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The Werewolf's Wife
Michele Hauf
He fulfilled her fantasies and broke her heart.Can true passion get a second chance? After one reckless night of passion, werewolf Ridge left his wife in Las Vegas and returned to his clan. Thirteen years later, to become pack leader, he needs a divorce. Yet he’s never forgotten the sensuous witch whose life he saved…or the knee-buckling kisses he still craves.After they parted, Abigail tried to forget Ridge. But when her son is kidnapped, she knows she alone can’t save him. Though Abigail’s body still aches for Ridge, she’s willing to give him his freedom in exchange for his help. Yet who will shield her heart from the only man she’s ever let claim her body and soul?



“You think I’m bad?” Abigail asked.
“Yes.”
A tiny smirk of satisfaction curled her kissable lips. The slender rim of fur at her wrists taunted him and made him remember all the naughty things he’d imagined doing with her over the years.
Yes, he’d had a few dreams.
Ridge averted his gaze. Though he felt sure the sex had been great, it was only a hopeful memory. He was a fool to believe it had been anything more than a stupid night of drunken folly. Damn that vodka!
He tugged out the papers from his coat and waved them before her.
“Okay, okay!” She paced before the counter, twirling a finger around the end of a luscious twist of black hair. “You want something from me? First you have to give something to me.”
He had not expected this visit to be easy.
“What’s your price, witch?”
Dear Reader,
I confess I display pictures on my computer monitor of my hero as I’m writing a story. Many times that hero will resemble a favorite actor. I like casting my stories that way, and it’s helpful to have a visual as I’m writing. When I’m reading another author’s story, I always cast the characters. It’s a natural thing to do, and I suspect many of you do it, as well. I also know that not everyone imagines the character the same, and for that reason it’s probably not wise to reveal who inspired my hero’s physical looks, just in case you don’t necessarily find that particular actor as sexy as I do.
Alas, I cannot resist with this book. Ridge Addison is one of my favorite heroes, both in physicality, rugged good looks and emotion. And staring at a picture of Jason Statham every day for the months I was working on this story made the job that much easier. ;-)
Who do you like to imagine your heroes and heroines to look like? Stop by my blog or Facebook page, and let me know!
Michele

About the Author
MICHELE HAUF has been writing romance, action-adventure and fantasy stories for more than twenty years. Her first published novel was Dark Rapture. France, musketeers, vampires and faeries populate her stories. And if she followed the adage “write what you know,” all her stories would have snow in them. Fortunately, she steps beyond her comfort zone and writes about countries she has never visited and creatures she has never seen.
Michele can be found on Facebook and Twitter and michelehauf.com. You can also write to Michele at: PO Box 23, Anoka, MN 55303, USA.

The
Werewolf’s
Wife
Michele Hauf

www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)
This one is for all my Twitter followers.
You tweeple are swell.

Chapter 1
Ridge Addison swung an ax, chipping out wood at the base of a dead pine tree he wanted to lay flat for firewood. He and a friend had been working all afternoon under a steady snowfall, and dark was beginning to layer the sky. One last chop …
The pine tree creaked. The trunk split at the base and the thirty-foot tree toppled onto the frozen forest grounds outside the Northern pack’s compound, situated thirty miles northeast of the Twin Cities.
Fellow pack member Jason Crews called, “Timber!” but they were the only two on the private land.
The men stood back, waiting for stray branches to finish falling from nearby trees before Jason picked up the chain saw in preparation to remove the branches.
“Wait,” Ridge said.
Jason paused, chain saw held at the ready.
Ridge glanced up. The half-moon was already bright. The sky was gray and a perfect snow fell. Perfect meaning huge, downy flakes fell straight down, slowly, softly, without a sound.
“Just wanted to enjoy it a moment,” he said, and then signaled Jason to go for it.
The chain saw snarled. The man ripped into the tree, making quick work and leaving a cleanly stripped trunk. This winter they were clearing out the dead and diseased trees. Ridge had plans to start a horse logging company that traveled from forest to forest, wherever the landowners wanted them to go, clearing and cutting back deadwood. A necessary service to keep forests healthy while also respecting nature. It was ecological and used no trucks, only horsepower, thereby leaving the forest in as good condition as when they arrived.
Jason shut off the chain saw and slapped the sawdust from his overalls. Both men had been bundled against the shrill January cold this morning, but over the course of the day they’d stripped to half overalls, flannel shirts and heavy-duty leather gloves as they’d worked up a good sweat.
Ridge was considering making Jason pack scion, since they were sorely in need of structure after the recent events that saw him become the new pack leader.
But then, how to structure a measly four wolves? The pack was dwindling daily. When yet another wolf packed his things and told Ridge he was leaving for a rival pack because he needed family, well, there was no argument to be served to match the werewolf’s innate and instinctual need for family.
He and Jason had surveyed the land before Christmas—the pack owned well over five hundred acres, seventy percent of it forested land. As the new pack principal, Ridge was responsible for the pack and for the members’ living quarters, if they chose to live at the compound. Only two remained at the compound—he and Jason. The other two lived with their families in the Twin Cities suburbs.
A pitiful pack, but he wasn’t willing to give up on building a healthy group that considered itself family.
“I say we call it a day,” Ridge suggested, and received a confirming nod from Jason.
They packed the equipment into cases and duffels. Tomorrow, they’d lead out the draft horse from the stable, hook chains to the fallen tree and drag it back to the compound for cutting into lumber and firewood. More backbreaking labor that felt so good to complete.
“It feels good out here,” he said, drawing in the brisk, sawdust-scented air. “Most of the bad karma doesn’t cling to this sight.”
Because the bad karma had all been invoked elsewhere.
