Tamed By The She-Wolf. Kristal Hollis
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coffee table, then the other.
“Cheers.” Her bottle clinked against his, then she tipped back her head, exposing the slender column of her smooth, creamy neck, and took a long swig. His mouth parched with want of the taste of her skin despite the cold liquid sloshing down his own throat.
In all the years he’d carried Angeline’s picture in his pocket, Lincoln never imagined he’d actually share a drink with his angel.
Oh, he’d tried to unravel the mystery of the woman in the photograph in the months following the death of the Dogman who’d entrusted him with the prized possession. But Lincoln had very little to go on. Only the name “Angel” had been written on the back of the picture and Tanner Phillip’s next of kin had not known her identity.
In the beginning, Lincoln had reached for the photo when hurt, indecisive or just plain lonely. Later he’d spoken to her upon waking and just before going to sleep. Probably not the healthiest of habits, but his second-in-command, Lila, had said the rosary. By nature, Wahyas weren’t religious. However, she had found comfort in the tradition and repetitiveness. And so had he.
They all needed something larger than themselves from which to seek guidance, absolution and everything else in between.
“What makes your family dinners stressful?” Lincoln asked, restarting the conversation they began on the stairs.
“Irreconcilable differences.” Angeline took another drink. “It’s insanity. My dad keeps picking the same fight, month after month, expecting that suddenly I’ll conform to his expectations of a daughter.” She snorted. “Not that he ever wanted one. After my mom died, he cut off my hair and dressed me in my brothers’ hand-me-downs.”
“You must’ve looked like your mother.”
“I did.” Angeline swirled her bottle. “Still do.”
Lincoln took another swig of beer, unable to imagine the long auburn strands that fell below her shoulders stunted in a short bob. He much preferred the vision of her in masculine clothes...in particular, his sweatshirt enveloping her much smaller frame.
His thoughts drifted to the way the softness of her body had cushioned his when he’d rolled her beneath him while disoriented from a nightmare.
The mere memory of how perfectly their bodied aligned electrified his nerves, tingling and tantalizing his already sensitized skin.
“Everybody’s curious about you,” she said. “We’ve never had a Dogman in town.” Her jaw tightened and her mouth pulled tight.
“Brice and I go back a few years. When he heard about my injury, he invited me here.”
“Then why aren’t you staying at his family’s resort?”
“Not my style.” Or in his comfort zone. He didn’t need to be pampered or coddled. Besides, a couples retreat had been scheduled for Valentine’s Day weekend and he definitely didn’t want to be in the midst of a lovefest, especially during a full moon.
Wahyas were wired for sex. It regulated their wolfan hormones, keeping the primitive monster that lived inside them dormant. A full moon was the most critical time for Wahyas to have sex, but Dogmen had little time and opportunity to find willing partners every month.
So, Program scientists developed the hormone suppressor implanted into every Dogman before deployment. Only those involved in the Program knew of the implant’s existence because of the known side effect of increased hostility.
Dogmen were highly trained to manage their aggressive impulses, whether naturally occurring or chemically induced. Unleashing the implant on the general Wahyan population could give rise to the very beasts that the drug had been created to suppress.
Removal of the implant proved just as challenging. After a wolfan’s sexual instinct had been stifled for so long, some Dogmen found the deluge of natural hormones overwhelming.
Lincoln’s implant had been removed after the last full moon. With less than a week until the next one, he needed to find a consenting sex partner. Soon.
He glanced sidelong at Angeline and his heart thudded all the way down to his groin. His wolf had declared his choice. Undeniably, Lincoln wanted to agree. But things could get oh, so complicated.
He liked simple.
And he knew one thing for sure. There was absolutely nothing simple about Angeline.
“What is that god-awful noise?” It pounded in Angeline’s head like a woodpecker drilling a tree for food.
Slowly and painfully, she opened her eyes. The shirt Lincoln had worn last night obscured her field of vision. Suddenly, the pillow her head rested upon moved.
“Buenos días, Angel.” Lincoln’s deep Texas drawl sounded thunderously close but at least the beep grating her nerves stopped.
The sluggish thoughts in her brain, however, kept going. Unfurling her legs, she sat up and rubbed her eyes. “Were you speaking Spanish?”
“Yeah. I grew up in a bilingual household. My maternal grandparents emigrated from Mexico to Texas when my mom was a child. But I also speak German, Tagalog and some Somali.”
“Strange combo of languages.”
“I learn whatever the Program tells me to.” Lincoln began the process of putting on his prosthetic.
She remembered Lincoln asking if she was okay with him taking off his artificial leg because his stump hurt, but not much after he did.
“Um.” She glanced at the coffee table littered with a Jack Daniel’s decanter and likely every beer bottle she had in the fridge. All empty. “What happened last night?”
“You passed out and latched onto me in your sleep.” He wiggled into his pants.
“I did not!” The screech in her voice made Angeline cringe.
“Oh, so it was a ploy to keep me here?” He cracked a smile. “Aw, Angel, all you had to do was ask.”
She felt the weight of a frown on her jaw. “Tread lightly, I’m not a morning person.”
Despite her warning, he laughed. “You certainly aren’t. But you are quite adorable with your messy hair and grumpy face.”
“You’re not earning any brownie points, Dogman.”
“That’s not what you said last night.” He had the nerve to wink.
“They only count if I remembering doling them out. Which I don’t, so...” She massaged her temples.
“I’m not surprised.” Lincoln stood, and Angeline felt woozy looking up at him. He began gathering the discarded bottles. “Most of these are yours.”
“That can’t be right,” she said, trying to focus her fuzzy and somewhat incoherent memories. “I don’t normally drink that much.”
“Good to know,” Lincoln said. “But I think your family dinners are more upsetting than you allow yourself to believe.”
“Why? What did I say?” Angeline’s heartbeat sped up, despite the sludge a night of drinking had deposited in her veins.
“Nothing that bears repeating.” Lincoln dropped the bottles into the recycling bin underneath the sink.
“No, really. I need to know what I talked about.”
“Tell me where the coffee is.” Lincoln gave her an assessing look. “Then I’ll give you a play-by-play of all the beans you spilled.”
Angeline’s stomach churned and it wasn’t from the hangover. If her drunken self had told Lincoln about her music career...
“Check