Protecting the Wolf's Mate (Blood Moon Brotherhood 3)

The words tore from him before he knew what he was saying. “Say it.” He growled, his fingers biting into her hips.

She stared down at him, her eyes blazing into his. “I’m yours.” Her nails scoured along his chest. “And you are mine.”

He thrust up, his hands holding her tightly against him. He loved the groan she made, loved the way she arched forward so he could suck her nipple into his mouth, loved the way her body tightened around him—hungry for him.

Mine. He didn’t say it, but she knew.

She moved then, thrusting slowly, deeply, seating herself on him again and again.

His hands slid along her sides, cupping her breasts, working her nipples, before gripping her hips once more. He was driven, grinding her against him, binding her close—them close. He wanted her to fall apart, to scream his name. He needed it, now. He reached between them, one finger stroking and working her over until she cried out. Rough and raw, her nails bit into his chest and sent his release crashing into him. He came hard, powering into her, arching stiffly until the spasms began to fade.

She fell to his side, gasping.

He pulled her against him, the newness of their connection demanding no space between them. She didn’t argue. Her head rested on his chest, her fingers stroking along his collarbone as she lay, soft and pliant, against him. He lay still, his heart thundering and his mind spinning.

This was not what he’d expected. The hunger was stronger now. So was the connection. He knew, without doubt, that she was irrevocably tied to him now. It was undeniable. And disconcerting as hell.

Focus. Calm. The beat of his heart echoed hers.

Their breathing synced.

The air grew charged—almost kinetic.

Her hand ran over his chest, her nails toying with the sparse hair that covered his chest and raking his nipple.

His hand captured hers, instantly hard by her touch.

Those bewitching eyes of hers met his, on fire—for him. How could she do that? Turn him on with a look.

He lifted his head and kissed her, hoping to shut down his brain before the reality of what had happened sank in. There was no going back. For either of them. Overthinking it, rationalizing it, arguing about it, wouldn’t change a thing. There was no denying it.

This proud, warrior woman was now his mate. For all time. A tidal wave of thoughts, emotions, and feelings crashed into him, but one thing stood out: for the first time—maybe ever—he felt whole.

And strong.

The look on her face made him fearless in a way he’d never known. Fearless. Strong. Predatory. She did that to him. Her wolf did that to him. Whatever shit came their way—they’d handle it. Together.

With a sigh, she melted against him, resting her head on his chest and threading her fingers with his. He closed his eyes, savoring the touch—this new, fragile intimacy.

Images began to seep in, the sort of images that threatened the newfound warmth he’d found in her arms. Vibrant and sharp, snippets of conversations, scents, and sensations.

The bond was sealed in several ways. Mating—something they’d repeat shortly. Sharing memories—life changing, important—those that formed who they were and shaped their wolves. Finally, a shared mark. Ellen was a born wolf, she had no origination bite. The twinge of regret that stirred was quickly snuffed out when he realized she would bear his. One more scar. One more wound. His fault this time. Would she mind?

The room, the bed, and the world around them faded and he was living her memories. The more he saw, the closer he came to falling apart. He’d understood the concept, but this—the reality of what that meant—fuck no. His heart was ripped open. There was no way to stop it, to buffer the brutality or make it easier to bear. There were no words to express the grief and suffering.

She had a baby. A daughter. Ellen’s whole world. Isabel. He felt her in his arms, knew her scent, and fought to keep her from Byron. He couldn’t of course. These were memories. And Ellen’s screams, when the lifeless body was returned to her, broke something inside of him.

Her mate. William. Strong. A warrior. A proud man. Easily baited into a fight. He’d refused to beg for her, refused to beg for Isabel. She’d been forced to watch as he’d been tortured, skinned as a wolf, and had his head chopped off. His hide still hung on Cyrus’s wall, baiting Ellen. Reminding her of William’s last words, “Avenge me. Avenge our daughter.”

He’d left her to bear that?

Left her alone to face the monsters?

“Jesus Christ,” he ground out, on sensory overload. He was there, trapped inside, drowning in the shitstorm of Ellen’s past.

It kept going. The feel of a bite. The slice of a blade. Beatings. Being used by the pack. Byron. Cyrus.

So much Cyrus. He treated her differently? Why? Biting her—covered in her blood—drinking it? His fucking smile… Rage kicked in. His rage. Hers. Her need for revenge was almost secondary to death. Almost. Death would be giving up. And she was a fighter.