Ridge had been principal almost four months. Formerly, he’d been the right-hand man to his predecessor, principal Masterson, though not the second-in-command scion. That was until Amandus Masterson had been revealed to be plotting against a local vampire tribe, Nava, in an attempt to stage an all-out war. There had been casualties, Masterson being one of them—at Ridge’s talons.
He did not for one moment regret killing the pack leader. It had to be done. At the time, all of the pack had stood beside him, showing their accord. Ridge had been protecting the leader’s daughter, Blu, and the vampire tribe leader, Creed Saint-Pierre. And he’d been defending all werewolves against the heinous label of vampire killers. The Northern pack had been involved in the blood sport—a wicked game that pitted blood-starved vampires against one another to the death—that had left a bloody mar upon their familial image.
He’d do the same again if necessary. Ridge was not a man to jump into the fray without cause, but rather thought through every move, and never regretted those moves. Ever. He stood for what he believed just. Let no man challenge him without due strength and strong morals.
Whipping a stone across the open field edging the forest, he winced as the scar along his torso tugged. He regretted nothing—except one incident over a decade ago that had left him with the scar. Funny how it was never the war and strife that wounded a man deeply, rather the emotional and feminine.
He never would figure out female emotions. Did any man have that figured out?
“So when you going to make yourself official?” Jason asked as they paused at the edge of a cornfield abutting the pack’s property. Crisp brown stalks jutted up through the blanket of snow.
“Official?” Ridge hefted the heavy chain saw case over his shoulder. “I thought I already was. That little ceremony performed by Severo a couple weeks ago didn’t do the trick?”
Severo was the lone werewolf on the Council, a group of paranormals who oversaw the paranormal nations. Their attempt to bring the werewolves and vampires to a peaceable understanding last year had worked to some degree. The wolves and vampires populating the United States maintained a tentative ceasefire. Mostly.
“What I mean is,” Jason continued, “pack leaders generally have a wife and family. It sets a good example for the rest of the pack.”
“Right.” That made sense. “The rest of the pack.”
“If you want the last few to stay, you have to step up, Addison. Family equals leadership. You seem like a family man to me.”
“I am. I would love to have a family.”
But the scar stretching along his abdomen reminded him family was impossible due to the medical malady the deep wound had caused.
“Then you need to find yourself a wife,” Jason said. “Get her pregnant. A lot. And start to rebuild the pack by example.”
Ridge smirked and closed his eyes to fluffy snowflakes that fell from above the bare-branched tree canopy. He chuffed out a laugh and his breath fogged before him. “Actually, I think I already have one of those.”
“What?”
He smirked at Jason’s utter surprise. “She’s a witch,” he said, feeling his jaw tighten. And, man, did his scar itch to think about her. “A very bad bit of witch, at that.”
“Seriously? You’re married? You don’t seem very happy about it. Why didn’t you ever tell anyone?”
“Because it was one of those drunken Las Vegas affairs I want to forget. Not that I can.” He eased a palm over his hip, where the scar stretched down from his stomach. It had been so close to damaging the family jewels, but not quite. Yet the internal damage it had caused was monumental.
“So you’re married to a witch, but you haven’t talked to her since Vegas?”
“Exactly. Twelve, thirteen years ago, or thereabouts.”
“Huh. Do you foresee a reunion any time soon?”
“Not particularly. Like I said, she’s one bad bit of witch.”
“Well, you need to ditch her if you want to start a real family. Not too many women would take to you having a wife. No dates without a clean slate.”
“You’ve got a point. S’pose a trip to the city is in order. I’ve been putting it off for years.”
“That horrible?”
“There’s not a nastier bit of magic in the States, I’m sure. Think you can go on the computer and get me information on how to obtain divorce papers? I don’t want to get any closer to the wicked witch of the Midwest than I have to. If I can email the papers to her, all the better.”

Twelve or thirteen years earlier, outskirts of Las Vegas
Raging, high blue flames were visible behind the ramshackle brown barn set half a mile off the road. Ridge had pulled off the highway outside of Las Vegas, feeling the urge for a dash across the desert on this night following the full moon. A wise wolf never disregarded the call of the moon. But the run would have to wait. He smelled danger.
He raced across the barren dirt yard and through the garbage piled behind the barn scattered with old car parts, tires and scrap iron.
A woman screamed, and his heart clenched. Had she been trapped by the flames?
Arriving before the blaze behind the barn, he surprised a tall man in blue jeans and no shirt, bleeding from the forehead and wielding nothing more than his hand in a direct gesture toward a stacked pile of wood. Shouting a strange word Ridge didn’t recognize, the man flicked his hand and flames shot toward the pyre—from his hand.
A damned fire witch, Ridge guessed. Speaking a spell in Latin. He hadn’t thought they were common. Witches feared fire; it was the one thing that could kill them.
The strange blue flames suddenly flared higher and then parted to reveal, in the center of the vast pyre, a woman. Tied to a pole. Screaming as the flames threatened and crept closer to lick at her pant legs.
Ridge’s heart choked up to his throat. How could anyone be so cruel?
He didn’t give the horror another thought. Reacting to the angry growl inside his gut that abhorred violence toward women, Ridge ran toward the fire witch who directed the flames, and leaped. Soaring through the air, he landed the hard rubber sole of his boot on the man’s jaw. Impact sent the startled pyromaniac flailing to the ground.
Without thought for his own safety, Ridge lunged for the woman tied to the pole in the center of the blazing pyre. His body hit hers. Like lava, her form felt molten and too hot. Thin and trembling as she was, her struggles were futile. Flames chewed at his jeans, but he wore heavy leather biker boots so didn’t fear getting burned.
The woman’s screams choked into sobs. Leaping, he held her to his body and they tumbled over the flames and to the ground. She screamed again, as the impact couldn’t have been easy, and now he rolled with her on the ground to put out any fire that may have ignited clothing.
