PAWN AMONG WOLVES CH. 11

Mac's happiness was contagious. Gemma could feel it welling up inside her, pushing aside the worry while they ran side-by-side down the steep slope covered with straggly short grass, wind-fallen twigs and branches, and an old sprinkling of dry leaves. Then as she turned a sharp corner between the trees, a large shadow suddenly blocked out the light over her head. Her heart jumped. Low snickers of laughter sounded where the shadow had landed beside her - dammit, Mac! and her mate nipped affectionately at her rump as he leapt back over her again effortlessly, his joy bubbling in the air. Gemma skittered sideways instinctively, away from his teeth, and snapped a light reprimand back at him. She missed. Rats.

The white wolf's eyes were sparkling as he put on a burst of speed and bounded smugly around her, twitching out of the way while she kept turning to follow his movements, trying to catch him with a nip as he tauntingly, gracefully circled her. She stumbled over her twisting feet, but managed to roll upright again swiftly, and almost caught him, hearing the hoots of laughter in his mind as her teeth caught in the very tips of his fur.

A huge, wet slurp swiped across her nose and face while she coughed his hairs from her mouth. Eugh.

Damn the wolf!

Furious, but laughing inside, Gemma sprang back onto her four paws and sprinted determinedly after the rapidly retreating back of her mate. His tail was lifted, sweeping his hot musk in wide, teasing circles, and she could also scent his effervescent joy on the air. Then he started rolling his run rhythmically from side to side in the gaps between the trees, keeping just ahead of her sharp muzzle, stretching his tail backwards to tickle her nose teasingly, then sweeping it up out of the way when she lunged for it with her sharp teeth. His smugness was patent. Growing.

Gemma could feel her own laughter bubbling up beneath a cloud of slight bewilderment at this glowing joy. Mac was exuberant.

Her attention flickered while she wondered why, and she felt another wet slurp up the side of her jaw. Her focus snapped back, fuming, to here-and-now and she dove after his disappearing rump while he gave a little cough of laughter.

He was twice her size - this was so unfair!

Gemma saw a blur out of the corner of her eye, and received another wet kiss, tongue delving into her ear on the opposite side, while she turned again, snapping a few of the longer hairs from his disappearing tail and tumbling into another sprint after his excited, bounding, beautiful form.

Deep down, she could feel why. He loved this: the simple freedom to just run in the forest with his mate. Tease her. Play together. No pack. No war. Freedom they had never had together. Gemma could feel the intense control that was so much part of him easing, the strain of the dense, interwoven responsibilities lifting from his mind, releasing this bubbling, joyous mischievousness. She could feel her ears tilting in a smile as she tore after him.

Mac somersaulted forwards over a sharp drop from the top of a rock, turned human in mid-air and blew a smug 'can't catch me' kiss back toward her while he was facing backwards, upside down. Seamlessly he completed the loop to land back on all four paws as a loup, continuing his run. Her heart bounced with his happiness, admiring the strength, the beauty of his graceful, formidable frame.

Idiot.

Gorgeous idiot.

She knew there was a more serious reason why they were running through this forest, but could no longer be bothered to call it to mind. She was just happy that her mate was so jubilant.

It was contagious.

They tore one after the other down the slope, leaping over rocks and fallen trees, tearing through briars. Mac kept darting sly, smug glances back over his shoulder as he easily kept the lead on his mate. Gemma felt her heart lifting, easing into a gentle peace with the sheer grace of her own run, mingling poise and power. She was made to do this. It was perfect, glorious: the rhythmic, effortless pull and stretch of her muscles a kind of music in her soul.

Glorious is the word, Mac murmured the agreement in her mind, his eyes gleaming appreciatively as he paused to watch her joyous sprint after him.

Then the damn wolf whisked around and dove off further down the hill just as she reached him, keeping a hair's breadth ahead of her teeth.

Dammit! OK, maybe she should have kept that gleam out of her eye while she'd pondered where to nip him in return.

At the bottom of the next long slope her wolf landed feather-light on a flat patch of grass and spun suddenly in front of her, too swiftly for her to stop her momentum into him. A sharp, expert nudge of his muzzle and she was rolling onto her back, brain whirling three steps behind the movements as he leapt on top of her. Perfectly timed, their limbs entangled in a swift, continuing roll, until Gemma ended flustered on her back with the huge white wolf standing astride her, her heart pounding in excitement. His green eyes were sparkling with echoing feeling: joy, smug excitement, and beneath them both that rich, melting pull of deep, powerful emotion. His tongue licked lightly over her nose, and she felt her insides melting at his gentle affection.

A shimmer of tingling prickled down her spine and across her skin, and she was human, naked on her back on the grassy floor of the forest, with a large, happy man squashing her to the ground and kissing her deeply.

He was clothed.

Damn.

Mac's hands were angling her head, and his tongue started to slide sensuously down her throat, when suddenly he lifted his head and looked back up the steep slope, a flicker of irritation crossing his face. He sighed and rolled off her.

"Persistent idiots," he growled, leaping back to his feet, turning back into the lycan- wolf as he did so, and pausing to scent the air. Gemma's eyes blurred slightly, fire shimmering in her veins at the smooth, glorious ease of his powerful leap, the beautiful shimmer of his tawny pelt. Except for the smooth skin at his groin. That hard, pulsing cock. Mac looked back down at her, a glowing grin beaming across his face.

"Later, picchu. They've started in pursuit. Stop distracting me," he said casually.

She was distracting him?

Gemma rolled her eyes, sighing as she turned onto her front. She wrinkled her nose disappointedly at the change in mood, turning into loup form as she felt her mate drop onto his own four paws beside her.

They're going to catch us, aren't they? I can't run fast enough yet.

Mac snorted in derision and set off at an easy trot ahead of her. Gemma fell in behind. His tail was now just a few inches from her nose.

Hmmmm...

The hunt is not about speed, picchu. It's about cunning, he replied. Don't you worry your pretty little paws and follow me.

This time, she managed to nip the condescending wolf on the rump, and felt a squirm of pleasure in her stomach as his skin shuddered under her teeth and a cloud of lust thickened his musk. Oops. Gemma's insides churned with recognition, and realisation: a playful nip was a wolf sign of affection; an aphrodisiac. And a powerful one. Wow.

She gulped, her insides trembling with fire, bathed in his liquefying scent.

Steady, picchu. If they get too close, you're going to have to ride me, too. His tone was purring with anticipation.

Ooooh.

No idea whose mind that flagrant, delicious image came from - but wow. Her breath spluttered and she stumbled to a halt, a sharp image burning through her - riding her wolf: breasts free, bouncing to his rhythm, feeling the slick, hard force of him sheathed repeatedly, forcefully inside her, his tight grasp on her hips pulling her up and down on his rampant cock.

Gem, if you keep being that distracting, they'll definitely catch us. The warning echoed sternly, and Gemma could feel Mac trembling, fighting hard against the tide of lust rising in his own mind. I don't want to have to kill any of the idiots. He broke into a faster trot at the unsettling thought.

Sweat broke out on Gemma's nose, and she stumbled back into a much more ungainly run, following her disappearing mate at a steep angle further down the mountainside, frustration churning through her.

Why was that sleek tail so enticing? She kept wanting to sidle up and nip him again. Just one little nip. He could control himself. Nose twitching, belly tightening, she ratcheted up her pace sneakily, but he did also, and stayed just out of her reach. Dammit.

A bit faster.

Didn't work. Damn him.

Softly, softly, faster again.

Rats.

A quick dash of speed!

Aaaaw! Slow down, you damn spoilsport!

Your evil plans would work better if you hid your thoughts from me, Mac replied dryly, still just beyond the reach of her reaching teeth.

Hide them? How? You're my mate and Alpha, aren't you? Can't you just read anything I think? she asked indignantly.

Invading someone's mind is a form of attack, Gem, a nasty thing to do. I can only read your thoughts because you keep broadcasting them. Practically shouting some of them, he chuckled internally. You just have to stop broadcasting.

How? she asked again.

