Wicked lessons from the Alpha

Trust your heart little Rose

Blackrock city 1874

*Hunter*

There is nothing I relish more than being nestled between a she-wolf's sweet thighs. Except, of course, gliding my hands over her warm and supple body while she caresses my shoulders, chest, and back. I cherish the sound of her hitched breath, her murmured sigh...

Rap.

I pause, and she stills.

"What is that?" she whispers.

I shake my head, gazing into her brown eyes, and gently tuck back the stray strands of her ebony hair from her blushing cheek. "It's just the residence settling, no doubt. Pay it no mind."

Lowering my mouth to her silky throat, I relish the warmth of her skin...

Rap. Rap.

Damn it all!

I wink. "Excuse me for a moment."

I roll out of the specially built massive bed, designed to accommodate my large frame. With my temper barely leashed, I march across the thick Aubusson carpet. My butler, along with all my servants, knows better than to disturb me while I am enjoying the company of a she-wolf.

Closing my hand around the handle, I release the latch and swing open the door. "There has better be blood or fire involved..." I mutter. I find myself staring into wide, rounded sapphire eyes that quickly dip down before jerking up to clash with my own hazel ones.

"Sweet Christ, Faye, what the devil?"

Before she can respond, I slam the door shut, hastily snatch my trousers from the floor, pull them on and proceed to button them.

"Another one of your paramours?" the luscious vixen in my bed asks.

I grab my linen shirt from the chair. "Good Goddess, no. She is but a child." Or at least she had been the last time I saw her. What on earth is she doing out and about at this time of night? Has she no sense whatsoever?

After pulling on my shirt, I drop into the chair and tug on my boots. Honestly, why am I even concerned with Faye's sensibilities? It's a bit late to worry about them, considering the view I inadvertently gave her when I opened the door. Trust her to take it all in stride. She has always been a bold little she-devil, but tonight she has gone too far.

I rise to my feet and make my way to the bed. Leaning down, I plant a kiss on the lovely she-wolf's forehead. "I won't be long in dealing with her," I assure her with a wink. Striding across the room with a touch more composure, I open the door and step into the hallway, closing it behind me.

Faye stands where I left her, her face flushed from her neck to the roots of her coppery hair. Her freckles, had they not faded, would have been completely obscured. "I apologize for waking you," she says.

Is that all she thinks she did? But then again, she is an innocent she-wolf of nineteen. While the lads she grew up with may be more scoundrels than gentlemen, they have done their best to preserve her innocence. For her, their wicked ways are mere rumors.

"It's past midnight. You are in a bachelor's residence. What were you thinking?" I inquire.

"I'm in trouble, Hunter, a dire situation. I need your help," she pleads.

I'm on the verge of telling her to seek assistance elsewhere, but her large, innocent blue eyes leave me with little choice but to suggest we adjourn to my library.

She has always had an irritating effect on me, ever since she was a young girl and looked at me as though I were some wayward knight capable of slaying dragons.

Perhaps in my youth, when the dragon was nothing more than her ill-tempered cat in need of rescue from a tree limb...

However, through bitter experience, I have learned that I am no dragon slayer.

Once we reach the room filled with the scent of musty books, I make my way to a table adorned with an assortment of decanters. In silence, I pour myself a scotch and a brandy for her. I secretly hope that when I finish pouring, she will have vanished.

Yet, when I turn around, she remains, studying me as if searching for something. I find myself wishing I had taken more care in dressing. Her attire is much more formal… a white ball gown trimmed in pink velvet.

I have known Faye her entire life. She is not one to usually seek help, let alone ask for it. I recall an incident when she spent an entire afternoon stranded in a tree because she was too stubborn to call for assistance. She wanted to get down on her own.

Eventually, as darkness fell, I had climbed the tree and helped her to the ground, even though I was twenty and she was only eleven. I was far too old to be scrambling up trees. Then, I had to ascend the accursed elm once more to rescue her ill-tempered cat. The scars on my left wrist are a reminder of that encounter.

For her to come to me now, she must be in truly dire straits.

As I extend the snifter towards her, I can't help but notice the gratitude in her expression as she wraps her slender white-gloved hands around the glass.

Though it is highly inappropriate for a she-wolf to be alone in a bachelor's residence, our relationship is far from ordinary. Our families are close, and she has practically grown up in my presence. I have spent much of my youth watching out for her. If she is truly in trouble, her parents… the Alpha and Luna of Greywinds… are more likely to kill me in the most unpleasant manner if I don't assist her, rather than harm me for allowing her to remain in my residence at this scandalous hour.

I gesture towards the seating area near the fireplace, where only glowing embers remain from an earlier fire.

Her skirts rustling, the scent of roses and lavender wafting towards me, she glides over to a burgundy chair and perches on the edge of its cushion.

She has always been a complex creature, never satisfied with the ordinary, not easily defined. One fragrance is not enough for her. And it seems that one gentleman isn't either, judging by the conversations I pay little attention to at the gaming hells.