He spat gravel and clambered away from the fire. Dragging the pole with the woman still tied to it away from the pyre, he hastily worked at the ropes about her hands and ankles and was relieved when she tried to help him. “You okay? What’s up with that bit of nasty?”
She coughed and heaved, likely from smoke inhalation. “Get me out of here.”
“You burned?”
“Don’t … think so.”
He lifted her in his arms, a frail, broken bird, and she melted against him. Her pale hair and clothing were as hot as her flesh, but all he saw on her were dirt smudges, no telltale burns or red welts.
Striding past the man on the ground, who had roused and was on all fours, Ridge kicked him squarely in the jaw, dropping him flat.
“You want me to take care of him permanently?” he asked the woman shivering in his arms.
“No, just … take me away from here. Anywhere. I …” Her lashes fluttered and her head bobbled, nearing a faint. “Goddess, I need a drink.”
Ridge found a cheesy bar on the older part of the Las Vegas strip decorated in more pink and purple neon than most of the skeevy dives he’d passed. The woman downed a vodka straight in the time it took for him to return from the men’s room. She allowed him to wipe off the soot blackening her face with a wet paper towel, and then ordered another round.
Two hours later they were both so drunk, Ridge kept thinking he should have gotten her name when she had been sober enough to recall it. But when the question reached the tip of his tongue, she tilted another drink down his throat, and the two laughed over their horrible adventure escaping the flames.
“I love you,” she slurred. “You big, hunky man, you. You saved my life.”
“I did.” He laid his head on her shoulder and toyed with the reddish-blond hair that smelled smoky and a little like coconuts. Burnt coconuts, actually. “You’re soft.”
“You’re sexy.”
“You’re the prettiest girl I’ve ever met,” he said on a contented sigh.
“Sexiest guy, hands down.”
“Let’s get married.”
“By Elvis!”
She lifted what may have been her tenth—or thirteenth—vodka to salute, and Ridge swept his arm to clink his glass against hers, but missed, his arm swinging around and splashing the trio of strippers sitting in the next booth.
Half an hour later, Elvis pronounced Mr. and Mrs. Addison happily married. To the tune of Billy Idol’s “White Wedding,” the groom lifted his smoke-smudged bride into his arms and walked down the short red-carpeted aisle and right into the red-and-black-striped wall behind the electric organ.
As the couple tumbled about in a tangle of limbs and fits of giggles, Elvis—the rhinestone-spangled leisure suit version—bent over them and pointed out the cheap stained-glass window to the hotel across the street. “Because I’d hate to see either of you behind the wheel right now.”
They saluted the King of Rock and staggered across the street. It took three tries to actually make it to the other side without ending up back at the Viva Las Vegas chapel.
Room 12 had probably seen some crazy things during the motel’s sixty-year run, but this night it would see the weirdest.
Clothing was torn away. Laughter accompanied sensual moans and sudden giggles. They didn’t kiss much. Too difficult to get the aim right with their blurry brains.
Ridge, while in his cups, couldn’t stop touching his sexy new wife everywhere. Her skin felt softer than anything he’d known. Thank heavens, she hadn’t been burned. Her hair, tangled and dirty, and smelling like a burnt coconut, appealed as no woman’s ever had.
Despite his inebriation, something deep inside him growled in a knowing way. Mine. Meant for me.
He ignored the growl—to his detriment—and managed to find his way between her slender, smooth legs. Remarkably, his cock was hard, which only proved how much she turned him on, even two sheets to the wind. Her fingers grasping greedily at his thick, muscled arms, she let out a long, delicious moan as he fit himself inside her.
For one perfect moment, he grew sober and fell into the heavenly sanctuary of her body.
This is where you belong.
“Oh, Ridge,” she moaned. He’d told her his name after Elvis had prompted him. What was hers? Something like Gail or Abby. “Yes!” Her body bucked beneath his, and he chased the climax that was so close to exploding in his loins.
That inner growl he had ignored? Well, now it turned into a real growl. He let out a low and wanting howl that vibrated in his bones. Even drunk, he knew this was Not A Good Thing.
Or rather, Just Plain Bad Timing.
Thrusting quickly, Ridge ignored the shift in his bones and the stretch of skin that prickled with fur. He was almost there. Just a few more thrusts …
Climax shuddered through his body—which was now halfway between man and beast.
He lost hold on the woman’s narrow shoulders and his talons cut into the mattress. His shoulders stretched and the bones reshaped. Fur pushed through his pores. His torso lengthened. Paws slipped off the bed.
Bloodshot blue eyes flashed open and his pretty new wife gaped. That look was one hundred percent sober. Without pause, she scrambled onto her elbows, hauled up her leg and kicked Ridge’s furred chest. He stumbled backward and off the creaky old bed, his paws slapping the wall.
He growled, revealing a maw of meat-tearing teeth.
“What the hell?” His wife huffed and gasped, clasping a hand to her bare and oh-so-gorgeous breasts. Then she angled those wicked blue eyes on him and pointed a finger. “Ignis!”
The rusted tin lamp on the nightstand flickered out. The electrical outlet, which was missing an outlet plate, sparked and smoked. The television shot out sparks from behind the tube, and the LED clock on the nightstand exploded in a stunning shower of white sparks.
Ridge’s werewolf yowled as some kind of weird electricity hit him in the gut, burrowing deep through his skin and burning his very organs. All he could think was magic. He’d been struck by magic. The woman was a witch! Which went a long way in explaining why she’d been tied to a stake and surrounded by fire—the only way to kill a witch. She and the bastard flinging fire from his fingers were both witches. What had he interrupted?
The burn in his gut flared a sizzling path to his loins. The magic still cut through him. Ridge gripped his penis protectively. His muscles clenched and he let out a desperate howl that was abruptly cut off.
As his werewolf collapsed, his wolf-shaped head landing on the end of the bed, Ridge had one thought: werewolves should never mess with witches.