In response, a sharply embarrassing memory of her human face covered with a mess of cheese, nacho crumbs, guacamole and salsa smears pushed into her mind. One of Mac's memories, from that time he had come home to find Gemma, Ruby, Kate and Bethan mid tequila-party, giggling together in a crumb-and cheese festooned heap in the middle of the sitting room floor. There was a smile in his thoughts as he lingered on the red circles on her cheeks - it had seemed like a funny idea at the time to try out salsa as make-up. Blood burning in embarrassment, Gemma quickly shoved the image away.

That's it! That's how you block thoughts, he told her calmly. You can keep them in by just doing the same in reverse.

What? That had been automatic - she had no idea what she'd even done.

Think about it, Mac advised.

Brooding on the impossible, Gemma followed him absently down the steep hillside, not even noticing the effortless, loping run which two weeks earlier had been alien to her.

At the foot of the mountain, the stream that splashed down sharply from Fort Amicable foamed into a wider river which wound across the wooded plain. The fugitives shifted to human and waded thigh-deep along the course of the waterway into a dense thicket of trees. Mac was growing more and more tense at their slow pace, and kept looking around in quick evaluation, assessing their surroundings.

Gemma was more than a little disappointed that after that one, quick glance, he had yanked his gaze away from her naked breasts and breathed deeply, determinedly focussing on the high treetops as he waded ahead of her. Damn his control. Finally, her mate stopped, slipped off his trousers and ...

Gemma lost track of what he was doing.

Just look at that butt. I mean, it had been amazing enough following it around when he had had the wet trousers on, but now. Wow. And he was wearing nothing underneath, which meant there was nothing to spoil the view of that beautiful, taut curve of flesh.

Smooth, too. The warm skin shivered slightly as her fingers traced over the tight muscular outline, and Gemma melted at the shimmer of lust in his scent, leaning lightly against his back from behind. She snuggled against his sleek, wet side and curved a thigh around his hip so that she could nudge that hard, throbbing erection with her own leg.

Her nostrils twitched.

Something wrong.

Slowly her dazed eyes lifted, mesmerised by the broad chest stretched under his T-shirt, the strong column of his throat, the pulse beating hard under the tanned flesh. Eventually they reached his face. A light jolt ran through her, and the lust clouding her mind lifted slightly.

His eyes were - worried.

"Picchu, please try to focus, I know it's hard," Mac said quietly. He swallowed, "But I really, really would prefer not to kill, and there's a whole pack of them hunting us now. I won't be able to defend you without doing so, if they catch us."

Gemma struggled to heave her mind out of the cloying pull of desire as she focused on the worry in her mate's eyes, his tone. The want was like thick treacle about her feet, her calves, trying to suck her back down, clinging to her stubbornly while she fought against the mindless, wanton lust. She gasped in a breath and nodded grimly. She really didn't want him to have to kill his allies for her, either. If she could only keep focussing on that worry and not on his arse.

Her blood jumped in her veins, and her eyelids flickered.

Wereem, she taunted herself in snide self-disgust.

"I think I'd better go in front," she replied hoarsely, still struggling not to lick her lips. Look down. Stare pleadingly at that oh-so-proud, welcoming erection that she could scent waving enticingly, bewitchingly under her nose. That one. There. Damn it looked delicious.

Mac sighed shakily and slapped his water-soaked trousers over the branch jutting out over the river above their heads, grabbing both ankle cuffs as they dangled either side of the support, and growled brusquely, "Climb, Gemma." He ducked under the water, hiding his rampant genitals in a blur of rippling water. She blinked and whined, reaching down. As her fingertips touched the surface, her hand was grabbed, lifted, and squeezed tightly around the wet cuffs of the heavy cloth hanging above their heads. The pain of the fist squashing hers around the material cut through her mindless lust.

"Try not to touch anything but the cloth over the first branch, so as not to leave any scent, and leap for the branch above it," Mac instructed, his voice harsh, and slightly hoarse.

Guiltily, Gemma jerked her head up, and after a few seconds the branches above her head swam into focus. She judged the distance.

What?

"I can't jump that," she protested.

"Yes, you can," urged Mac. "As a wolf, you can."

He meant lycan. Gemma's heart was now pounding for a different reason.

"I can't judge things as a wolf," she protested on a slight whine, a panicked feeling growing in her stomach. "I miss - I mess up. I'm worst in wolf form."

Her stomach trembled when she was suddenly swept out of the water and swung around onto his broad back by a muscular arm clamped around her waist. She clutched frantically at his tawny, fur-covered shoulders, legs closing automatically around his hips. The hot, clean scent rising off him melted through her.

What was he doing? This was no way to kill her lust!!

"Then cling tight and keep your thoughts and hands from roaming. Judging the jumps for us both will be hard enough without distraction," her mate replied slightly desperately, his thighs tensing as he lowered himself slightly for the leap.

His abs rippled against the backs of her calves, sending a shudder of lust through her.

Oh god. How was she supposed to restrain herself? He smelt scrumptious. The taut muscles rippling against her skin and the light brush of his fur felt even better. Her mind began to cloud over, lust pooling between her thighs, fingers sliding through his long shoulder fur.

The next second they lurched from the water, his fingers yanking on the cotton-covered branch to power them above it, where his feet landed on the cloth and bent legs snapped instantly to full length against the springy purchase, propelling them through the air not toward the thick branch above, but across at an angle toward a second one, further away in another tree. Mac flipped upside-down in mid-air and Gemma's stomach lurched, arms and legs clinging frantically while he snapped the trousers snagged in his hind claws over a new branch and then grabbed both cuffs with both feet, hauling in a twisting motion so that they ended up upright, much higher above the ground, panting hoarsely, hanging from his left hand clawed tight in the thick fabric.

Gemma's mind was whirling.

What just happened?

Actually, she was the one panting hoarsely. Mac was breathing hard, but easily, swinging to their momentum, looking around for the next move. There was a faint grin on his face.

Gemma's stomach was still recovering from the double back flip, and she drew breath to comment, but choked when Mac abruptly swung to leap out and sideways, launching them into the next hurtle through the air. The ground was flying up to meet them, but then they curved at a sharp angle, swinging from his clothing slapped over another branch, and were catapulted across a wide break in the trees. Gemma's eyes widened and she clutched frantically, a faint squeak escaping. They were flying toward a thin, broken branch pointing like a spear towards their unstoppable trajectory, waiting to prong Mac hard in the belly. His shoulders jerked as he twisted, slapping the wet cloth around the trunk of yet another tree to their left and they curved horizontally this time, before bouncing off a springy branch covered in wet cloth and somersaulting in the air to land with her wolf standing on his trousers half as high in a new tree, looking around for the next. Mac was absently stroking her arm with his free hand, soothing the trembling.

"Tsk tsk," he murmured teasingly. "Such a scaredy mate I have."

Gemma made a half-choked rude raspberry noise in response, breath heaving.

Well, this death-by- exhilaration treetop travel worked at killing libido.

Sort of - it was also a blatant advertisement of how damn strong, gorgeous, skilled her mate was. But the thirty foot drop below them was working as a healthy deterrent against distracting his attention right now. Later. Gemma's stomach was quivering in tension, muscles taut, blood pounding. Partially in excitement.

I hadn't realised that wolves climbed trees.

Most of them don't, she heard his soft reply in his head. That's why this is the safest way to move, when hunted.

Safest?

His laugh was a little teasing. Don't you trust me, little mate?

She grinned and kissed him under the ear gently, before pressing her chin against his shoulder, peeping out over the thick fur, stomach relaxing slightly. Oh course she did.

So long as your trousers don't tear, she replied.

Double-thickness, and interlined with Kevlar, picchu. I've done this before. Trust me.

Her heart lurched as they swung back into that blur of motion. How come he knew about fabric linings?

I'd never have guessed that sewing is part of Alpha training. Embroidery too? Gemma teased silently.

Mac's chest was reverberating with an internal chuckle as he curled in a lazy somersault toward the next branch. Gemma felt a wistful wish that she could do this Tarzan-type travel herself.

I'll teach you, picchu.

The words were like a soft kiss in her head.

Gemma snuggled closer against him, but she still replied on a slight humph: Stop reading my private thoughts.

An image appeared in her head, of a hard, dry, baked-to-a-crisp wedge of solid brown and dark red shining crust arranged on one of her dinner plates, next to some fresh green salad. She batted the unwelcome image straight back out again, growling slightly, a flicker of the dark berserker anger creasing into her mind.