I settle into the wingback chair opposite hers, leisurely sipping my scotch as I study her for a moment. Although I know she is nineteen, I can't help but wonder when on earth she grew up. In my mind, she is still the spindly-legged, freckle-armed girl who prefers climbing trees to attending ballrooms, who would rather gallop her horse over rolling hills than partake in dance lessons.

She is nine years my junior. I was aware, of course, that she was growing up, but the realization has always been vague, like knowing the seasons were changing without fully noticing each falling leaf or budding blossom.

But now, it's impossible to deny. She has blossomed into a slender figure, with only the slightest hint of curves. Her gown, while revealing her neck and upper chest, discreetly conceals any swell of her breasts. I hadn't expected her to be so modest, yet it adds to her mystery.

It seems she is also fearless. I have heard rumors of her venturing out at night to the foundling homes her parents have established. While she usually has a chaperone, she is said to have a talent for eluding their watchful eyes.

Tonight's unexpected visit is a prime example.

I tap my glass, attempting to refocus my thoughts on her problem, her reason for being here. "So, what trouble have you found yourself in?"

"You weren't at the Ainsley ball," she replies, her voice devoid of reproach but tinged with a hint of disappointment.

I struggle to recall if I had even been aware of her coming out, if such respectable activities had managed to capture my attention. Respectability no longer holds any appeal, and I have successfully managed to avoid it.

"Did some gentleman take advantage of you? Should I fetch my pistols?" I ask.

She smiles, a warm and amused tilt to her plump, soft-looking lips. "No, but it warms the cockles of my heart to know you would champion me."

Yes, I would have championed her. When she was a child. These days, I have no desire to champion anyone. What I desire is waiting for me upstairs in my bed.

"You were never been one to waste time," I point out impatiently. "Explain what brings you here and be quick about it."

She holds up her hand, dangling a card from her wrist. Her dance card. "I danced every dance tonight. If previous balls are any indication, dozens of bouquets will be delivered to the residence tomorrow morning."

"You are quite popular," I remark.

"No," she states succinctly. "As you are well aware, I come with an immense dowry that includes land and wealth. It is my dowry that is popular."

"Don't be ridiculous. You offer more than just material possessions. You are lovely, charming, and poised. I would wager all my estates that you will be betrothed before the mating Season is out."

She rises from the chair with the grace I have always associated with her and steps over to the fireplace. She is tall for a young she-wolf. I, standing at well over six feet, find that her head can reach my chin without her having to rise on her toes.

The long slope of her throat would surely catch a gentleman's eye. Small, understated pearls adorn her neck and ears. There is no need for her to be flashy; her hair suffices. It is currently piled on top of her head, a few tendrils deliberately left loose to toy with the delicate nape of her neck. I suspect the haphazard ones framing her oval face were not planned but had escaped during the ball, no doubt when she had danced.

"But will I be loved, Hunter? You know love, you have experienced it. How can I identify it?"

I gulp down the scotch that is meant to be savored. I will not tread that path, not with her, not with anyone. "You will know it because it will be someone without whom you cannot imagine living."

Turning slightly, she meets my gaze. "I do not doubt that I will know if I love him. But how will I know if he loves me? My dear friend, Miss Bertram, is madly in love with her husband. He has since taken a mistress, breaking her heart. He was infatuated with her dowry, not her. And Miss Sybil Fitzsimmons? Her husband scolds and berates her. How can he love her if he treats her that way, even in public? With so many men vying for my affections, how can I know if their hearts are true? I intend to marry only once, and fortune hunters abound. I want to make sure I choose wisely."

"Trust your heart," I reply.

"Do you not see? It is clear to me that in matters of love, a young she-wolf cannot trust her heart alone. It can be easily swayed with poetry, chocolates, and flowers. A she-wolf needs an objective person, someone familiar enough with love to assist her in identifying and weeding out the insincere suitors, separating the wheat from the chaff, so to speak. Someone like you."

"I am no longer an expert in love, and I have no desire to become entangled in it again, even from a distance."

"Is that why you have turned to a life of debauchery?" She asks.

I eye her over the rim of my glass. "What do you know of debauchery?"

"I have heard rumors," she says, running her fingers along the edge of the mantle as if searching for dust. "And I know you were not alone this evening when I interrupted you. Is she your mistress?"

"A mistress implies a certain level of permanence. I have no interest in permanence."

She peers at me. "A courtesan, then?"

"Is that sharpness on your tongue disapproval?" I ask.

"I'm not judging you."

"Aren't you?"

She shakes her head, sadness evident in her eyes, which irritates me. "No. You have every right to be angry with fate for what it stole..."

"I won't discuss it, Faye. Not fate, not Jessamine, not love. I don't need you or anyone else to justify my actions. I live as I wish to live. I find satisfaction in it and make no excuses for it. If you want someone who is an expert on love, I suggest you talk to your parents. They seem to have weathered enough storms."