Chapter 2
Present, in Minneapolis
Abigail dusted the soccer ball on the floor next to the Powder Pro snowshoes, which sat next to the football and a tennis racket. This boy’s room was classic, but it hadn’t felt the thud of a basketball on its walls or heard loud rock music vibrate the artist’s pens in the drawers for months.
Ryan was due back from Switzerland this evening. She wanted to put the finishing touches to the cleaning before leaving for the airport to pick him up. He’d been less than thrilled when she’d mentioned the Swiss prep school last spring, but since he’d arrived in the summer for admissions, she rarely got a phone call from him because he’d made so many friends, and “Mom, the skiing!”
A total boy, Ryan liked anything sporty, dirty and rough. Winter sports, especially. His hair had grown shaggy and he was wearing his jeans loose to reveal the waistband of his boxer shorts—a style she abhorred but “Mom, all the guys do it!” He’d yet to discover the mystical, wondrous attraction to girls, but she felt sure that was just around the corner, and actually looked forward to her son going girl crazy. Of course, no girl would be deserving of her boy.
He hadn’t shown signs of developing magic yet, so she was thankful for that in ways she wasn’t willing to admit to herself.
It wasn’t common for male children of witches to be born with innate magic unless both his parents had mastered the same magics. With the combined genetic capabilities, then the possibility of gaining magic increased greatly, but as with most witches, they didn’t come into their magic until puberty. Judging from her last phone conversation, as she’d kept a chuckle to herself to hear her son’s voice crack and bellow, Ryan was toeing that change right now.
On the other hand, there was another warning sign she hoped would not rear up in her son’s body. She actually prayed to a god she had never before worshipped that sign would never come to fruition.
And then sometimes she did wish it would show up. It would make Ryan’s life more difficult, but it would appease her aching heart in ways she could never completely explain to her son.
Smoothing out the blue-and-black-striped bedspread, she eyed the box wrapped in sparkly red-and-green Christmas paper on the stand by the bed. They hadn’t been able to share Christmas together, which they did celebrate, even though witches did not tend to observe the Christian holidays.
Ryan had never been bothered when other kids received gifts at the end of the year. He thought it materialistic, yet he didn’t protest when she gave him one because any excuse to give a gift was always fun. He was going to flip when he opened the Nintendo game system. He’d wanted one for over a year, and though his birthday was in the spring, he deserved it for his straight-A report card.
Flipping off the lights in his room, Abigail strolled through the living room, patting Swell Cat on his big black head as she passed the pink velvet couch. He meowed a feline approval and stretched along the back of the couch, his tail curling tightly before it tucked along his plump body.
Life was about as perfect as a contented cat, she mused. Her reputation as one of the baddest witches in the States had taken a nosedive, but that was for the best considering she now had a son. Despite her fears over the years, nothing had come to harm her little family, thanks to the protection measures she had instituted. And she would remain vigilant on that front.
Wandering into her bedroom, she sorted through the dresses and tops in the walk-in closet without touching them. She stood in the center and with a flick of her finger, magically slid the hangers side to side. Citrus and clove tickled the air, wafting from the fresh orange balls she kept tucked here and there throughout the house. She stuck cloves into the orange peel and they lasted weeks, dispersing their fresh scent. It was a brutal eleven degrees below zero this fine January day, so she aimed for a sweater.
She’d come to Minnesota at the turn of the twentieth century. It had seemed a nice, quiet place after Europe, domestic and unassuming, yet hardy. Deeply grounded in their Scandinavian heritage, the people had been welcoming and had never suspected a witch had moved into their quaint Lake Harriet neighborhood.
She’d needed that anonymity. It was easy enough to get along when your neighbors didn’t believe in all the silly nonsense mortal minds conjured when they thought the word witch. It was never accurate, and always involved the devil, black robes and dancing naked under the full moon. Ridiculous.
Well, the devil and robes part. There was nothing whatsoever wrong with dancing naked once in a while. Skyclad had been her preferred casual dress, until she’d become a mother.
And back then after her move, she’d been recruited to serve on the Witches’ Greater Midwest Council, which had a base in Minneapolis, so living here had been a no-brainer. She no longer served on that council, made up exclusively of witches, but now instead served on the Council, which oversaw all the paranormal nations, except the sidhe.
Some days she wondered how long she could stick it out here in the Midwest, home of plaid shirts, gas-guzzling SUVs and tater tot hot dishes drenched in cream of mushroom soup. The bad girl inside her would never completely be put down. And Minnesota winters were enough to send her up a wall clambering for spring sunshine and fresh lilacs.
She was in the mood for Venice, perhaps even Mumbai. Someplace warm, and center of the city, tucked within the cosmopolitan and the haut couture. A place where, at the snap of a finger, she could buy fresh seafood and decadent five-star chocolate desserts. And that wasn’t a magical finger snap. She wanted to go someplace where a man knew how to please a woman, and wouldn’t stop until he got things right.
Wasn’t easy getting dates when your tween-age inquisitive son always tagged along to the bookstores and coffee shops. She could conjure a love spell, but that was cheating. And besides, men under the influence of a spell were not true to themselves, and thus, could never be true to her, either.
Despite giving up on the need for a serious relationship over a decade ago, she did favor having a lover. No woman should be without a sexual partner for too long. And her attachment issues were improving, so really, she was ready. Bring on the sexy man with a foreign accent and a focused need to please her.
Slipping on a white cotton sweater over her pink camisole, she checked her side view in the mirror and winked. Soft pink rabbit fur rimmed the collar and sleeve hems. She loved the sensual brush of fur over her skin, though the sensory trill did remind her she was quite loverless at the moment. Guess it was time to go out and see what she could shovel up from the slim pickings. There were yet a few gems buried in the area’s waist-high snow, she felt sure.
