The Werewolf's Wife. Michele Hauf
my radar.”
“I’m sorry about that. I think being in a relationship would be the best thing for a person’s heart and soul. The soul needs love.”
“The soul also requires freedom,” she responded.
Her soft tropical scent filled his senses, and he was the one to break contact and put his hand on the wheel. They were opposites when it came to ideals for love.
And yet her scent had gotten into his senses and refused to leave. She would prove a distraction he’d once already fallen victim to. And if she wasn’t interested, then he should listen to her warning and keep his focus on helping her, and not on her soft, kissable mouth.
Abigail turned to her side and yawned. She didn’t want Ridge to see. Exhaustion tugged at her shoulder and neck muscles, but she couldn’t afford to sleep. Ryan had to be freaking out. If witches held him, there was no telling what her son was thinking. He’d grown up knowing his mother was a witch, had witnessed her casual usage of magic in their daily lives, and she’d taught him that he existed in a realm populated by all breeds and creatures. As well, that this mortal realm was not the only one out there. Many, including Faery and Daemonia, and dozens others, existed alongside this one.
She had explained to Ryan he would come into his magic when puberty hit. Or not. She knew a daughter born of two fire witches was likely to also be a fire witch—and as a result, would drain her parents of that magic when she came into her own. But the males were hit and miss. Rarely did a boy gain magic from his mother if his father was mortal or another breed. But it could happen when both parents were witches, so she’d wanted to prepare him for that possibility.
Truth was, Ryan could gain magic—or something else all together. It was the something else that disturbed her now.
To keep her thoughts from dire scenarios, she let her gaze glide along Ridge’s profile. The light from passing cars frequently glanced off his square jaw. He was a solidly built man with a thick, muscled neck that alluded to much physical labor, thanks to him being a lumberjack, or so she’d heard. His masculine yet crooked nose made her wonder if it had been redesigned once or twice in his lifetime due to brawls. His hard jaw was set and determined, and he wore stubble as a moustache and along his jaw. The hair on his scalp wasn’t much longer than the stubble on his face.
Dark brows furrowed over deep brown eyes that always startled her when they met gazes. He was so intense. Nothing ever appeared casual about him, and everything seemed as if it was the Most Important Thing to him.
And that everything growled power and strength. Don’t mess with me, you’ll regret it. It also screamed dangerous and wild. He was a beast, a man who possessed an animal side that must be released every full moon. A beast that could barge out if it wanted at any time of the month.
Like that night in Vegas.
She wasn’t afraid of werewolves. Certainly she’d known her share through the centuries, and she was on good terms with Severo, who occasionally served the Council.
Werewolves were at times playful among their pack, and she knew they were devoted and protective of those they loved. But the man-beast werewolf form they shifted into did give her caution. A seven-foot man-wolf with razor-sharp talons and a maw full of teeth made for grinding and tearing wasn’t something Abigail wanted to mess with or invite over for a cozy dinner over sauvignon blanc.
And yet, despite what she’d told him after he’d pounded on her front door, she had thought of Ridge over the years. Often. She didn’t want him to know that seeing a television commercial for Las Vegas could rocket her memories back to that weird night of fire, vodka and crazy, drunken sex. And then on to dreams of what might have been with the sexy man who had selflessly saved her from the killing flames.
And she would never reveal that sometimes her dreams had her twisting between the sheets and moaning for the missing touch from the one man who had not only startled her but had also awakened her to new wants. He’d changed her in ways she was only beginning to grasp now. The obsessive lover in her? It was still in there, but she had been tamed and turned onto something less greedy yet perhaps a little more wanting. She wanted smoldering desire countered by a patient passion. Such wanting was intent to wait for the right man instead of Mr. Right Now.
She’d dated Miles Easton—the witch who’d tied her to the stake—for six months after the crazy notion to move to Vegas for a year, and had resigned herself to the fact most men were basic, functional and sufficient in bed. They put out no more than they expected back. And they expected to come every time they had sex, then roll over and snore. Boring.
But Ridge? As soon as the sheets were pulled away, he became a literal animal. And she wasn’t as frightened by the prospect of another go-round with his werewolf as she should be. For beyond the smoldering desire, her cravings whispered of wild, spontaneous sex. Hot, no-holds-barred sex. Make-me-dream-about-it-for-days sex. Make-me-shiver-when-I-think-your-name sex. Heck, she liked it a little rough, or so she imagined she would because she’d not yet found a lover to meet her pining desire to be held under control.
Ridge recognized her need for control. He was a smart man, but then again, perhaps she was overcontrolling, and who wouldn’t notice that? Ryan even rolled his eyes at her when she demanded too much from him for chores and homework.
At least she recognized her control fetish. And if the tables turned, maybe she’d finally get a handle on it and surrender completely.
But it was foolish to feed those fantasies. The werewolf wanted a divorce, and she wanted her son, safe in her arms.
And so she had steered her course directly into the fray. The River pack, if they participated in the blood sport, would present everything she did not want to deal with. As Ridge had said, when the wolves viewed the sport, they often shifted and impromptu matches were held between their own. They became enraged and hungry for physical fight by watching two vampires go at one another to the death.
She could stand before a gang of vampires without fear, and usually walk away without giving blood. Truth was, vampires still held a healthy regard for witches even though their blood was no longer poisonous to them. And she could hold her own against any witch who possessed earth, air, water or even fire magic. She didn’t mind demons, but ultimately, they were all idiots contained by their mortal shells.
But werewolves were half animal, and Abigail had a healthy respect for wild animals with big teeth. Much as her bad ole self wanted to burn magic through werewolf hides, she had to admit, she was glad to have Ridge along for the ride. He offered the instinct and strength she needed. Her magic was powerful, but facing an entire pack could overwhelm her, and then she knew she wouldn’t be able to direct her magic efficiently.
Which meant she was using Ridge as a means to an end. But it was more important to her to save Ryan than to worry about using one man. Ridge was tough; he could take it.
Besides, much as she should sign those papers right now and let the man off the hook, she couldn’t make it so easy to get a divorce. No, she must offer the man a challenge to prove his worth in the ending of their sham of a marriage.
You’ve got to stop thinking of him as a knight in shining armor, Abigail. Putting men upon a pedestal always gets you in trouble in the dating arena. Be smart.
And she would be.
“The last place I know where the River pack could possibly be holding a secret match is just ahead,” Ridge said. “That building down the road.”
Abigail straightened and surveyed the lights winking in the distance across the snowy field stretched before them. They’d turned onto a gravel road, which was lined with pine trees on one side and high snowbanks on the other. What she guessed were yard lights beamed across the soft blanket of snow, making it glitter as if a faerie stage. The beauty of winter offered a deceptive masquerade.
“I thought this was an old property the River pack had abandoned for digs in Wisconsin, but there are lights on everywhere. Hell,” Ridge said. “Could they really?”
“They’re obviously