Claimed by the Alpha

Stanislav turned sharply, his stance one of a warrior, and those cold eyes scanned the landscape of the night. “The other officers are gone. Well secured against the beasts. You should go, Officer Marijka Zolinski.”

“I’m not going anywhere until you answer a few questions.”

A chorus of answering howls reverberated in the dark like a choir from hell.

“You should be inside,” he reiterated slowly. His blue-black eyes reflected nothing, only a deeper Abyss, a dark so cold and endless the chill stabbed into her bones with a thousand needles. “They’re coming for him.”

“There’s nothing for them to claim.” Marijka refused to be cowed by him and refused to acknowledge the fear that snapped in electric currents as the howls grew louder. It was a tactic designed to to foster terror and immobilize their prey.

She shuddered involuntarily. Marijka hated werewolves. Their howls terrified her and resurrected memories of her mother’s mutilated body

“Yet still they come, malenkaya.” His voice was smooth, like dark chocolate and silk.

Her survival instincts screamed at her to take shelter, but her pride was louder. “And here I stand,” she said, a fiery defiance of him and them burning in her gut.

“Is this really where you want to turn and make your stand? Alone against a rogue pack?”

A pack? She gritted her teeth and blinked hard as she swallowed her fear. “No,” she acknowledged. “But I’m not running.” Marijka had sworn she’d never run from a werewolf. She’d never surrender to her fear and if that meant another officer would be processing her body here where she’d said goodbye to Evan, then so be it.

“No one asked you to run. Only to come to the inn with me where there will be hot vodka with honey, warm cream biscuits with salted butter and where we may talk of the business of the day.” He spoke gently, as if to a wounded beast, his accent more pronounced—his Russian heritage more obvious in his speech patterns.

The words wrapped around her like velvet, soft and seductive, drew quaint images of large fires and soft light, the comfort of tradition, hot food and safety, and slipped inside of her to caress secret desires and guided her to follow his commands. She pushed again with her metal shields, but realized this was no magic, no telepathy. It was the innate power in his voice, the supernatural charisma of an Alpha male.

Marijka wondered again what he was and more importantly, who he was to the Aeternali. He was more than a consultant, more than what he portrayed himself to be. An ageless, eternal power thrummed through him and it resonated with her own.

“And you will answer my questions, Luka Stanislav?” she asked, doubtful. Marijka wasn’t sure she wanted to be in his company. He was dangerous.

“Yes, I will answer your questions. As best as I may.”

“Always a catch with the Aeternali, isn’t there?”

“As there must be,” he admitted with a boyish smirk and halfhearted shrug. When she still hesitated, he spoke again. “A female so lovely shouldn’t be unescorted in Aynkava. Even if you are an officer of the Guild. There are many dangerous males who would have no respect for your title.”

True, but they would respect her Evil Eye and the mark of Baba Zoranna she wore in the tattoo on the back of her neck. There was no power more potent than gypsy magic and she used it with the same precision as she did her 9mm.

“And you? You’re not a dangerous male?” The air around them changed as soon as she spoke...became heavy.

He laughed, the sound rich and decadent. Its resonance sent shivers through her body and centered deep in her core where lust sparked and burned.

“Oh, malenkaya. I am.” His cold gaze was suddenly hot, raking over every inch of her as if she belonged to him. “The most dangerous in Aynkava.”

She’d heard those lines before, males puffed up like blowfish on their own reputations. As if she were some mortal woman afraid of the crawling things in the dark and not a cop who’d been into the Abyss and clawed her way out for her Guild badge. Yet, with Luka Stanislav, she believed every word from his granite-carved mouth.

It made her wet.

Marijka knew part of it was the adrenaline, the rush of being alive when surrounded by death and the fear coursing through her veins as the coming pack signaled their descent onto the small village. Her analytical mind told her this was nothing but a chemical reaction, one she could overlook and put from her mind as soon as she parted company with the handsome Luka Stanislav.

But she didn’t want to put it from her head. What Marijka did want was a few hours of mindless pleasure, of touch. Some connection with another living being, even if it were no deeper than a one-time fuck in the upstairs of a quaint country inn with honeyed vodka on her breath.

“If you’re so dangerous, wouldn’t I be better off on my own?” She cast a quick glance over her shoulder and knew there was something there...watching, waiting. Something hungry. Part of her wanted to run, but part of her wanted to stay, too, because leaving with him was a retreat.

“Perhaps. That is your choice to make.” He shrugged again as if it mattered little to him either way, but Marijka watched his eyes flash from frigid indifference to languid heat. “Although I suggest whatever you choose, you do it quickly.”

“The inn,” she blurted before she could stop herself.

He held out her hand to her, his tanned fingers large and broad. “Then take my hand to mark your choice.”

To show those who were watching she was with him. Under his protection. Dear God, who was he that a pack of werewolves feared to attack him?

Marijka thrust her hand into his and he led her casually down the cobbled street, as if the beasts slavering for their blood in the dark behind them meant nothing.

Chapter Three

The picturesque inn was all Luka Stanislav promised it would be. A roaring fire blazed in a central hearth, casting orange and yellow shadows like dancing sprites across the scarred and battered wooden floor. The warm, homey smell of freshly baked biscuits and the hearty barley seasoning of a simmering stew filled the air. Small carafes of what she assumed to be the famous honey vodka sat on brightly painted ceramic candle warmers on each table and a grandmotherly woman was at the door to greet them.

She wore a bright red apron, elegantly embroidered with dragons in greens, blues and purples over a modest black peasant blouse and long skirt. Her white hair was pulled into a loose bun at the top of her head and fey flyaway wisps framed her rounded face. Small, delicate rosebud pink lips curved in a smile when she saw them and genuine pleasure lit her face with a slight blush.