“You still got it, Abigail. Even after four and a half centuries.”
One advantage to immortality was her never-aging appearance, and the wicked resistance to gaining weight no matter how many times she treated herself to triple chocolate cake. Go, immortality!
“Now to find a man who is strong enough to take on this witch … and her son.”
Her smile dropped and she sighed. A man like that would truly be one in a million, but she was up for the hunt. So long as he didn’t wear plaid, didn’t mind she liked to play Mozart louder than Ryan played his heavy metal, liked to eat things such as foie gras and truffles, and oh yes, could please her in every way imaginable in the bedroom—and anywhere else the mood struck them.
Out in the kitchen, with a flick of her fingers, her purse and the Smart car keys floated into her grasp. She touched the garage doorknob, when the phone rang. Glancing over a shoulder to check the caller ID—because if it was anyone on the Council, she’d let it ring to message—she noted it was a foreign number.
“Switzerland?” She’d checked in with Ryan last night to make sure he was ready. “I wonder if the flight was delayed. Hello?”
A metallic click sounded, and then a voice, obviously altered because it sounded robotic, said, “Getting ready to pick up your son, Ms. Rowan?”
“Who is this?” She stared into the receiver, as if that would produce an image of the caller, but she had no such magic. “Tell me your name, or I’m hanging up right now.”
“You hang up, your son will hate you for it.”
“You’re lying. What’s going on?”
The voice buzzed metallically and Abigail heard someone crying in the background. That sound had not been mechanically altered.
“Ryan?” Her hands began to shake, and her heartbeats stuttered against her ribs. The scent of burning electronics pierced the air. She clenched the plastic receiver. “Ryan, is that you?”
“That was your son. A little jet lag, I’m sure, is the reason for the emotions. Now listen. I’ll only say this once.”
She nodded, her fingers growing white about the phone.
“Your son did get on the plane from Switzerland to Detroit this morning. We managed to get him an earlier flight, and notified his school and they were very cooperative getting him to the airport on time. One of my associates has picked him up at the Detroit airport, much to the little kicker’s protests.”
Ryan had struggled against his kidnappers? Abigail gasped and a mournful moan escaped. “Where is he?”
“He is in our custody in an undisclosed location somewhere in the United States. We are keeping him in protective custody, for his sake and yours.”
“Protective? You’ve kidnapped him! Who are you?”
Her fingers clenched and she felt the heat burgeon in her palms until her fingertips turned red. The electrical outlet next to the oven began to glow.
“I can alleviate your concerns by telling you we are allied with the Light.”
The Light was what the witches called themselves, though a few did practice dark magic. Witches had taken her son?
“I don’t understand this. What do you want? Who are you? I can give you money.”
“We don’t want money, Ms. Rowan. And we don’t want you running to the Council to tattle on us.”
They knew about the Council? That confirmed the caller must be from the paranormal nations. But it didn’t confirm they were actually of the Light.
“Tell me what you want. I’ll decide myself if it’s something I should keep from the Council. You know I do sit on the Council, so in essence, they already know.”
“You won’t bring this to them if you want to see your son alive.”
Abigail caught a gasp in her throat. She could barely hear over her pounding heart. Tears leaked from her eyes. She caught her hip against the kitchen counter and leaned against it for support. Sparks flashed from the outlet. She tucked her fingers under an arm to keep accidental magic from shooting out.
Her voice trembled when she said, “Go on.”
“Listen carefully. Write down the name I am about to give you. If you don’t find this vampire within forty-eight hours … well, then, we won’t be able to protect your son.”
“A vampire? What do witches want with a vampire?”
The pause on the line made her regret the outburst. Hell, she wanted answers. No one told her what to do. She told others what to do. But this was different. She had to do as they said, or at least make it appear as if she were playing along. Her son’s life was on the line.
“What do witches usually do with vampires?” finally came the reply.
Once every century witches needed to consume a live, beating vampire heart to maintain their immortality. It was an odd request, since most witches had no problem obtaining a source, as the vampires were called.
“Can’t you get your own source? My son is an innocent. There’s no need to involve him—”
“As I’ve said, we are protecting him from forces beyond your control.”
“Beyond my— You’re speaking nonsense. I’ve protected him all his life.”
“And look how easily we were able to apprehend him. Tut, tut, Ms. Rowan. Perhaps you need to review your protection procedures. Now, write down this address. We’ll meet exactly forty-eight hours from now.”
She scribbled down the address and the vampire’s name on the notepad stuck to the refrigerator with a magnet. She recognized the location as north of the Twin Cities. “Let me speak to Ryan.”
Click.
The drone of the disconnected receiver sliced through her heart. Abigail dropped it to the floor and followed by plunging to her knees and bowing her head into her hands.
Above her head, the electrical outlet exploded and the plastic cover shot across the room. Sparks showered the glass stove top but did not take to flame.
The only flames in the room were those inside Abigail’s heart. Someone had taken her son. The bad witch she had once been raged to the surface and punched the cabinet, cracking the wood door in two.
Ridge rapped on the door to a Victorian house in the elite Lake Harriet neighborhood off Upton Avenue. A person had to be rich to live in one of these cozy and finely preserved houses a short walk from the lake where sailboats and personal watercraft dotted the water in the summer. He’d seen a kite-sailer skimming the frozen lake after he’d parked the pickup and got out. Crazy kids.
Despite the cottage look of the house and the quiet neighborhood, the area was too upscale for him. And the houses were packed together tighter than sardines in a tin. Made his skin prickle, and not in the good prickly way he was accustomed to. He preferred the country, with room to breathe in the fresh air and trees, lots and lots of trees.
The bright red front door swung open. A gorgeous blue-eyed witch dressed in sexy, body-hugging white took one look at him, chirped as if she’d seen a ghost, and slammed the door in his face.
At least she hadn’t wielded the finger of pain at him. He counted himself lucky so far.
