” Rick nodded toward the window. “So who was that guy?”

“Just someone interviewing for Trick’s job.”

“Looks more like a bouncer.”

For a moment, Rick stayed where he was, staring across the room at her. And then he said something about his coffee being ready and left.

Lydia pulled over the folder with Daniel Joseph’s application in it. As she reread what he’d written, lingering on the precisely constructed letters and the periods that were dropped like pins on a map, she wondered about the information beyond what he’d filled out.

Family. Background. Beliefs.

Girlfriends.

Wife.

“I really have to get a life,” she muttered.

The Black Dagger Brotherhood Mansion

Caldwell, NY

FUCK!”

Xhex, beloved shellan of the Black Dagger Brother John Matthew, shot upright in bed and grabbed the center of her chest. Yanking at what was covering her, she tore her way down past the duvet and the sheets, and when she came to her naked skin, she clawed at her—

Big, broad hands captured hers, and as she blinked, she didn’t see her mate. She saw a man, a human, in a white lab coat, taking control of her body, pushing her down, so he could put a hypodermic needle in her—

The scream that came out of her shattered the dim quiet of their bedroom, and her panic took over. She fought hard, kicking with her feet, bucking her body, twisting under the iron bars locked on her wrists. Baring her fangs, she struck at the forearm, at the bare bicep, at anything that came close, blood flowing into her mouth, onto her naked breasts.

She was going to lose this battle. She always lost. No matter how hard she tried to fight, sooner or later, she was overpowered and at the mercy of the white coats, of the experiments, of the torture.

A raw sob broke free of her throat. “Nooooooooo—”

The whistle was high pitched and ascending, an audible flare that rose in volume and octave until it owned the air around her, surrounding her and penetrating through the incendiary terror.