The Werewolf's Wife. Michele Hauf
accord. Ridge had been protecting the leader’s daughter, Blu, and the vampire tribe leader, Creed Saint-Pierre. And he’d been defending all werewolves against the heinous label of vampire killers. The Northern pack had been involved in the blood sport—a wicked game that pitted blood-starved vampires against one another to the death—that had left a bloody mar upon their familial image.
He’d do the same again if necessary. Ridge was not a man to jump into the fray without cause, but rather thought through every move, and never regretted those moves. Ever. He stood for what he believed just. Let no man challenge him without due strength and strong morals.
Whipping a stone across the open field edging the forest, he winced as the scar along his torso tugged. He regretted nothing—except one incident over a decade ago that had left him with the scar. Funny how it was never the war and strife that wounded a man deeply, rather the emotional and feminine.
He never would figure out female emotions. Did any man have that figured out?
“So when you going to make yourself official?” Jason asked as they paused at the edge of a cornfield abutting the pack’s property. Crisp brown stalks jutted up through the blanket of snow.
“Official?” Ridge hefted the heavy chain saw case over his shoulder. “I thought I already was. That little ceremony performed by Severo a couple weeks ago didn’t do the trick?”
Severo was the lone werewolf on the Council, a group of paranormals who oversaw the paranormal nations. Their attempt to bring the werewolves and vampires to a peaceable understanding last year had worked to some degree. The wolves and vampires populating the United States maintained a tentative ceasefire. Mostly.
“What I mean is,” Jason continued, “pack leaders generally have a wife and family. It sets a good example for the rest of the pack.”
“Right.” That made sense. “The rest of the pack.”
“If you want the last few to stay, you have to step up, Addison. Family equals leadership. You seem like a family man to me.”
“I am. I would love to have a family.”
But the scar stretching along his abdomen reminded him family was impossible due to the medical malady the deep wound had caused.
“Then you need to find yourself a wife,” Jason said. “Get her pregnant. A lot. And start to rebuild the pack by example.”
Ridge smirked and closed his eyes to fluffy snowflakes that fell from above the bare-branched tree canopy. He chuffed out a laugh and his breath fogged before him. “Actually, I think I already have one of those.”
“What?”
He smirked at Jason’s utter surprise. “She’s a witch,” he said, feeling his jaw tighten. And, man, did his scar itch to think about her. “A very bad bit of witch, at that.”
“Seriously? You’re married? You don’t seem very happy about it. Why didn’t you ever tell anyone?”
“Because it was one of those drunken Las Vegas affairs I want to forget. Not that I can.” He eased a palm over his hip, where the scar stretched down from his stomach. It had been so close to damaging the family jewels, but not quite. Yet the internal damage it had caused was monumental.
“So you’re married to a witch, but you haven’t talked to her since Vegas?”
“Exactly. Twelve, thirteen years ago, or thereabouts.”
“Huh. Do you foresee a reunion any time soon?”
“Not particularly. Like I said, she’s one bad bit of witch.”
“Well, you need to ditch her if you want to start a real family. Not too many women would take to you having a wife. No dates without a clean slate.”
“You’ve got a point. S’pose a trip to the city is in order. I’ve been putting it off for years.”
“That horrible?”
“There’s not a nastier bit of magic in the States, I’m sure. Think you can go on the computer and get me information on how to obtain divorce papers? I don’t want to get any closer to the wicked witch of the Midwest than I have to. If I can email the papers to her, all the better.”
Twelve or thirteen years earlier, outskirts of Las Vegas
Raging, high blue flames were visible behind the ramshackle brown barn set half a mile off the road. Ridge had pulled off the highway outside of Las Vegas, feeling the urge for a dash across the desert on this night following the full moon. A wise wolf never disregarded the call of the moon. But the run would have to wait. He smelled danger.
He raced across the barren dirt yard and through the garbage piled behind the barn scattered with old car parts, tires and scrap iron.
A woman screamed, and his heart clenched. Had she been trapped by the flames?
Arriving before the blaze behind the barn, he surprised a tall man in blue jeans and no shirt, bleeding from the forehead and wielding nothing more than his hand in a direct gesture toward a stacked pile of wood. Shouting a strange word Ridge didn’t recognize, the man flicked his hand and flames shot toward the pyre—from his hand.
A damned fire witch, Ridge guessed. Speaking a spell in Latin. He hadn’t thought they were common. Witches feared fire; it was the one thing that could kill them.
The strange blue flames suddenly flared higher and then parted to reveal, in the center of the vast pyre, a woman. Tied to a pole. Screaming as the flames threatened and crept closer to lick at her pant legs.
Ridge’s heart choked up to his throat. How could anyone be so cruel?
He didn’t give the horror another thought. Reacting to the angry growl inside his gut that abhorred violence toward women, Ridge ran toward the fire witch who directed the flames, and leaped. Soaring through the air, he landed the hard rubber sole of his boot on the man’s jaw. Impact sent the startled pyromaniac flailing to the ground.
Without thought for his own safety, Ridge lunged for the woman tied to the pole in the center of the blazing pyre. His body hit hers. Like lava, her form felt molten and too hot. Thin and trembling as she was, her struggles were futile. Flames chewed at his jeans, but he wore heavy leather biker boots so didn’t fear getting burned.
The woman’s screams choked into sobs. Leaping, he held her to his body and they tumbled over the flames and to the ground. She screamed again, as the impact couldn’t have been easy, and now he rolled with her on the ground to put out any fire that may have ignited clothing.
He spat gravel and clambered away from the fire. Dragging the pole with the woman still tied to it away from the pyre, he hastily worked at the ropes about her hands and ankles and was relieved when she tried to help him. “You okay? What’s up with that bit of nasty?”
She coughed and heaved, likely from smoke inhalation. “Get me out of here.”
“You burned?”
“Don’t … think so.”
He lifted her in his arms, a frail, broken bird, and she melted against him. Her pale hair and clothing were as hot as her flesh, but all he saw on her were dirt smudges, no telltale burns or red welts.
Striding past the man on the ground, who had roused and was on all fours, Ridge kicked him squarely in the jaw, dropping him flat.
“You want me to take care of him permanently?” he asked the woman shivering in his arms.
“No, just … take me away from here. Anywhere. I …” Her lashes fluttered and her head bobbled, nearing a faint. “Goddess, I need a drink.”
Ridge found a cheesy bar on the older part of the Las Vegas strip decorated in more pink and purple neon than most of the skeevy dives he’d passed. The woman downed a vodka straight in the time it took for him to return from the men’s room. She allowed him to wipe off the soot blackening