She scoffs. "Do you truly believe I'm going to discuss my interest in gentlemen with my mother or father? They are likely to harm any gentleman I am unsure of, simply because I am unsure of him. Besides, they would tell me to marry whoever makes me happy."

"Sound advice."

"Have you not been listening? Just because he makes me happy before the vows are exchanged does not mean he will make me happy afterward. If you will not bring your knowledge of love to my quest, you can at least bring your recent experiences to bear. Who better to identify a scoundrel than another scoundrel? I need you, Hunter."

I need you. Jessamine had needed me, and I had failed her.

"Please, Hunter."

I almost believe there is more to her plea than meets the ear. Where is the harm? I hold out my hand. She stares at it as though she doesn't recognize what it is.

I snap my fingers. "I will take a quick look at your list, assist you in eliminating the rascals, so you can be on your way."

"How can you discern a man's feelings for me simply by reading his name?"

"I can identify those with whom you do not wish to invest your heart, those with bad habits and vices."

"If that's what I wanted, I would go to Lupo. He knows men's vices better than anyone."

Lupo Tempest, a former street urchin and thief who grew up within Faye's family, manages The full moon club, a gaming hell for respectable gentlemen. Yes, he is certainly familiar with various vices, but he is also very good at keeping secrets.

"I need more," she says. "I need you to observe them, then offer your opinion on them." She kneels before me, and while the glowing embers provide little light, it is enough for me to see the desperation in her blue eyes. "Attend Claybourne's ball. It's the next important one. Be a wallflower, stand behind fronds. Then provide a report on what you've noticed, who you believe truly cares for me."

The thought of being in a place filled with such joviality makes me grow clammy. It would only remind me of happier times, and how quickly and painfully they were snatched from me. "Trust your heart, girl. It won't lead you astray. You will be able to tell if a man cares for you."

Defeat washes over her features. "I can't trust my heart, Hunter. It has betrayed me before."

I feel as though I have taken a hard punch to the gut. I despise the thought of her hurting. Has some man taken advantage? Why else would she not trust her instincts?

Standing, she returns to the fireplace, presenting me with her back. "When I was younger, I once fell deeply, passionately in love... or as passionately as one can at such a tender age. I thought he returned my affections. But eventually, he married another."

"Who? No..." I hold up a hand. "That is not my concern."

With a sad smile, she glances over her shoulder at me. "Don't worry. I won't reveal his name. You would think me an utter fool if you knew who he was."

"Just because he took another as his wife doesn't mean he didn't love you. Men marry for all sorts of reasons."

"As I'm well aware. Which is why I'm here. Don't you see that you are making my arguments for me? How do I determine that they are marrying me for the right reasons, for love, and that their affections are not held elsewhere? I fear that if I were to give my heart to another and discover that he truly has little regard for it... the devastation could very well be my undoing."

"Little Rose, perhaps it's better not to love."

She glides back to the chair and sits. "Do you truly believe that? Is it not better to hold someone for a short span of time rather than not have held them at all?"

For the briefest of moments, I hear laughter... Jessamine's laughter. I see her smile, feel the warmth of her touch, taste her lips, feel the heat of her body welcoming mine. It has been so long, so very long since I have allowed myself to think of her at all.

The agony of it nearly doubles me over.

"I want what you had," Faye says softly. "It was perfect, was it not?"

"I shall never love another as I loved her. That is the honest truth."

She studies me for a long, thoughtful moment before asking, "What is it like to have such a grand love?"

It is all-encompassing, permeating everything. How can I put into words an emotion that defies them? "You laugh, you smile. You have secrets to which no one else is privy. You can communicate without words. You know what each other is thinking. There is a sense of euphoria. But it all comes with a price, Faye. Losing it can destroy you, turn you into little more than a hollow shell."

"You cannot dissuade me from wanting it, even if it is only for the blink of an eye. To love someone and to know beyond doubt that he loves me would be the most wondrous experience I can imagine. And therein lies my dilemma... It is not enough to love. I must be loved in return, or what is the point? Will you assist me in my quest for true love? I can think of no better way to honor your Jessamine than to help someone acquire what the two of you once held."

Once held and lost. I would not wish my sorrow on my worst enemy.

"I can't help you, Faye. It would serve neither of us well for me to even try. You should be off before your father discovers where you are and forces me to marry you. That would be the quickest way to ensure that you do not acquire that which you seek."

"My father trusts you. He knows you would not take advantage."

"Be that as it may, if anyone were to see you leave here, you would be ruined."

"I will not marry a man who does not love me, even in the face of ruination." Her words come with such conviction, but I know from experience that conviction does not always render the words true.

"Be that as it may, I fear you would have no choice."

"We all have choices." Slowly, she rises. "The Claybourne ball."

I do not watch her leave but instead turn my gaze back to the fireplace, where the embers no longer glow.

She asks the impossible of me... just as Jessamine had.

Don't let us die.

I won't.

But I had.