So she'd left the quiche in the oven way too long, he didn't have to remind her that she'd tried to serve him the damn crisp!

You're getting the hang of this, picchu, he commended her softly. She pushed his unwanted opinion away too, feeling the slight tension in her temples as she did so.

Oooh - so that was how you did it.

She tried to repeat the sensation again, a few times, but it was difficult with nothing to push against.

Mac shared an image of her shrieking and shrinking away from him: he'd been in loup form, soaking wet, and shaking his fur all over her back in the forest when she'd been on heat.

That one was a lot easier to shove away, hard, and she felt him laughing at her indignation. She pushed stubbornly again, and the sound of him in her head faded, but wasn't totally extinguished.

Well done.

She thrust the compliment away as quickly as she could.

Give it a rest now, Gem. Training the mind is exhausting, and requires little and ofte -.

That one she managed to push away before he finished the sentence. She didn't even hear the end of the last word. She felt smug, although her temples were aching painfully. Not that she was going to tell Mac that.

You've learned the beginnings of how to shield, Gemma, not how to stop broadcasting. I can hear your smugness and feel your headache poundi -.

She pushed that away too, irritated, and felt the pain at her temples spike.

Her mate sighed, and her head echoed with silence.

Aaaw. Spoilsport, she complained.

He ignored that.

Hours later, after the sun had set and the blue, cloudless sky was darkening beyond the dusky silhouette of the forest, Gemma and Mac were loping easily in their four-legged forms up the steep side of yet another river valley. They had been running almost continuously since they left Fort Amicable, over a wilderness of wooded hills and across wide dales. Gemma was hoping that Mac would call a halt soon. Not that running in this guise wasn't as easy as walking as a human, but she was tired.

A welcome breeze curled around her panting form. Mac skidded to a halt, his head shooting up and ears springing alert. His nose lifted to scent the wind, a low growl sounding in the air.

What is it? she asked, watching the eerie, fearsome back-light fire in his eyes. His muscles tensed under the heavy, silken pelt while his nose twitched in the breeze.

Nigel, he replied brusquely. His black eyes glittered in challenge. Damn the wolf. This changes things: come on, Gemma.

The new pace that Mac set up the hill was punishing, and Gemma whined, falling back. She couldn't run at that speed. The Alpha spun, bounding back towards her with his eyes ablaze, and the sharp rebuke: Don't be lazy, sounded in her head as he nipped her sharply on the rump.

Ow! Not an aphrodisiac, this one. It was way too painful.

Gemma found that she was running back up the hill ahead of his sharp teeth and blazing eyes, smarting from the healing nick on her arse, and fuming inwardly. Damn Alpha! She waited indignantly for the rage to smother her so that she could turn on him, but there was no sign of it. By the time she realised that she'd have to attack the damn bossy-boots compos mentis, she'd already run half way up to the treeline, her limbs had warmed up to the new pace, and she begrudgingly admitted - internally, and very quietly because she was damned if she was going to let him hear this - that she evidently could run uphill at this pace. So maybe she had been being lazy. She preferred to think that the reason she had balked had just been unfamiliarity with her own stamina in wolf form.

It was interesting that she hadn't felt even a hint of the rage. She felt a touch of shame, now, that she had wanted to. Her mind tingled as she suddenly realised that the Don't be lazy hadn't been a mental order either. She was running fast, uphill, entirely under the prompting of her own mind. To avoid that nip. Just because she'd thought that she had to. But in reality, she was the one in control of her limbs.

Humph. Damn sneaky wolf.

They ran out into the dusky light above the trees.

Who's Nigel? she asked, mainly to distract herself from thoughts of how soft and cosy some of the thick stands of grass looked.

Mac ran up alongside her, keeping pace with her.

The African senshal who pronounced your sentence, he replied. He's a prime tracker, probably the best there is, and he taught me and uh - my brother all those tree-travelling tricks I used to mask our trail. They'll have slowed him down, but no more.

There was a faint tinge of guilt to his thoughts, and Gemma felt her blood running colder at the stark tension in Mac's tone. She could sense his uncertainty, doubt at being able to evade this hunter. Her heart lurched. Would the hunters kill him too, if they caught up with them? Maybe if he went back, apologised, turned her in, they would forgive him, be lenient to her wolf.

The look Mac shot at her burned with a furious: Don't you even suggest it.

Gemma blinked, feeling a different shiver running through her. Mac angry was oh so hot.

His ears twitched in amusement. You're supposed to find me scary, not attractive.

Oh, that too, she replied in an appeasing tone. Yeah right. She knew he could read the sincerity of her deep, non-existent fear. He nibbled her ear affectionately as they ran.

So what do we do about the hunt? she asked.

Improvise, replied her mate dryly. And meanwhile, keep running.

They settled down to a steady, fast lope. Over the rushing of the blood in her ears as they crested the hillside under the deepening dusk, Gemma could feel the increasing rise of tension in her mate.

The pursuit was gaining on them.

She tried to put on more speed, but heard Mac cautioning calmly, Steady, picchu. Better not to stumble. Her heart was beating faster and faster with the awareness increasing in her own fur. The feel of being hunted, prey, was setting her blood shivering.

To distract herself, she queried silently, What kind of a name is Nigel? He was African.

His real name's N'gula, responded her mate absently. He seemed to be listening intently to something she couldn't quite pick up. One year he took on a couple of cheeky, insubordinate students who called him Nigella, which he didn't object to until he discovered it was a girl's name.

Gemma snorted as she ran. She wasn't fooled by Mac referring to himself and his natál in the third person.

He taught the cheeky ruggare a signal lesson, but somehow the name Nigel stuck, her mate finished. Everyone calls him that now, including his pack.

There was deep affection twined through his thoughts. Gemma hoped very quietly, internally where he might not hear it, that the affection was mutual. Maybe Nigel would be lenient to Mac.

They ran down the next slope and toward another broad, grassy dale. The moon rose, bathing the river in silver light while they splashed through the belly-deep water as fast as they could. Gemma was breathing harshly as she pounded beside her mate up the steep wooded slope of the opposite hill, trembling from weariness and the slowly solidifying tension pulsing from Mac. A faint whisper of pursuit made her ears twitch. But what did she know? Maybe it was a damn owl or something.

Suddenly, deep in the dense woodland on the hillside, Mac halted and spun around, mind echoing with incredulous disbelief and worry: Who the hell? The sounds of a raging wolf fight broke out below them. Gemma also halted and listened, incredulous. Had one of the hunting pack turned on Nigel? Who was reckless enough to challenge a senshal? The distant snarls rolled from a multitude of wolf throats - more than one wolf was involved in the fighting.

Your pack? asked Gemma, amazed.

They're nowhere near here. And I wouldn't let them, Mac replied tersely. The unspoken thought echoed: it would be too dangerous.

They could see nothing through the thick pines, just hear the furious melee in the valley below, and Mac turned and streaked toward a short crag jutting out above the trees to their left. He bounded out onto the open pinnacle, stopping a foot from the sheer edge, standing staring while Gemma panted up behind his shoulder.

She also gazed disbelievingly down at the dusky shadows of movement just visible to her wolf eyes in the dark valley.

The hunting pack had been ambushed.

It had happened where she and Mac had forded the river, only minutes earlier. Gemma shuddered at the astounding sight of the twenty or so hunters being smothered under an angry sea of hundreds of wolves who were still pouring out of the trees and attacking the pursuers as they struggled to gain the bank. Even to her untrained eye she could see that the wolves defending their flight were taking advantage of the height of the river bank and the impedance of the water slowing the movements of the hunters. This was not an accidental encounter.

Male, female, old, young, the eyes of the defending wolves were gleaming with rage in the dusky light as they took down the pursuers, sets of them working together, three or four in some cases immobilising each powerful hunter on the grassy bank or in the shallows. Within minutes, only a few of the hunter wolves were still on their feet: those grouped around the huge, dappled senshal. Nigel had fought his way ashore, and was spinning like a whirlwind, hurling off each melee of attackers who tried to down him, his sparkling eyes gleaming as the last light caught them.

No sounds reached the watching pair, the fighting was too far away, but Mac kept flinching as he watched the fray centred around the senshal, whining softly, fur shuddering. His alert white ruff was haloed in the soft moonlight.

No!