Ridge rapped again. “Abigail, we need to talk. And you know what about.”
The glimpse of long dark hair curling over her shoulders, and those bright eyes, stirred an innate desire he’d thought he’d never feel for her again. She hadn’t changed much, though she’d been a blonde when he’d seen her earlier this summer following the Creed wedding, and in Vegas, but women were always dying their hair for reasons beyond his comprehension. No matter, she looked … clearer than he recalled. And he knew why. He’d been sober since that crazy night in Vegas.
The door opened again and she stuck her head out. He caught the scent of coconuts and was instantly transported to that cheesy motel room amidst giggles and haphazard sex. “I don’t have time for this, Ridge. I’ve an emergency.”
The door slammed again, obliterating all images of that crazy night. For the better.
This time he leaned against the door, but as he thought to twist the fancy glass knob and walk right in, his manners—and his sense of self-preservation—reminded him he’d probably be safer on this side of the door. With a wince, he pondered how well the thin slab of wood would protect him against magic.
There wasn’t much he feared. Vampires gave him no challenge. Faeries were amiable toward him. Demons just plain creeped him out. But a smart wolf never returned to a place—or person—of danger.
“Just a few minutes, please, Abigail?”
It was cold today, and no matter how many layers he wore, he still felt the wind tickle down his neck and ice over his shoulders. But he had to be here. Jason had said an actual signature was required. Email wouldn’t cut it for a divorce.
“No, we don’t need to talk,” she called, opening the door a crack and gifting him with a flash of heat from inside. “It never happened. I’ve moved on. You’ve moved on. We’re all good. Life goes on. Goodbye.”
Ridge blocked the door with a fist. He pressed against the weight of the tiny witch trying her best to defeat his strength. “I happen to have a piece of paper that says it did happen.”
“You what?”
“Signed by Elvis, even. It’s a little wrinkled, but it’s legal. Elvis was his middle name. The guy who married us was an actual ordained minister, can you believe that?”
“Well, tear it up!”
That would be the obvious action. But Jason had checked online and their nuptials had been recorded in the Clark County Marriage Bureau of Las Vegas. The receptionist, appropriately named Priscilla LisaMarie Jones, had signed as a witness. Richard Addison’s marriage to Abigail Rowan was legal, whether or not he had the paper to prove it.
“Maybe I don’t want to tear it up,” he said, trying a new angle. It wouldn’t serve his purpose to barge in and demand. And he didn’t want to walk away with another scar. Kindness never hurt a man’s position. “I did save your life.”
“And I am very thankful for that,” she said through the slightly opened door. He couldn’t see her, but could feel her determination; she was putting all her weight against the door. Did she hate him so much she couldn’t give him a few minutes? “Really, I am thankful for the rescue. I don’t think I ever said it to you while sober.”
“I don’t need your thanks.”
“But you need to keep me your wife? What’s that about?”
“That is not what I want from you.”
“Then tear the damn thing up and leave me alone.”
“What if I want to convince you I’m worth a shot?” He winced. It was a means to get him inside, to talk rationally with her. He wasn’t seriously considering keeping her as his wife. But he had to play the witch carefully.
And protect his balls against sudden blasts of magic.
“Please, Ridge, we don’t even know one another. You know nothing about me.”
“I know you like vodka.”
“Used to like vodka. I haven’t gone near a drop of that devil’s brew since that night.”
“That bad of a memory, eh?”
“Something like that.”
“I had no idea I was responsible for such a horrible memory.” Then again, wolfing out on an unsuspecting woman was enough to scare anyone for life.
“It wasn’t you, Ridge. Well, it was, but there was also the part where I was strapped to a stake and flames were whipping about my ankles. I’d say that was the worst memory.”
“Thank God for that. I mean, that it was your worst memory. I’d hate it to be me that was your worst.” Because memories never went away, and their haunting ability could fell a grown man to his knees. “I scared you. I’m sorry.”
“I wasn’t scared, I was … startled. I’m sorry, Ridge. This is not a good time to talk.”
He maintained his position, keeping her from closing the door. “You scarred me, Abigail. To my core. And that scar has kept you in my mind.”
“Then why didn’t you come to me sooner? It’s been thirteen years, and all of a sudden you want to start things with me again?”
“I didn’t suggest that—”
“Does this have something to do with you taking over as principal of the Northern pack? Don’t tell me you need a wifey to—”
“You already are my wife, Abigail. And it’s not because of the pack.”
He stopped, not wanting to lie to her. Of course it was for the pack. His life revolved around trying to rescue the pitiful remnants of a pack he held in his charge.
“Could we please talk face-to-face? It’s below zero out here.”
“I understand wolves handle the cold well.”
They did, but that didn’t mean he didn’t prefer a warm living room. Did the woman not have a compassionate bone in her body?
“Did you bring along divorce papers?”
He tapped his coat pocket. “If I came at a bad time—”
Silence crackled like the ice lining the rain gutters overhead, crisp and foreboding.
“Doesn’t take more than a minute to sign some silly papers, does it?” She swung the door open. “Hurry. Get inside.”
Sensing an odd urgency about her, Ridge crossed the threshold and stomped his boots on the rug to shake off the snow from the treads, but he kept his senses dialed on high alert. The house was indeed cozy and warm.
The black cat sitting on the back of a blatantly pink sofa took one look at him, hissed and darted out of the room.
“Didn’t much care for you, either,” he commented, and followed Abigail through to the kitchen, where she grabbed a black leather purse to mine for a pen. “That your familiar?”
“What? Swell Cat? I don’t do familiars, nor do I summon demons. He’s just a regular, un-shifting mutt of a cat—who doesn’t like dogs.”
