His Stolen Luna

2. Uninvited

~ JOHN-PAUL ~

John-Paul couldn’t believe his family had done this. His hands wanted to shake so he kept his arms folded as he glared at the circle of cousins and uncles around the room, who all returned his dark gaze with sly grins or suggestive winks.

They really had no idea what a clusterfuck of epic proportions they had just unleashed. But before he could decide the wisest next step, Lark looked down at her unbound arms and scoffed.

“You aren’t going to fool me by being nice,” she said through her teeth, glaring up at him. “Wolves who know told me you’re a sadistic traitor.”

“And wolves who know told me you’re sweet and fun to be around,” he snapped back. “So I guess we’re both going be disappointed.”

Lark blinked and her mouth snapped shut. He’d hit a nerve. She’d just been kidn*pped, and now he was taunting her? Damn, he didn’t used to be an asshole.

“Take her into my apartment,” he snarled and the smiles around him grew. He shook his head. “Leave her to rest, but keep guards at the door. I have to go cancel a few meetings, then I’ll be there.”

The males all leaped to action and Lark’s eyes widened with alarm, but she covered it quickly.

He reluctantly admired the stare-down she gave his cousins—the two largest wolves he knew, even their human forms were massive. But Lark stared at them like they stank and yanked her arm out of Jordan’s hand when he tried to guide her toward the door at the back, where he’d entered from his office.

He didn’t miss that she was still rolling her shoulders and rubbing her wrists, though. The males had tied her too tightly. F*ck. This was wrong on so many levels.

When they’d all filed out to take her to his suite—a simple, but modern apartment he’d renovated out of the attic of the warehouse building so he didn’t have to commute—he followed, turning off in the hallway to his office and immediately closing the door and locking it.

His heart slammed against his ribs, his pulse thrumming in his skin.

Larkin f*cking Sather. In his family’s hands. In his home.

And she smelled like sunshine and coconut.

His skin tingled at the memory of that vision, that hot, aching, vision, and he laughed the laugh of a dying man, because the mate bond between them would be easy. Like breathing. As easy as slipping a hand into her hair and tugging her head back and tasting her lips—

Holy sh*t.

Motherfucker.

His hand shook as he clawed it through his hair. It was impossible, but the drive to have her, to take her, to make her his… That tug in his chest. He hadn’t felt this alive—or this terrified—in years.

It was the call of the bond, of a potential mate, and stronger than he’d ever felt it. Even before. Even with Hannah.

The reminder of his dead mate was a shock of cold water thrown over his heated skin. He began to pace his office, growling. He didn’t want to see it, but his mind took him back to that awful day three years ago.

He’d been so arrogant…

The demon hissed in his face, spitting curses, its horrific voice echoing in the empty warehouse. He had no idea how it had reached him, but it had come for him, for his family, and it was going to die.

The thing muttered words he didn’t understand, but the sound of them raised his hackles even in human form.

“Shut the f*ck up.”

It hissed again, then sucked in a breath despite the grip he had on its throat. He’d been just about to shift again, to tear out its throat with his teeth, when it spat the words.

“Death.” Its voice rattled because he was sucking the power from it. “Cursed with death!”

He’d huffed a laugh—so sure of himself—then looked over his shoulder at his mate, Hannah, who stared wide-eyed. She’d never seen him fight before.

He’d finally impressed her.

He should have ended that thing. But he’d been reveling in the threads of shock and admiration wafting off his mate. They’d been married over a year and it was the first time she looked at him as if he was good enough. Finally here, now, she saw his strength. He’d finally made his impression.

“Death for any you bond, death for any heart entwined with yours. Do you hear me, wolf? Any that you seek to bond will die, torn from you. Forever the lone wolf. Forever alone.”

He’d rolled his eyes. “You can’t throw a death curse without a death to mark, and I’m not dying today,” he’d huffed,

“No, Dark Wolf, you aren’t.”

He’d heard the strange emphasis on “you”, but it had barely registered as he’d shifted back to wolf form to finally end this thing. But in the split second between when his human hand released and the demon began to sink to the floor, in that blink before his wolf could get its teeth into him, the demon twisted and struck out with the dark, putrid power they had—not at John-Paul, but Hannah.

There was no sound, but a flash of dark lightning, as if a hole opened in the air.

Deep in the body of his wolf, his rage flared and his wolf snarled. His teeth closed on its neck, cutting off the last of its words, whatever those dark screams meant.

But it was too late. It was already too late. He’d fought furiously, killed the thing in seconds.

Seconds too late.

He’d been cursed, and she’d been the sacrifice to bring the power to it.

His mate was dead, her life snuffed out by the worst darkness of the world.

And it was his fault.

John-Paul pinched the bridge of his nose.

Hannah had been all wrong for him. He could see that now. They should never have cultivated the bond. But that was as much his fault as hers. She hadn’t deserved to die for his sins.

And yet, he imagined that she sneered whenever she looked down on him because even in death, she’d somehow managed to highlight his inadequacy.

A low growl puttered in John-Paul’s throat—disgust at himself, impatience, and frustration. There was nothing new to be gained by reliving his worst failings. They were a part of him, he’d accepted that.

So, huffing at his pathetic thoughts, he shook them off.

Clawing one hand through his hair, he turned to look at the door, towards the new target for his angst. But didn’t move towards it.

Larkin f*cking Sather was out there. Just a hallway away. Stinking of his favorite scents and giving the males hell… He’d heard she was sweet and quiet—exactly the opposite of what he wanted in a mate—and she was just young enough that when he’d been on the hunt seven years earlier, he hadn’t reached out to her father for an introduction.

Why was he surprised to find out the rumors were wrong? She clearly had one helluva backbone, glaring at his cousins and acting like she was in charge while her hands still shook from being bound.

Her father was going to have f*cking kittens.

John-Paul groaned and scrubbed his face with his hands. That thing, that draw under his skin pulled toward her. He knew that even with his eyes closed, he’d always be able to turn and face her in a room, know exactly where she was.

Sh*t. What was he going to do?

He couldn’t accept a new bond, that was for f*cking certain.

Her face back in that room, tense and glaring, swam back into his mind—along with her hissed words. “I will never, ever invite you.”

He laughed coldly, then shook his head.

Larkin Sather, the prophesied mother of the White Wolf, could be his mate. But if he ever took her, she’d die.

And he thought the bloodlines hated him now. If he got their precious Savior killed, they’d string him up in the streets by his balls.

God must really hate him after all.

How the hell was he supposed to get out of this?

Thinking about her raised the memory of her scent… summer rain and coconut, sun-dried grass and—

Dear God in Heaven, he needed her out of there. Immediately. No delay.

With another growl, he turned on his heel and started for the door.

He didn’t know how he was going to fix this, but he knew it wouldn’t be by sitting here, thinking about her smell.

As he yanked the door open and stormed down the hallway to confront her with the impossible position they’d both been put in, he prayed he wasn’t fooling himself.

He was strong enough to resist the bond with her. Definitely.

No doubt.

One hundred percent.