Gemma kept hearing his injunctions in her head, but they weren't aimed at her.

Don't! Idiots! Not like that! Not Nigel!

Quivering with tension, the couple witnessed the increasing ferocity below. The wolves defending the shore were implacable; they were not going to move. Yet the senshal was unstoppable. Currently he was holding back his strength, trying not to maim, warning his opponents to just give it up. But he was having to gently up the stakes of each warning. And the stranger wolves were still refusing to budge. So in turn, Nigel was getting more tangibly insistent that they do so, more forceful.

It was becoming increasingly obvious that the muscular senshal would have to kill the defenders to get past.

Watching that graceful, contained power as he flung his attackers off him and slowly gained ground toward the hillside, there was no doubt in Gemma's mind that Nigel could kill the strangers. Easily. Maybe the hundreds of them would overpower him in the end, but at the moment the wolves defending their retreat were also trying to just stop the hunters, not hurt them. Neither side wanted to kill. But neither would give up, either.

Sickness began to pool in her stomach as black shining patches blossomed on the fur of some of the intractable attackers surrounding the senshal. Why was this happening? Who were they? What was going on?

A harsh huff of impatience snapped out beside her, and Gemma felt the wind of her mate springing past her to land at the base of their viewing rock and sprint off into the trees. Back down the hill.

Mac! she called.

Keep heading south.

She was already springing after him when the command caught her mid-air, causing her muscles to seize so that she landed heavily and rolled uncontrollably down the steep bank to thud against a tree. Her mind blanked with fear of what Mac was running into, swiftly smothered by rage that he had dared to order her away. Blackness swamped her senses.

Gemma came out of the berserker rage to discover, sheepishly, and with a little remorse, that the poor tree no longer had any bark on this side, within claw height. Such a stupid, pointless thing to do. Her jaws and right paw ached, and she switched to human to pull a splinter out from between her teeth. Eugh. Then she winced as her bare foot landed on a sharp piece of broken branch, and realised that she was instinctively, obediently, walking south. Without thinking. Naked. Damn him. She switched back to her four-legged form, and shivered as she heard a sudden howl of challenge echoing up from the trees below. She knew his voice.

Mac.

No.

She'd seen Nigel fighting. And that had been when he was withholding his strength.

Now her mate was fighting the senshal. Fighting that ferocious, spinning, whirling devil she'd watched flinging off hordes of attackers. She could tell Mac was engaged with Nigel from the pounding of her heart in her chest, the shuddering blood in her veins. She felt sick. The sense of her mate within her mind had narrowed to a hairsbreadth, a barely noticeable, tenuous thread, returning no sense or feeling, just there. Only just.

Gemma felt a howl rising in her own throat, but didn't dare release the anguish. She didn't dare to distract him. Black spots swam again in front of her eyes, and she felt that she would almost welcome the blank oblivion, heart despairing while her feet obediently pulled her further and further from her beloved wolf.

Please, let him be safe, please.

A lurch in her stomach, and she circled, heart burning, to try and see, try to follow. He'd gone that way. Even while she stared white-faced down the hillside after him, the view blotted by the thick trees, somehow she found her feet had turned again and she was heading south, away from him.

No.

Tears were running down her face while the ferocious snarls and occasional yelps echoed up from the valley floor, assailing her ears. The clench of terror in her heart again allowed her to force her feet to circle, so she could peer unseeingly down through the dense forest. But her feet moved on without her guidance, drawing her away, obedient to his last order.

Not his last, no, please not.

The sickness lurched further up into her throat, and she found that she was back human, her arms wrapped so tightly around her midriff that she could barely breathe, holding on, trying to hold herself together. She didn't want to remember that effortless blur of Nigel fighting. Her gasping breaths sounded loud in her own ears.

The valley had fallen silent.

Mac? She panicked

I'm fine, picchu. Nigel has retreated.

Mac's mind was stunned, echoing in shock and fury while he sprinted back up towards her again.

Then: Why aren't you running? he demanded brusquely.

The rebuke, coupled with the splintering relief from the terror shuddering through her set her mind spinning in incoherent fury, and Gemma turned and leapt for his throat, lycan, claws extended, just as her mate burst from the trees behind her.

She landed with a jarring impact on her back underneath him, her throat pinned with a palm to the floor. She shuddered to the terse words in her head, the blank rage flicking back from her eyes: We haven't the time for this, Gem. Either get running or accept orders. Mac's mind was churning with sadness, bitterness, intense rage and revulsion under a coating of shock. Deepest was a dark, stark anguish fused through every pore of him.

What? Where had those feelings come from? The rage in Gemma's head quivered outside the rising worry for her wolfmate.

Those were ex-Grey wolves. He answered the terse question in Gemma's mind succinctly, flinging up a shield around his raging emotions, blocking them from her.

Gemma's heart clenched, the berserk fury subsiding further. She had caught a memory from Mac, of the look she remembered in Ada's eyes. And Anne's. The bleak, hopeless, misery and self-loathing. Anger echoed through her, spiking as she realised what had so infuriated and upset Mac. Why his emotions were writhing.

What Nicolas Grey had done to his pack was not over simply because they had been freed.

She found herself loping as a loup again beside her mate up the hillside. Shock was rising through the anger: ex-Grey wolves? Her brain was churning worriedly. What were they doing here? Why had they attacked Nigel? Surely they would get into trouble for attacking a senshal? But what were they doing here?

They don't care what the senshal think. Mac answered bitterly. Then he seemed to force himself to relax, his mind soothed over hers, and he pulled himself together enough to explain further, albeit very succinctly.

The ex-Greys had been brought into the Fealden range to get out of the city, meet the council at Fort Amicable and amalgamate into other packs. However, most were too deeply scarred to circle, the wolf term for changing packs, and they were holding together as a leaderless pack, refusing outside help and seeing pity on every side. Pity was anathema to a wolf.

Gemma could feel Mac's deep bitterness, he couldn't entirely hide it from her. He could understand why the ex-Greys were not ready to join other packs, did not wish to circle. The damaged wolves could not bear the thought of having an Alpha have any hold over them. And they were revolted and deeply ashamed at the idea of letting anyone close enough to read what had been done to them by Grey.

Eventually, after the ex-Greys had refused offers from all the Alphas present, Fealden had insisted to the council that they just be given space in the remote forests here, to find some peace and just - enjoy being wolves, as far as they could.

That is one of the things that the senshal are worried about, Mac added. A pack of nearly a thousand renegade, ungoverned wolves suddenly loose in the Eastern ranges. Many of whom have learned some very bad ways of being a wolf.

Mac was worried too. Something about that fight had deeply unsettled him.

The pair of them ran on silently, side-by-side in the moonlight. Gemma's mind was echoing with sadness for the ex-Grey wolves. She could feel Mac brooding darkly beside her.

No-one could understand why they didn't circle from Grey, announced Mac suddenly. At least those without blood-ties. He wasn't even an Alpha. He should not have had a pack, not considering what he was doing with them. To them.

Mac's mind creased in pain, and he slammed a lid on his thoughts. But a low growl escaped, and then the raw, anguished stream of thought that was plaguing him, what he had just seen: We thought they must have been to some degree complicit. But they could not escape.

How do you know? asked Gemma. But her mate was too taken up with his own churning thoughts to answer.

A wolf can always circle, that freedom is a fundamental of wolf life, wolf society, our whole culture, civilisation. Our abilities. I was suspicious, but I didn't expect this. An adult wolf chooses his or her Alpha, there is no way of holding one. Any wolf is free to leave at any time, except during the meld. And an Alpha is only an Alpha because of his pack. If he loses their support, he is just another powerful wolf. How the hell did Grey force them to do his bidding? Force his will on them? It is impossible - a powerful wolf can break or stop a weaker, yes, but not bind one to his will.

Gemma's mind was swamped in sarcastic repudiation, echoing with the bitter memory of the look of hopeless, tear-drenched, wordless pleading in Anne's eyes while she had bent under the rape of the security guard, unable to disobey the order given by Nicolas Grey.

Mac slammed his shields up against the image, wincing so hard that he stumbled.

That is impossible, he howled. It is impossible to coerce a wolf, outside the meld, and the meld is built from trust: you cannot force it on a wolf.

