The Alpha’s Tempting Mate

Sedona

My phone buzzes with an incoming text. I set my sketchpad and pencil down on the bench I’m sitting on and fish the phone out of my purse. It’s from Garrett. By some miracle, he hasn’t sent some alpha bullshit message demanding I come home or hole up in my hotel room until he gets here. Instead, this text is a list of resources-the pack leaders in each country of Europe and where to find them or how to contact them. It’s sweet, but totally unnecessary. I don’t need help. Unless it’s in the form of a date with a vampire to get my memory of Carlos scrubbed.

But then I guess I’d be pretty confused about how I got pregnant. Le sigh.

I haven’t heard from my parents yet, which means Garrett must not have told them. My mom had planned on coming down to be with me in Tucson the minute I got home, but I talked her out of it, which I know hurt her feelings. I just don’t want to be babied by my parents right now.

I rub a line on my sketch of the ancient statue Winged Victory of Samothrace. I added Nike’s head and arms back in but created the drawing in simplicity-a children’s book version of the Greek goddess. I have to say, her wings are exquisite.

Part of me feels like coming to the Louvre to sketch the art is too cliche-the art student studying the masters. But I actually forgot about Mexico and the pregnancy for a moment here, which is a gift.

A girl-maybe nine or ten-stops and looks over my shoulder. “Wow, mom-look, a real live artist is here!” She’s American. Very cute.

“Shh, don’t bother her, honey.” Her mother has that indulgent tone that says she knows her daughter is no bother, but feels obligated to say something, anyway.

Humans have been looking over my shoulder all morning, murmuring their comments in various languages, but this one is the cutest. I tear the drawing out and hand it to her with a smile.

“Is this… free?” Judging by her look of incredulity, she thinks I’m on par with Michelangelo.

This is why I want to illustrate children’s books. Or make greeting cards. Some artists would call commercial art a sell-out but for me it’s not about making money. It’s just the kind of art I like to make. The audience I prefer to reach.Property of Nô)(velDr(a)ma.Org.

“Yep. And it’s just for you. What’s your name?” I pull the drawing back and lift my pencil.

“Angelina.”

I write To Angelina, from Sedona, The Louvre and the date.

She beams at me as she takes it. “Thank you very much.” Her mom cradles her shoulder as they walk away. Angelina turns back. “Your English is really good.”

I laugh and her mom looks embarrassed. “She’s American, honey.”

Out of nowhere, Carlos’ scent fills my nostrils. It’s happened at least a half dozen times a day since I left. I think it’s because his essence is embedded in me now.

It could drive a she-wolf crazy.

Because I seriously don’t know how I’m supposed to get over him when his scent assaults me at every turn. Even a continent away. Not that I ever forget, except that rare moment drawing. Everything reminds me of him. I remember the growl of his voice speaking low in my ear, of his large hands coasting over my skin. The way his eyes glowed amber when his wolf came to the surface.

And I wonder a million things about him. What it would be like to run with him in wolf form, what he would think of Paris, of my family, of my art. Will I be able to keep the news of this pregnancy from him and his pack?

I pick up my pencil and start to sketch again, only this time it’s not Nike, it’s a black wolf. He’s snarling, teeth bared, fur standing up in a ridge down his back. When I finish, I smudge the fur around his ears and hold it at arms’ length for perspective.

Goosebumps prick my skin. It’s Carlos, but I don’t know why I drew him this way. Do I think he’s protecting me?

Or coming after me?

Carlos

I watch Sedona head into her hotel room and sag against a wall in defeat. Is it possible to go moon mad when you’ve already taken a mate?

Because I seriously can’t stand being near Sedona but not with her. I’m feverish with the need to touch her, to get closer to her. I want to be the recipient of the smiles she reserves only for children. Thank fuck she doesn’t smile at other males or they’d be dead before they hit the floor.

I know I’m not thinking straight. I’m drunk on need. I’ve forgotten what I’m doing here.

Or rather I’ve changed my mind a hundred times. Right now, my mind is set on winning Sedona back-not that I ever had her. But she’d been warming up to me back in that cell. If I could just get some extended time with her alone again, I know I can seduce my mate. The physical attraction is strong. We’ll start with sex and build from there. I’ll learn everything else about her and show her I can be the mate she deserves.

So. How to get her alone?

It’s wrong. So wrong. But I’m an asshole enough to think I can pull it off. I head out of the hotel and find a sex shop. The kind that sells handcuffs. Bondage tape. Ball gags.

This could backfire horribly. Or it might be just the thing we need…