Defending Their Mate, Part One: A BBW Shifter Werewolf Romance (The Last Pack) by Mia Thorne Page A
Authors: Mia Thorne
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she'd gone to bed with hunger hollowing her out, even after a good day with good meals.
That was why she believed the pack that had kidnapped her, in the end. Not because a man changed to a wolf in front of her, ripping free of his skin to rise on four legs and growl at her with teeth that seemed as long as her fingers. No, it was because for the first time, so many things became clear.
Her constant hunger. The way her senses had always been sharp, even more so as she matured. The way she could feel the moon, know how big it was without looking to the window. The dreams, the ones where she ran—not through crowded, stinking city streets, but through beautiful forests thick with sharp-smelling pine so enticing she could still smell the needles upon waking.
And her mother—her moods, her secrets. The way she'd stop sometimes, stiffen as if she scented danger on the wind, and then hustle Grace back to whatever sublet or short-term apartment they were living in.
"Time for a new adventure, Gracie Lou," she'd say, leaving Grace to pack everything they owned into their two battered suitcases while she stared at a map full of tiny red X's and found a new city. A place they'd never lived, and had never fled.
Over and over, until the day when they didn't run fast enough.
Guilt joined the fear, still fresh even though it had been years, because it had taken her that long to understand the truth—no one had been chasing Grace's mother. They'd been chasing her .
The lodge had a huge kitchen with an equally large dining table, and a marble island that stood between them. In a few hours it would be covered, heaped with enough breakfast to feed a house full of hungry werewolves, one of whom was eating for two. Right now it was smooth and clean, and held only one thing—Grace's goal.
The block of knives was of the finest quality. She reached for the chef's knife and pulled it silently free, transfixed as the faint light reflected off the shiny steel blade.
The fear clawing her up inside faded. She had a weapon. There was no reason to use it, or to believe she'd need to, but not having one had become intolerable.
"Probably not the best choice," a low voice rumbled behind her.
Grace whirled, raising the knife.
Shadows curled around the looming figure behind her, but even in total darkness, she would have recognized his scent. Mac smelled like oil and leather, like the woods and wildness—like the dreams she'd had before she understood what she was.
Like home , came the thought, but she shoved it away. Mac was not home. He was big and rough and watched her with dark, blank eyes that revealed nothing but seemed to see everything. Even when she was huddled in oversized sweatshirts and jeans, he made her feel exposed.
In her flimsy nightgown, caught stealing knives, he made her feel naked.
He nodded to the blade in her hand. "It's useful if you want to carve a turkey or chop some vegetables, but not for self-defense. The blade is too thin."
No comment about how she was out of bed. No questions about why she wanted a knife. The other wolves would have offered reassurances, promises that she was safe. Mac critiqued her choice of weapons.
He was dark, all right. And it didn't scare Grace the way it should have. "I've made do with worse," she said hoarsely.
"You shouldn't have to." He pulled a knife, sheath and all, from his back pocket and held it out. "Hunting knife. Serrated blade. It's sturdier. Go on, take it."
She did, gingerly accepting it with her free hand. It was harder to turn her back on him and slide the chef's knife back into the block. She could feel him all along her skin, a presence at her back that scraped her nerves raw.
She didn't face him again. If she did, he'd see her expression as she eased the hunting knife free of its sheath. The wooden handle fit in her hand—smooth, almost sensual. The blade was sharp on one side, curved to a wicked point, while the opposite side bore jagged teeth, mean and
That was why she believed the pack that had kidnapped her, in the end. Not because a man changed to a wolf in front of her, ripping free of his skin to rise on four legs and growl at her with teeth that seemed as long as her fingers. No, it was because for the first time, so many things became clear.
Her constant hunger. The way her senses had always been sharp, even more so as she matured. The way she could feel the moon, know how big it was without looking to the window. The dreams, the ones where she ran—not through crowded, stinking city streets, but through beautiful forests thick with sharp-smelling pine so enticing she could still smell the needles upon waking.
And her mother—her moods, her secrets. The way she'd stop sometimes, stiffen as if she scented danger on the wind, and then hustle Grace back to whatever sublet or short-term apartment they were living in.
"Time for a new adventure, Gracie Lou," she'd say, leaving Grace to pack everything they owned into their two battered suitcases while she stared at a map full of tiny red X's and found a new city. A place they'd never lived, and had never fled.
Over and over, until the day when they didn't run fast enough.
Guilt joined the fear, still fresh even though it had been years, because it had taken her that long to understand the truth—no one had been chasing Grace's mother. They'd been chasing her .
The lodge had a huge kitchen with an equally large dining table, and a marble island that stood between them. In a few hours it would be covered, heaped with enough breakfast to feed a house full of hungry werewolves, one of whom was eating for two. Right now it was smooth and clean, and held only one thing—Grace's goal.
The block of knives was of the finest quality. She reached for the chef's knife and pulled it silently free, transfixed as the faint light reflected off the shiny steel blade.
The fear clawing her up inside faded. She had a weapon. There was no reason to use it, or to believe she'd need to, but not having one had become intolerable.
"Probably not the best choice," a low voice rumbled behind her.
Grace whirled, raising the knife.
Shadows curled around the looming figure behind her, but even in total darkness, she would have recognized his scent. Mac smelled like oil and leather, like the woods and wildness—like the dreams she'd had before she understood what she was.
Like home , came the thought, but she shoved it away. Mac was not home. He was big and rough and watched her with dark, blank eyes that revealed nothing but seemed to see everything. Even when she was huddled in oversized sweatshirts and jeans, he made her feel exposed.
In her flimsy nightgown, caught stealing knives, he made her feel naked.
He nodded to the blade in her hand. "It's useful if you want to carve a turkey or chop some vegetables, but not for self-defense. The blade is too thin."
No comment about how she was out of bed. No questions about why she wanted a knife. The other wolves would have offered reassurances, promises that she was safe. Mac critiqued her choice of weapons.
He was dark, all right. And it didn't scare Grace the way it should have. "I've made do with worse," she said hoarsely.
"You shouldn't have to." He pulled a knife, sheath and all, from his back pocket and held it out. "Hunting knife. Serrated blade. It's sturdier. Go on, take it."
She did, gingerly accepting it with her free hand. It was harder to turn her back on him and slide the chef's knife back into the block. She could feel him all along her skin, a presence at her back that scraped her nerves raw.
She didn't face him again. If she did, he'd see her expression as she eased the hunting knife free of its sheath. The wooden handle fit in her hand—smooth, almost sensual. The blade was sharp on one side, curved to a wicked point, while the opposite side bore jagged teeth, mean and
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