They both shared a spine-chilling, simultaneous thought: The meld was apparently the only thing that Grey had not been able to force on his pack. If he had...

Mac's mind was resonating with dread. There was something much worse here than that which had already been uncovered. Worse than even he had suspected. Something that struck at the very heart of wolf life, threatening all of his people. Threatening the freedom of every wolf.

They ran in silence.

Eventually, Mac calmed enough to answer Gemma's question obliquely, by explaining what had happened during the fight. The soft words inside her head were careful, his thoughts held rigidly under control:

Nigel has fought infinitely more often than I, and was melded with the wolves of the hunting pack. I was losing. And so -.

He paused, and she could feel him clamping down on a spike of rage and revulsion. They were terrified of the power I would wield over them, hated me inside their heads, but several of the senior ex-Greys melded with me anyway. So that I could defeat Nigel.

Mac halted again, and Gemma could feel his mind reverberating while he swallowed convulsively. She could not feel, see what he had seen, linked with the damaged wolves, her mate would not share this, but she could scent his deep, rippling distress.

Those from the time of the last Grey Alpha, those who remembered, they forced themselves to meld their shields into mine, and so lent me enough strength to outweigh the hunters.

Mac's mind was echoing in shock, he couldn't believe that the ex-Greys had done that. Had been able to bring themselves to do that. After all that Nicolas had done to them.

Gemma asked softly, awed, But they trusted you to let them go?

There was a moment of bleak silence, then: They have met me before. The older ones. Mac's mind was clipped, hiding deep anguish.

Gemma felt a rush of pride in her mate. But he clearly could not deal with this, so she dashed along a different train of thought, the meld - I thought wolves fought one on one?

Only during the defasio or mortefio, Gem. Otherwise wolves fight in packs.

So your pack - and his?

They are both too far away, his tone was easing slightly. I can communicate over this distance, but it requires very tight proximity to battle meld.

Gemma felt a surge of anger that he had issued that challenge solo, while ordering her to run. The anger was swiftly smothered by guilt at the thought of the Mackeld pack, bereft once again of their formidable Alpha in wartime. Because of her.

Mac drew in a sharp breath and halted beside her suddenly, turned human, and swept her up in a bear hug. Gemma found herself shifting human, crushed in his arms, hugging him back as hard as she could, feeling his blood pounding just under the surface of his skin, his heart shuddering. Her mate lifted her further and buried his head against her shoulder, face hidden in her hair while he breathed deeply, raggedly. Gemma soothed his scalp with softly massaging fingertips, crooning gentle whispers of how much she loved him.

His heartbeat slowed gradually.

"You're going to make one hell of an Alfamme, picchu," her mate murmured eventually into her skin. His face was dappled dusky shadows, eyes gleaming in the darkness when he lifted his head to look down at her. "Don't you worry about the pack, we are in a ceasefire. And the senshal are deeply suspicious of Tzo's use of Nick's scent-masking chemical, they will not be easing up on him for a while."

Mac tone turned distracted on the last words, his mind flickering with the worry over those weapons. Gemma ran the fingers of both hands back through his thick, tawny hair, pulling lightly to tilt his head so that she could look deeply into his eyes. She said seriously "Alfamme matches Alpha, Mac." Jeremy had used the phrase to Jasmine, and it seemed to resonate among the wolves. "Those deeply scarred warriors trusted you. They were able to bring themselves to open their minds, meld, give you that hold over them. My Alpha mate."

Mac smiled softly, slightly crookedly. In answer he conveyed a picture from his head, not something he had seen himself, but a relayed memory, a message sent by one of his impromptu ex-Grey meld just before he'd released them.

The memory was of this same valley bathed in golden sunlight. The watcher was focusing on a young wolf cub, she thought female, pouncing on a second cub out of a stand of thick meadow grass. Both of the sets of young eyes were alight with glee as the pair clashed with mock snarls and rolled across the sun-dappled grass in a playful fight. There was pride and hope in the bitter-edged determination of the protective watcher, and an overlay of thanks: The cubs would grow free of this shame.

"They fought with me. But they fought for you, my picchu."

The burning fury rose in Gemma and tears lodged in her throat, behind her eyes. Black flecks were dancing in her vision. She wanted to curl up and sob, rage for the damage done to the watching adult, mourn for the wary sourness of mistrust, fear and self-loathing that curled around even that golden picture. She wanted to attack someone. Not just anyone. Nicholas Grey.

Her mate snarled, low, in agreement.

Then he sighed, "But for now, Gem, we have to focus on the matter in hand. Nigel has been driven back, but I know him, he is a stubborn, proud bastard. And he's furious with me. He believes he is trying to free me from some lust-induced insanity, and was trying to convince me to give you up during our fight. No-one believes that a wolf can have a songmate who is a werewolf - yeah, right. I was probably equally furious that our best tracker is wasting time hunting us when Grey is still on the loose. But he has given up on finding Grey, there is no scent. Instead, to prove himself, Nigel will hunt us down. He will circle the ex-Greys and pick up our trail further on."

Mac read the somewhat bemused, questioning picture in Gemma's mind that had arisen at his words, and his mood lightened, distracted. Gemma was thinking of the pair of them, loups, sitting on a rock together, tails entwined, baying to the moon. Songmate?

"Not quite, picchu," he murmured with a hint of amusement. "There are many types of mate: a lovemate for a short-term relationship, lifemate or bondmate when permanently or officially joined, rutmate when the female is on heat."

Mac paused, then continued softly: "Songmate is the term for the wolf who makes your soul sing with happiness, mates with the rare bond so tight that not even silver can block it. No-one would expect a wolf to do anything less than fight to the death for his or her songmate."

His mind shimmered with the intense feeling behind the words. There was another moment of silence, and Gemma felt them welling up inside her. Her head sank back into the crook of his shoulder as she recognised the truth of the description, her heart - no, her soul singing to the warm echo of recognition in his head. Her songmate. Her wolf. Just as she was his.

They stood quietly together for a long moment, Gemma's legs wrapped loosely around Mac's waist, both sets of arms hugging tightly. Their heads were tucked into each other's necks, a stolen moment of peace on the moonlit hilltop.

Eventually, Mac sighed. His tone was gentle, sober when he conveyed the soft words: My picchu, the ex-Greys have just risked themselves, their already precarious autonomy and safety, to help us remain free. To honour it, we must use their gift wisely. Run with me.

Always, the reply melted out of Gemma's heart.

Mac lowered her to the ground, kissing her deeply before breaking away and dropping back into loup form. Gemma followed suit easily, then she broke into a trot beside her mate, pride and love lifting her tiredness, determination burning in her veins. She would honour their gift. Her wolf bounded against her, curling his tail around hers and stroking his head along her neck and cheek, rubbing affectionately against her for two short paces before they separated. They steadily notched up their speed until settling into a smooth, fast lope, racing through the trees in the moonlight side-by-side.

The Wolflord believes that you could be my songmate, Mac added quietly. He also believes that we owe you more than a vote of Deadwolf. Which is why we could fight our way free in the Fort: although he would not directly act against the majority vote of the senshal, the weight of his disapproval was smothering most of the wolves in the room. He is a sneaky bastard.

Gemma felt her heart lightening in hope. The feeling of rejection, the displacement of no longer being human, yet not being accepted by the wolves, eased faintly. She also felt a little tingle of pride in her veins as she realised that after all of Gus's training, she could run like this for several more hours. Minimum effort. She could run like a wolf.

Several more hours? If only!

The sun was well over the horizon two days later when Gemma stumbled wearily and rolled, strategically angling her course underneath a thick bush and collapsing in a heap, back pressed against the trunk. Seconds later, a tawny-furred, black-clawed fist reached in and clamped on one of her forepaws. She bit it viciously and Mac cursed softly as he dragged her out. He clouted her sharply on the head, hissing, "They are only hours behind us again, Gemma," and she let go.

Let me lie still! she snarled grumpily.

No, he growled back.

They couldn't get away, Gemma thought fatalistically. The world's best tracker was on their tail, and although the endless wilderness was now being broken by more and more frequent roads, they didn't stand a chance. Gemma had realised the truth of Jasmine's words about the petrochemical stench the first time they had sprinted across the asphalt, her empty stomach heaving at the stain of diesel on the surface. She had thought that Mac's plan might be to stow away in a car, but no way. There was no way out.

