Imprints (Dominant Wolves, Submissive Mates 1)

d such.

If Frank were a wolf, wouldn’t she know? Wouldn’t he sport a matted chest full of bristly hair? Wouldn’t he growl in the heat of passion, or perhaps release a carnal cry? Wouldn’t he resemble a dog and have short stubby ears and a mammal’s snout?

Her mind shifted to the day she’d discussed Frank’s heritage. He’d cupped her chin, looked into her eyes, and asked, “What do you see when you look at me?”

With his dark black silken hair, high cheekbones, too-full lips, and reddish-brown skin, she saw the Arapaho Indian. In fact, she rarely saw a mixed breed, which is what he’d often called himself when he’d insisted he possessed the white man’s skin underneath the more dominant layer of dark. And regardless of rumors, she never saw signs of an emerging wolf or any other animal for that matter.

Fixating on the window, she wondered then why she had this uneasy feeling about her earlier confrontation with the wolves. The way the black wolf had pursued her had been like a man stalking a lover more than a predator circling his prey.

Taking a ragged breath, she turned to the door right as a hard knock fell upon the wood. “Carla, open up. It’s Jock. I need to speak with you.”

Chapter Three

“Where’s Grant?”

“I thought we’d talk alone.” Jock removed his cowboy hat. “May I come in?”

“Haven’t you been coming and going without asking for an invitation? Since when do you need my permission?”

The sharp edge in her tone made his muscles bunch, but he walked inside without missing a stride. If she wanted to shoot off at the mouth, who was he to stand outside and hang on her every word?

“And by all means, enter at your own risk.”

He faced her then. “Carla, you were hurt. What was I supposed to do? Leave you for the wolves? I bandaged that nasty cut on your thigh and—”

“What cut?” she asked, jerking her dress to her hips. Her soft pink skin paled at the sight of the bloody bandage.

“It’s not as bad as it looks,” he assured her, growing stiff as he caught a glimpse of the apex between her thighs.

She glanced up and given her bent position, found herself eye level to his manhood. Her cheeks flamed red then. She carefully lowered her dress and smoothed her palms across the satin sash at her waist. “Excuse me.”

“No need to apologize,” he assured her, glancing around the cabin. He’d love to spot evidence of Grant’s elusive accusations. Scarce in appointments, the house Carla occupied was neat and void of any noticeable personal items.

“I didn’t apologize,” she reminded him, a bit of sass in her voice. “But I would like to properly thank you for taking care of me. Would you stay for dinner?”

Jock’s stomach rumbled with the suggestion. Carla was an excellent cook and he hadn’t eaten a real meal in quite a while.

“I’d love to,” Jock said, realizing then there was something different about Carla. As he watched the way she nervously tidied up her cabin, a disturbing thought entered his mind. Rather than sit and stew for a moment or two, he blurted, “You’ve been with a man recently.”

“What are you…I don’t know what…why would you…” She stopped trying to speak and avoided eye contact then. She appeared baffled by his accusation, but not necessarily angered.

Jock cupped her cheek and forced her to look at him. Staring into those deep brown eyes, he couldn’t help but gauge the lost innocence. Startling knowledge and maturity had replaced the insecurity and inexperience.

“My personal life is none of your business,” she finally told him.

He begged to differ but bit back the raging need to tell her otherwise.

“I waited for you,” she said quietly. “I tried to convince myself you were worth the wait, but you weren’t, Jock. You’d ride in here after being out on that trail for months. Then, you’d sit down and eat, make a little conversation, and be on your way. What’d you expect, hmm? I’m twenty-four years old and until six months ago, no man had ever touched me.”

Damn, the time frame hurt as badly as the facts. He’d often wondered if Carla was a virgin, if she’d remained untouched all these years in hopes of trading her purity for true love, for a man who would appreciate the gift she’d one day give to only him.

“Who is he?” Jock asked, certain he already knew the answer. There wasn’t any reason for a confirmation. The wolf attack fit his line of thinking, too.

What he’d interrupted hadn’t been a brutal assault. He’d intervened right in the nick of time to save Carla from an imprinting ceremony, a tradition followed by the Wyoming Wood Pack. Extremely social, the Wyoming Wood Pack Alphas often consummated the physical relationship with their mates prior to calling upon their pack to witness the imprinting and true joining of mates.

He should’ve told her then. If she’d taken up with someone from the WolfDen pack—him—she would’ve enjoyed a more private and traditional ceremony, one devoid of potential embarrassment inflicted by onlookers.

As it turned out, none of that mattered. His worst suspicions had materialized. He’d feared he’d uncover the truth, worried that the angst welling inside him was justifiable, even understandable. After Carla had slammed the door in their faces, he and Grant had checked the scents and markings left behind the barn.