Page 4 of Caught By the Wolf

She was human. He could smell that much. A human woman, somewhere upwind, and every other scent on the afternoon air—diesel, gun oil, men—had gone thin and worthless next to hers. His mouth was watering for a taste of her. His body was hardening for her touch so fast it hurt. Six years of wanting nothing, of forcing the wolf into silence, and one thread of scent on the wind had him discarding every rule he’d made to keep his brothers safe. He wanted to bury his face between her thighs and stay there until she screamed. He wanted to grip those wide hips and drive into her until she forgot every man who had ever looked past her. He wanted to mark her so deep no one would ever question who she belonged to.

Then the wind brought him the rest of it. She was running. Shoes hitting wrong, sliding, no rhythm left. Ragged breathing. Fear rolling off her in waves.

Men were chasing his mate through his mountains with rifles pointed at her back.

Roman went up and over the ridge at a speed he hadn’t let himself use in years. He tracked her by sound—she was headed for the dead-end pocket where the ravine met the cliff, and the men knew it, because that was where they were pushing her. Smart. Patient. Professional.

Dead, promised the wolf, and for once Roman didn’t argue.

He came down the last slope and stopped inside the tree line even though he wanted to rush forward and tear each of them to shreds. But he was afraid they’d get to her first.

The men stood in front of her. She was backed against the granite, chin up, talking. A rock in her hand. No doubt trying to reason with them, but you couldn’t reason with men like this. Lord knew he’d tried, once.

And it had cost him dearly.

It would not cost him her.

With one smooth jump, he cleared the deadfall and put himself between her and the guns.

The men froze. Roman let the sound in his chest out slow—not a threat, a promise, pitched low enough to feel in the teeth—and watched two of them turn the correct shade of afraid.

Pruitt didn’t. He was afraid and delighted, both at once, and his gaze went over Roman the way a buyer’s went over a horse. Height at the shoulder. Width of the skull. Roman had seen that look at auctions, and it had never once been pointed at him, and he found he didn’t care for it.

“Beautiful,” Pruitt said softly. That was worse than the rifles.

Then, without raising his voice: “Don’t kill it. Aim for the legs. I want it breathing. This one’s worth three of the others put together.”

Worth. The word landed strange in Roman’s chest, cold where it should have been meaningless. He’d been hunted before, in a life he didn’t talk about. He hadn’t expected to feel it again on his own land.

Roman was already moving when the shot cracked.

The bullet meant for his leg tore into his shoulder instead—a punch, then fire—as his charge put the shooter flat on his back. He wanted to stay. God and the wolf both knew he wanted to stay, wanted to teach every one of them what happened when someone threatened his mate.

But that could wait. Right now he needed to get her to safety.

He turned and jumped, shifting mid-stride, four legs to two with no time to be graceful about it. And then he was a man, buck naked and bleeding. He scooped her into his arms without slowing down.

She didn’t scream. Didn’t fight him. She grabbed on—arms locked around his neck, face tucked into his chest, not moving—and the wolf lit up with pure approval.

Smart mate. Good mate. Keep her. Fuck her. Bite her. Breed her.

Working on it, Roman thought, and ran.

A shout came from behind them and then another shot. Bark exploded off a fir to his right and then he was through the trees and gone, moving the way only his kind moved, and no man on foot mattered anymore. He went down through the creek to kill the trail, up the far bank, doubled back once, listening.

And with the danger falling away behind him, Roman became aware of exactly what he was carrying.

She was soft. Everywhere his hands were, she was soft. The full curve of her hip filled one palm like it had been made for it. Her thigh lay heavy across his forearm, and her breasts pressed against his bare chest with every breath she took—heavy, generous, perfect. She was no small woman, and thank God for it, because he was no small man. Lush. Warm. Solid. Real. A body a man could grip without worrying he’d break something. A body built for long, thorough attention. A body he wanted under him, over him, spread out on his bed while he learned every inch of her with his hands and his mouth until she forgot the men, the rifles, hell, her own name. He wanted to find out what sounds she made as he tongued her. And as he fucked her. Hard. Deep. Until she came around his cock and he pumped her full.

Yes, his wolf agreed. All of that. And bite her. Hard. Mark her throat so every male who ever looks at her knows she is taken.

He was bleeding from a rifle wound, being hunted by professional poachers, and carrying a stranger through the woods while stark naked and developing a problem he frankly hadn’t had in years. And it was, without competition, the best day he’d had in six years. Despite the bullet wound and the fact that his cock felt like he’d taken a tub of Viagra.

The damn thing wouldn’t go back down.

His wolf snickered.

Roman growled.