Mac nipped her smartly: Run. Angrily, wearily, she broke back into a stumbling lope.

And trust me, he added.

Mac wouldn't, couldn't tell her his plan. Early the day before yesterday, then again late yesterday evening, her mind had been gently read, and diverted by one of her mordeurs. Mac was pretty sure it had been the boy. Orders had stroked into her mind; gentle, insidious messages for her to look around carefully, cataloguing the view, especially the direction that they were running in, and then to run from Mac towards a landmark or the sun. She had obeyed without thinking, without even realising that the suggestions came from without.

Mac had attacked her both times, and her fear and anger at the relentless nips of his sharp teeth had pushed her into berserker rage, breaking her free of the hold on her mind as she had turned to chase her tormenter deeper into the wild forest. Her mate had only pinned her down and cajoled her back into calmness once he had felt the cub lose his hold on her, when they were outside the yip's short range. Mac told her that the cub was being driven around in a car, by those trying to locate them. How did Mac know? He wouldn't tell her. The cub could read her too easily.

Eugh, thought Gemma, revolted.

You're getting stronger by the hour, picchu, Mac reassured her. Give it a few weeks and you'll be able to break free of him anyway: all werewolves grow free of their mordeur eventually, and most mordeurs are Alphas, with much greater mental control than that obnoxious little creature.

Isn't that when I go totally insane? she snarled back at him tiredly. She was running again. Her pads were on fire. Her joints felt like they were disintegrating. Her head ached with tiredness. Her stomach was sour and trembling in sick emptiness. Bossy didn't even begin to cover the descriptions for Ulf-the-Implacable-Insufferable-Alpha-Mackeld currently seething through her head. Bossy, domineering, officious, overbearing, autocratic bastard of a dictator. She didn't care if he heard her.

Especially since I'm a female, like you said?

He'd said it way back when he'd first healed her. And she'd noted since that the only two feeble contenders for 'sane werewolf' in their legends were male.

I've been thinking about that, he replied, not in the least bothered by the stream of insults she kept conveying. So long as she kept running while she thought them. My guess is that wereem went insane more readily because they couldn't say no to sex. Even the few who weren't created as sex slaves would encourage anyone to mount them. And as their scent was Alfamme until they grew free of the shiele of their mordeur, almost any male would, given the chance. If the wereem wasn't naturally promiscuous, maybe it would have driven her mad. It seems to be what annoys you most, although there isn't a hope in hell of me letting another male get to you.

She knew that he was trying to distract her from the damn running. And she was partly distracted, but more by the slight hitch in his thoughts, which she was beginning to realise meant he was hiding something from her mid-sentence. Maybe she could find out what.

So male werewolves weren't so fuck-anything-that-moves? she asked.

Hell, yes, they too smelt Alpha, and had orgies of sjeste presenting to them. But I never heard of it bothering any of them.

Typical double standards.

But don't I smell of that disgusting little cub's shiele, not yours?

You still have not completed the change, picchu. Just as it takes time for the wolf shiele to overcome the human immune system and turn one, it then takes more time to totally eradicate the human. Your current scent is a mixture - your remaining human scent, the shiele of your mordeurs - including me, and the growing scent of your own wolf shiele.

She was still partially human?

Dammit, he had distracted her. But she had realised what he'd probably avoided sharing with her when mentioning wereem sex-slaves. Nastily, she sniped, So until I go insane, if that little slime orders me to, I'll roll over and open my legs even to his Dad?

Eugh. The memory of herself naked on her back underneath the aroused Nicholas Grey shivered revulsion through her tired brain for an instant. She wished she hadn't voiced that disgusting idea, but couldn't seem to stop griping at her mate.

Suddenly her whole being clenched in fear at the vicious scent which invaded her nose and she felt herself swung through the air to land forcefully back against a tree trunk, the clawed lycan hand at her throat tight and threatening, holding her suspended. She'd seen another wolf held by Mac in this pose, once, and now realised why that wolf had panicked as her feet scrabbled in the air, powerless. Her mate's scent was boiling with uncontrolled rage, and there was no hint of green in his eerily glowing, raging eyes.

His long teeth millimetres from her nose, he hissed into her face, "Until you can control yourself, Gemma, then I will fucking control you. There isn't a rabbit's chance in the ring - I will rip that pup apart if need be."

The shroud of black rage rising in Gemma's mind was smothered under the wave of intense relief which flooded through her suddenly, and she tasted the wild tang of him on her tongue as she spontaneously loup-kissed his nose in thanks. Until this moment she hadn't even recognised the deep fear lurking in her own mind and heart. Fear that the cub could make her do that. Mac's eyes blinked suddenly back to green, and then she was in his arms, lycan, and he was hugging her so tightly she could barely breathe.

"Oh Gem," he murmured against her hair. "Trust me. There is no way I would ever let him. I will look after you."

She kissed his throat, his collar bone, feeling the tears rising in her throat as she clenched them back.

The next second, he had dropped her back onto her feet and the Alpha loomed over her again. So fucking run, he glared, his teeth nearing her shoulder and she shied swiftly away, shifting loup and breaking back, impossibly, into a lope on all four throbbing paws.

Damn obnoxious, overbearing, outrageously bossy wolf!

Oooh, touchy, he responded.

Will you stop listening to every grouch I think?

Well, if you'd shield your thoughts, I could, he replied softly.

She slammed that thought back at him, and felt him wince slightly.

Got to stay awake.

Stay awake.

Easier ordered than done. Now that the black rage that he'd fucking given her another order had worn off, the shimmer of exhaustion at the corner of her vision kept closing in. So far the exhaustion had been beaten back by the damn command he'd conveyed before running off into the woods. To fetch her some clothes.

Stay here and stay awake.

Damn his bossiness.

Her eyes lit on the small black metal object lying beside her where she was slumped cross-legged on the grass, leaning back against a tree. Her shoulders were slowly sliding closer to the ground.

Stay awake.

Yeah, right.

Eyes almost horizontal, she recognised the shiny black back of his BlackBerry. He'd left her his phone. He'd mentioned it, something about it being safe, but she'd been too angry to listen. Angry because he'd been about to leave her behind.

Why did she have to stay awake again? - oh yeah, the obnoxious kid. Apparently her mordeur would be able to subtly nudge her to sleep-walk, but she'd still be asleep, and unaware of what she was doing. Mac would have no way of knowing that she was moving, if that happened. Any more than she would. So she had to stay awake.

The slight tingle of fear at the idea of what the kid could whisper in her sleeping brain drove back the fog of exhaustion, sharpening her tired mind. It made sense to stay awake. A languid hand reached down and picked up the phone. Gemma watched dopily. She was aware that it was her hand, but it didn't seem to be really attached to her.

They were close enough to some human place for Mac to run off shopping, so maybe there was a signal, and she could check her email. Try to spark some life into her brain.

There was something wrong with the world when the guy went clothes shopping and the girl was ordered to stay behind.

Five minutes later, Gemma was sitting bolt upright, quivering for a different reason, hunched over the small screen.

Finally, she thought. It felt like a rocket had exploded in her head. It was expanding, burning brighter, more fiercely, firing energy through her tired mind.

This was it.

She could kiss Craig, however irritating and pompous her somewhat unethical colleague was. Bless his probably overdue for a wash cotton socks.

All of the wolves had forbidden her to seek help from anyone else in searching out the ingredients for the scent-masking drug, too worried about the formula getting into the wrong hands. And she hadn't. This was something else, and a complete fluke.

Three months ago now, she had been snatched from her lab and taken to Marshmont, leaving in the laboratory fridge a set of unlabelled samples from her analysis of the cream which Mac had rubbed into her then-human back to leach out the silver. The samples had been thrown out by the time she'd gotten back, and she hadn't been surprised, it was lab policy. She'd just dismissed the matter from her mind.

But now, Dr Craig Portisman had emailed her a curious, slightly arrogant apology. He'd been late into work the morning following the break-in (for a change), and had had no time to prepare for his Forensics master students' practical, what with having to work in a different lab (yeah, like the two minute walk down the corridor to the biochem lab would have really slowed him down), and cover her classes (she didn't teach on Wednesdays). Finding the unlabelled samples someone had left cluttering up the fridge (tsk, tsk) he'd used them as an impromptu lesson, setting his students the task of deciphering the ingredients.