At the unsavory remark, his jaw tightened. Wolves did not like to be called dogs, or even hear finely veiled references. But he’d shackle his anger because he respected Abigail’s power and knew it took but a gesture from her to put out some kind of magic he didn’t know how to fight.
He scented a metallic, smoky flavor on the air and his eyes went straight to a blackened outlet that had soot streaks crawling out in all directions along the wall.
“Electrical problem?”
“Yes.”
She wasn’t in the mood to talk, rooting around in her purse to keep her eyes off him. Fine. He knew this wasn’t easy for either of them.
She was as gorgeous as he remembered her. But behind the alluringly cool beauty and sexy figure lurked a wicked maelstrom of magic.
He remained by the wall, not about to step too close to the witch, who paced back and forth before the counter as if she were looking for something, or had forgotten to pack something. Electrical problem? Yeah, right. There was something about Abigail and electricity—but he wasn’t sure how it worked.
“What is it?” he asked, sure her nervousness wasn’t simply from him being here. “You look like the devil Himself is arriving for a visit.”
“Don’t invoke that bastard.”
“Sorry.” Say the devil’s name three times, and—look out. “Something’s wrong, Abigail, and I’m getting the feeling it has nothing to do with your long-forgotten husband showing up on your doorstep.”
She flashed him a gaze that told him she would have never put such a label to him. Nor would he. Why had he said that? He shouldn’t claim a title he’d never earned.
Something about standing in her presence was loosening his resolve to get the divorce papers signed and get out of Dodge. Something that he saw reflected as sadness in her gorgeous eyes. He’d forgotten her beauty. Her compelling presence. Those sexy bow lips. He was a real pushover for women in distress, and had the scars to prove it.
“Can you tell me about it?”
“Something is wrong.” She pushed shaky fingers through the thick spill of hair that beamed blue within the black as the cruel winter sun shone through it. He’d not remembered its brilliance or that it looked so liquid, as if he could swim in it. “The worst wrong of all wrongs, that’s all.”
“Then this can wait.” He tapped his coat where he’d tucked the divorce papers.
“No, I …” She stopped before him, arms crossed tightly over her chest, her eyes unwilling to meet his. Everything about her was tense and wrapped up and not the normal Abigail that he barely knew.
Every instinctual alert inside him screamed that the woman was in trouble.
Then suddenly she locked onto his gaze. Her eyes twinkled, and an eyebrow lifted, as if a devious plot had just hatched. “You’re about the most honorable werewolf in the area. You’re strong and smart.”
“That remains to be seen. My pack is dwindling faster than you can howl at the moon. I wouldn’t say that makes me the smartest pack leader around.”
“You defended the vampires by taking out your own pack principal.”
He looked down and aside, his eyes tracking the water puddles from his boots. He didn’t need to be reminded of what he’d done to win his position, but no wolf in the area would let him forget it. Opinions on his honor and smartness varied wildly, from doing the right thing, to being a traitor to his breed.
He’d only done what was necessary.
“You’re like some kind of chivalrous knight or something,” she continued with the weird praise. “I’ve seen warriors like you in the sixteenth century. You ooze nobility and valor, Ridge. And damn, you are looking fine lately. You work out?”
The comments felt so wrong coming from a known sneaky witch who had taken joy in the painful act of shackling the magic of a vampire tribe leader not months ago. “What are you getting at?”
She pressed her fingers over his jacket. The papers beneath crinkled. Her pale pink lips parted. Sexy, thick lips that glinted with gloss. Had those delicious lips ever kissed him? His memory was a little fuzzy on all the details from Vegas.
Ridge hoped she couldn’t hear the pound of his heart over the crinkling of the paper, because right now it beat a thunderous pace at her closeness. He was two parts fearful of her power and two parts ready to shove her against the wall and kiss her in a way he’d never gotten to kiss her in Vegas.
Why were the details so lacking?
“You want me to sign the divorce papers?” she asked with a forced tone of sweetness. Ridge’s red alert prickled the hairs at the base of his neck. What was she playing at?
“That was my objective in setting foot on your property and risking further damage to my delicates.”
“Your delicates?”
“You put a damned spell on me that night in Vegas, Abigail. Because of it, I am now unable to have kids.”
She cast a wondering gaze over his face, not meeting his eyes. He wanted that connection, to look into her and read her sincerity, if it existed.
“I did no such thing. Not on purpose.” She looked aside, then as if an afterthought added, “Hell, I’m sorry. But you deserved it for freaking me like that.”
“I deserved emasculation?”
“I did no such thing!”
“Close. So freaking close. I always knew you were a bad bit of witch, but that was just mean, Abigail.”
“You think I’m bad?”
He rubbed his abdomen and nodded. “Yes.”
A tiny smirk of satisfaction curled her kissable lips. She was pleased with his assessment of her, obviously.
Creased pink slacks sat low on her hips and her short sweater revealed a slice of taut belly. The slender rim of fur at her wrists taunted him with a tease of softness, promising passion-laden kisses and all the naughty things he’d imagined doing with her over the years.
Yes, he’d had a few dreams.
Ridge averted his gaze. He did not find the witch attractive. Though he felt sure the sex had been great, it was only a hopeful memory. He was a fool to believe it had been anything more than a stupid night of drunken folly. Damn that vodka!
He tugged out the papers from his coat and waved them before her.
“Okay, okay!” She paced before the counter, twirling a finger about the end of a luscious twist of black hair. “You want something from me? First you have to give something to me.”
He had not expected this visit to be easy.
“What’s your price, witch?”
Pressing her hands to the counter and tensing her jaw, she seemed to struggle for a moment with what she would next say, and then, “Your help. I need the help of a noble warrior.”
He shook his head, chuckling at the ridiculous request. “You’ve been watching too many movies.”
“I rarely watch television. I don’t need to. I’ve seen the real thing. And you are the real thing, Ridge. I don’t have time to explain, because the clock is ticking and forty-eight hours is now closer to forty-seven.”