OK, once he'd heard Gemma questioning the lab technician after she'd gotten back, he'd realised that the samples had been hers, but it had been too late then, and he'd kept quiet. They'd have been thrown out anyway, as they were unlabelled. No harm done.

But now he was coming clean. Because, when finally marking their lab reports, he had realised that their students had discovered something so unbelievable that he wanted to publish the attached paper of their findings. Enough of them had found it for it not to be a chance. She could be co-author, if she'd let him know where she'd got the samples from.

Gee, thanks, Craig.

Actually, no, scratch the sarcasm. Thanks. Really.

Due no doubt to complete guesswork, the MSc students had hit upon something in the cream which was so blindingly impossible, Gemma had never checked for it in her own analyses of the scent-masking drug. The cream had contained traces of an unusual organic compound (Mac's skin cells, she guessed). Upon breakdown, it looked exactly like a common human enzyme, but with a different metal woven into the ribbon-like structure. The students had found a new enzyme.

Whoopee!

Her excitement rose when she recognised that as this wolf-skin enzyme was based on antimony (not cadmium, which she'd thought had been the only possibility apart from zinc, and as the spectroscopy had indicated), then she could predict what it might form when coated with the scent-masking drug. She would be able to work it out. Here was the clue, the key that she had been looking for.

Moreover, some of the enzyme structures reported had had trace concentrations of silver bound inside the enzyme in place of some of the antimony molecules. The beginnings of a mask to scent?

Her heart was pounding, and a fierce light was burning in her head as she considered which stains she would need to work this out. Then her heart jolted.

If only she could still perform chemical analyses.

But the furnace was burning in her. She wasn't going to let a little thing like a deadly allergy to silver stop her.

Hunched over the small screen, Gemma pulled up her latest email from Kate. It was useful having a friend who also worked at the university. Even if the linguistics researcher believed that a test-tube was merely a fiendish form of schnapps glass designed so that you had to down the contents in one. Kate had nevertheless agreed to pick up the remaining small amount of the scent-masking drug from Gemma's lab, and was keeping it in her home fridge in a fully sealed package, ready to mail on to Gemma. Time to get it forwarded.

Gemma's mind froze, stumbling over the words in the latest two-day old email from her human friend, words that leapt off the page at her.

'Unbelievable - who would ransack a chemistry laboratory, for heaven's sake? Alison told me all the dangerous chemicals are locked in the store upstairs, they're completely bewildered and the police can't find anything gone, although they're trying to link it with the break-in you had there a couple of months ago.'

Damn. Probably rightly.

Gemma was shivering. She hadn't really thought that anyone would try and get that last bit of the concoction, that there would be any danger for Kate. Really. After all, the Aster had the formulae now, captured from the Grey lair. Although she and Dr Maynard had yet to decipher one for the scent-masking drug.

Maybe the formula wasn't there? Maybe someone knew this? Someone who had broken into her lab to retrieve the last bit of the potion from the phial that Mac had taken off Nick?

So long as no-one realised that Kate now had it.

Gemma's stomach was sinking, a cold feel growing inside her. The edges of her vision began to blur with the unreasoning anger, but she pushed it back. That wouldn't help.

Maybe he did realise. Nick had once hacked into Mac's Instant Messenger account. Could he read her email?

Gemma's stomach cramped, and she felt her hackles rising slightly. Black spots swarmed across her eyes, her mind blurring, and she slammed her defences up, struggling to hold the rage at bay.

She just had to assume that no-one had yet managed to hack through the university email security, as Kate's house hadn't been ransacked too. Or it hadn't two days ago. She had to get the dangerous package away from her human friend. Now. Right now.

Her muscles were all aching in tension, and the black spots began to force their way back into her tired head.

A two day old email. What had happened since?

Gemma's forehead creased as she fought to hold back the fear-fuelled rage gathering behind her eyes, the spots spreading to block her sight. Dimly through her darkened vision, fighting to keep her mind clear, her eyes swam over the names on the screen as she scrolled through Mac's contacts. Her shaking fingers and nails were lengthening as she pressed call too hard, finding the first of the names she sought.

Pick up. Pick up. Pick up NOW.

"Mac?" Gus's tone was flabbergasted. "What the hell -"

Gemma broke in on him, her voice shaking with rage and fear as she stuttered out the words: "Kate took the last of the drug for me, Gus. But someone's broken into and ransacked my lab. If they've found out that she has it -" Her voice was rising in fear and anger, and she broke off, yelping, as the shattered glass in her hand cut into her palm. She yowled at the crushed BlackBerry in her wolf paw, flinging it away in fury as she bounded to her throbbing feet so that she could sprint to find an alternative method of communication.

Why the fuck couldn't she control herself?

What if someone attacked Kate? Because of her?

Abruptly, her limbs locked with Mac's stay here order resounding in her mind, and it felt like the top of her head came off with the force of the rage exploding through her, the blackness obliterating her reason instantly.

She was flattened to the turf, fighting against the strong limbs pinning her to the ground, mind shadowed by clouds of black rage. She tried hard to bite the damn wolf but he reared his head back, evading her jaws. He fastened his teeth to the line of chin, the gentle bite sending a pulse of excitement through her, but she still bucked in rage under his heavy weight. His thick cock throbbed in the crease of her thighs, pressed against the entrance to her pussy, and the heat roared through her, rage melting under flame. She squirmed again, her legs parting slightly under his weight, and he grabbed her head and kissed her, hard. The blackness in her head vanished under pounding, aching heat.

Mac shifted human, and she followed suit without thought, widening her legs while he ripped open the fly of his heavy cotton trousers. She whined yes as he positioned the head of his cock, breathing harshly, and then he was sliding into her, weight heavy on her, the sweet, forceful stretch of his cock thrusting hard within her melting her body in pure, rich sensation. The rough, urgent pounding of his hips, the harsh, hot scent of his intense arousal built and built the lingering fire within her, pushing her higher. This was no gentle play; this was a raw, desperate mating. As she felt him biting down on her shoulder her brain whited out with the lightening creasing down her spine, and she heard her mate snarl through his clenched teeth, pushing his cock as deep as he could while he exploded within her.

Surfacing again, Gemma felt the blackness hovering inside her mind, clouds clustering as she remembered her damn idiocy in involving Kate in this mess at all. The words issuing from Mac were muffled under the coalescing rage, but his mind pushed through, and she heard the conveyed words echoing in her head.

Gus is en route.

The blackness lifted slightly, and she stared up at him bleakly.

I have set four of my wolves to guard Bethan and Kate, until Gus gets there and can deal with it. Postgrads - older wolves; they know to keep a very low profile, not draw any attention to the humans.

Then he was on his feet, hauling her to hers, pushing a bag into her hands as the black rage slithered away under the lash of her remorse. How could she have put her friends at risk?

They are fine. And you did right to ask Kate to remove the last bit - that may be the saving grace for the Aster.

He turned her around swiftly, and kissed her.

"Put your clothes on. Quickly, please," her mate requested, and turned away to re-fasten his trousers then pick up the splintered bits of phone casing while Gemma stared dazedly at the Hello Kitty backpack hanging from her fingers.

Please, Gemma, focus, he asked. Nigel is less than thirty minutes behind. We didn't have time for that delay.

When would they have time to laze about and make love thoroughly? she grouched internally.

Get dressed, he answered. I will make time for us, I promise.

Trembling slightly in the aftermath of no sleep, constant running, too little food and too quick a fuck, Gemma pulled out the clean knickers and bra and swiftly dressed in them.

What wouldn't she do for a shower.

The poppy-patterned cream blouse was tight cut, her breast pressing out against the soft material, and although the black shorts were looser, her pussy lips were way too overstimulated for the crotch rubbing not to be too much right now. Gemma bit her lip, close to tears at the drag of heat in her veins, too tired to fight it.

Mac asked her to raise her hair above her head. Bemusedly, trying not to think of how much she just wanted him to jump her again, she did as asked. A cloth covered her eyes, was knotted tightly behind her head and she choked in a breath, hands dropping to touch the soft folds: "What?.."

"I cannot allow you to see the road signs, picchu. I case Nick's cub comes within range again."

Gemma spluttered, the gentle curl of heat bursting back to full inferno her belly. It wasn't as if she minded the blindfold, but thought blocking out road signs was a bit of a wasted reason for wearing one.

Did she never get enough?

Not of him.

There was a smile in Mac's thoughts as he turned her back to face him and kissed her gently, sliding his fingers through hers and tugging her down through the trees. Gemma stumbled after him, wondering how to trip him up and accidentally roll on top of him.

Mac halted her after a very short walk; there was a slight, not unpleasant scent of metal and leather and oil. He dropped her hand, grunted lightly as something clicked mechanically, and she felt a brush of air as he moved, then a faint squeak and sigh. He lifted her hand again, and guided it to something made of smooth, rounded, padded leather.

She felt it over.

"Get on," he urged. The heat of him was not far away, and she put at hand forward, patting at his shoulder, lower than usual, feeling down his back to the seat he was on, just ahead of hers.

"A tandem? How'm I supposed to sit on a bicycle saddle when I'm this stimulated?" she grumbled sleepily.

Would she stop grumbling about everything? she complained to herself. The irony made her lips twitch. Her mate had a genius idea for scent-free travel and all she could do was gripe.

"If you think you've got it bad, picchu, you should try being male and aroused. Get on. I thought you might like our first stop to be the drive-through burger joint I spotted at the bottom of the hill."

Gemma scrambled eagerly astride the bike, ignoring the spike of feeling from her swollen labia. Food!

Someone was shaking her shoulder. Gemma mumbled, "Gerroff," drowsily into the mattress, sweeping a half-hearted arm through the air at her assailant. It didn't connect, and his hand returned to her shoulder to resume the shaking.

"Come on, picchu."

Damn bossy wolf. Gemma growled grouchily and burrowed herself further under the covers, squirming on her sleepy limbs to get away from that stubbornly persistent male and sink back into slumber. It wasn't like they had to take turns on watch or something. She remembered the sound of the anchor chain rattling down sometime last night.

She snarled sleepily, finding herself flipped up into his arms, still wrapped in the duvet. It was too much effort to do anything else, and she simply pressed her face into his shoulder to shut out the unwelcome sunlight, sinking back toward stupor.

Mac was swaying slightly to the motion of the boat as he carried her toward the short companion ladder. He had borrowed this small yacht off his friends Jonathan and Lianna, no trouble, when he and Gemma had turned up at the humans' house on their bicycle in a cloud of mud and road-stench. Apparently he'd been at college with Jonathan, years back. While the guys had filled the water tanks and checked the boat over quickly, Jonathan's wife had offered Gemma a heaven-sent shower, some toiletries, and spare clothes. As soon as they'd gotten under way out into the Great Lake, Mac had tucked Gemma into the bed in the aft cabin, and she'd sunk instantly into slumber.

She would still be asleep if her wolf hadn't woken her up. Too soon. He really needed to learn to sleep longer. She could vaguely recall snuggling up to him at some point in that wide bed, why had he had to get up and drag her out of it?

As he hitched them both up the short flight of steps, Gemma tried to sink back into sleep.

God it was cold out here.

She burrowed closer in to the warmth of Mac, pulling the duvet tighter around herself as he sat down at the back of the cockpit by the wheel. Her mate hugged her, cuddling her on his knees. She relaxed bonelessly against him and kept her eyes closed, trying to ignore the contrast of sunlight and light breeze dancing over her exposed right ear while the boat gently rose and fell, at anchor.

"I can sleep just as well in the cabin," she mumbled into his shirt.

He sighed.

"I was hoping to share this sunrise with you," his chest rumbled as he replied.

Damn. How did he manage to make her feel slightly guilty for her grumpiness?

Gemma considered keeping her eyes closed. Just to show him. But no - she didn't get to see Mr Romantic very often, better not to waste it.

She sighed and stretched sleepily against him, straightening out her tight muscles before turning on his thighs to rest back against him, tucking the duvet over her feet where they rested on his knees, the back of her head nestling in the hollow of his shoulder. The sun was blinding against her still closed eyelids.

"This had better be good," she murmured, rubbing a hand across them.

Her eyes slowly blinked open. Closed. Open again. Gradually focused. Tears smarted, and ran from the corners, but she didn't think it was wholly from the brightness of the light.

"Oh," she breathed wonderingly.

She felt cold lips nibble at her earlobe, then he kissed her softly underneath it.

"See?" he said teasingly. "I'm always right." Her right hand was resting gently against his thigh, and she changed the limb to lycan, swiftly extending and retracting her claws so that they prickled into his taut flesh, laughing softly when he jumped. He kissed her again, a smile against her skin.

"Sometimes," she amended softly, eyes resting peacefully on the beautiful, rich tapestry of light shimmering across the horizon ahead of them.

"Sometimes I'm always right?" he pursued. Then he swallowed.

Gemma barely noticed, absorbed in the beauty of the dawn. But she gradually became aware of the tension in the long-limbed frame underneath her, the slight tinge to his scent. Mac was uneasy.

What?

She turned her head to look up at her wolf. He was staring out at the dawn also, but his eyes were flickering black with some suppressed emotion. His expression was so carefully wiped clear that her heart clenched in worry.

"Mac?" she asked softly, combing a gentle hand through his tawny hair. Was something wrong with his pack? Had they not gotten away from the hunters?

Her stomach clenched again on a different worry. Was Grey torturing Natasha Vanilchov? Black rage spots danced in front of her eyes, but she forced them back. She had never really understood Mac's link with his adopted little sister, but knew that Tasha was very close to Mac.

She caressed a hand over his cheek, quivering with her own worry.

He was so tense.

"I wanted to ask you, picchu," his voice was low, barely audible. "You haven't had a lot of say in what has happened to you recently; there is no going back from being a werewolf, and no choice when you meet your songmate." He swallowed, and lifted her hand to press a soft kiss to the palm. Her hand tingled. It set off a chain reaction down her spine, and a soft explosion of moist heat low in her belly.

God, he smelt gorgeous. If he didn't also smell so damn worried, she'd be ripping his clothes off right now. Here. Luckily his scent was somewhat worried, so that she could restrain herself to just delicately unpicking the buttons on his shirt. Like this.

And this.

Ok, so that third one had torn a bit, stupid slow button.

Gemma struggled to tug her fingers out of the hand which had engulfed hers, but Mac held on, and the thickness of the worry in his scent broke through the heady lust. She looked back up into his black eyes, flecked with shimmering green.

He was really troubled, or he wouldn't be hesitating about asking her whatever it was. Recently her wolf seemed to have taken to dictating to her what they were going to do, then dealing with the arguments according to her volubility and persistence. A habit she'd have to break him of.

Gemma lifted herself up, squirming around to kiss him softly on the lips. Again, and again, nibbling little kisses. He did so much for her. She was sorry she'd been so grouchy yesterday.

"Don't worry. Whatever it is, Mac, we'll sorry it out. I love you," she whispered, and felt his heart bound under her palm. Then his lips quirked faintly, and he lifted his own hands to cradle her head, thumbs stroking over her cheekbones as he looked deeply into her eyes. The deep, deep green was still swirling with black, and he swallowed again.

"Your Dad's birthday party next month," he began a little hoarsely. Gemma's heart clenched. Oh. Yes. Maybe she shouldn't go. She hadn't great control now, and in another few weeks - she seemed to be getting worse, less controlled. Her heart shrank further, realising her mate was trying to gently warn her that she would have to distance herself from those she loved. Well, from everyone else whom she loved. He could still control her. More or less. Her heart ached, mind echoing with bleak thoughts.

The gathering despondency was interrupted by the soft words he managed to choke out: "Would you go as my future wife? With me?"

What?

Gemma's heart sputtered to a standstill as she realised what he'd said.

Her eyes fell, incredulous, to the little cream pasteboard cube now nested in his hand.

He fumbled open the small box with a finger. Her heart burst back into a battering pace, as she stared.

Mac never fumbled.

He hadn't only been clothes shopping in town, a little wisp of thought curled inappropriately through her completely startled mind, while a beautiful little ring of alternating pairs of small emeralds and topazes, each separated by a single diamond, gleamed up at her. But it wasn't the ring that was making her heart swell, and tears spring to her eyes.