“Abigail, you’re beginning to sound a little crazy.”
“Am I?” Her vibrant blue eyes finally met his, and he noticed they were bloodshot, as if she’d been crying. That wasn’t the truth he’d been hoping to see there.
“What’s wrong, Abigail? Talk to me.”
“I am talking to you. I’ll sign the papers as soon as you help me locate a vampire who has been kidnapped for blood sport by a local pack.”
He whistled and stepped back a few paces. Mention of the blood sport always brought up his defenses. “You are not serious.”
“Deadly.”
“That’s right, you’re the grand high poobah on the Council for werewolf and vampire relations. Since when does the Council take an active role in rescuing vampires from the blood sport? They normally observe and suggest. I can’t imagine they’d step in to personally act on the behalf of one missing vampire.”
“They won’t, and wouldn’t conceive of taking an active role. The Council can’t know about this. Please, Ridge, I need your expertise. You’re familiar with all the packs in the state. Which ones are involved in blood sport?”
None of them. He hoped.
“I … can’t do this.”
Were some still involved? He was no fool. And he wasn’t stupid enough to believe all the packs had taken the Saint-Pierre wedding as a means to step back from their vicious sport. But he didn’t want to—could not—dredge the Northern pack through that bit of bad press again.
“I didn’t come here to stick my nose into other packs’ business. I just wanted to unload a wife.”
“Oh yeah? Well, this wife is going to start nagging in about ten seconds if you don’t help her. And trust me, I don’t have to open my mouth to nag. I’ll let my spells do the talking.”
She waggled a finger before her, and that night in the Las Vegas motel returned in horrid detail to Ridge. The pain of the infliction had felt like hundreds of thousands of volts of electricity shocking his entire nervous system.
He glanced at the burned outlet and felt the urge to protectively cover his crotch, but he remained staunch.
“No magic, please. Is there anything else you’d rather have from me? I stand firm on not associating the Northern pack with the foul blood sport again.”
She shook her head, lifting a trembling chin. The baddest of the bad was desperate for his help, and she was trying to keep a stiff upper lip about it. Interesting. But he couldn’t resist that soft, quivering lip. Would a kiss be inappropriate right now?
Probably so.
Why was it always the damsels who managed to pierce his steel armor and touch his heart? A pouty lip, a few tears. That’s all it took. He was a pushover, and nothing but.
“Fine, I’ll see what I can do to help, but you swear you’ll sign these papers after we’ve located the vamp?”
“Yes, but let’s hurry. I want to go to the closest pack, and then on to the next until we find the vampire.”
He grabbed her by the arm before she could head out the side door. “Why the urgency? You said you had forty-eight hours.”
Bowing her head, she nodded. “A man, who I suspect is a witch, contacted me about an hour ago.”
“You suspect he’s a witch, but don’t know for sure?”
“He said he was allied with the Light. But he could be anyone, really. I’m not normally frightened by anyone, you must understand. Hell, I’ve stood against the meanest of the mean, the sickest of the sick, the vilest of the vile. And I’m no angel myself.”
He was about to agree, but held his tongue.
“But I could read the seriousness in his threat. He means business, Ridge. I have to find this missing vampire and bring him to a designated meeting spot in forty-eight hours.”
“Or what? What are they holding against you that would make you go against the Council, when I know such an act could be grounds for dismissal?”
Abigail lifted her chin and bravely met Ridge’s eyes. “They have my son.”

Chapter 3
When Abigail wanted to leave immediately, Ridge suggested they take his truck. She didn’t give him any more information about her son. He had no idea the witch had a kid. But it wasn’t as if he’d kept tabs on her over the years.
Only in your dreams.
“I want to drive,” she said, and veered toward the garage, exhibiting the no-nonsense, listen-to-me-or-I’ll-zap-you attitude he knew all too well. “You agreed to help me, so get on board with the plan, Addison.”
“Plan? When did we come up with a plan?” When she dangled her keys and stepped into the garage, curiosity led him to follow. “Is there a plan?”
“The plan is to get moving. Fast.”
The garage was no warmer than the inside of an icebox, he noted before the door rolled up to reveal the gray evening sky and the security light outside blinked on. Ridge nearly tripped over a toy.
He backed away from the horrendous red-and-black thing some joker in an R&D department had decided to call a vehicle. It was one of those foreign jobs that would get eaten alive by a semitruck on an icy freeway. Not designed for Minnesota winters, that was for sure.
“Oh no. I’m not getting into that death trap. I’m sure you have to be a clown to ride in one of these.”
“Ridge.” She fixed him with an exasperated stare, and he almost looked away for fear her eyes might beam another blast of magic that had very likely left the kitchen wall scarred and bruised near the outlet.
Almost. He leaned his elbows onto the miniature atrocity and looked across the car at the most gorgeous set of sky blue eyes he’d seen. He hadn’t recalled them being so … fathomless. As if mysteries and secrets swirled around inside the iris, and somewhere in there a man might trip and spiral endlessly after.
He’d like to trip. Had never once tripped in his dating history.
“Please, we have to hurry,” the witch pleaded with him.
He relented to the compelling pull of the damsel’s distressed gaze. Ridge folded himself into the passenger seat, and after adjusting it as far back as it would go, his shoulders still rubbed the door and his knees the dashboard.
“You’re right.” Abigail turned off the ignition with a frustrated sigh. “This car doesn’t fit you. I’m sorry. Let’s take yours.”
Pleased to be behind the wheel of his Ford 350—and in control—Ridge navigated the pickup truck around the perimeter of the Twin Cities on Interstate 35W. The snowstorm they’d had three days ago had left a sheen of ice along the shoulder, but the main drive was thankfully clear and dry.
Abigail had suggested they begin with the River pack, located closest to the Cities, which occupied land on the Minnesota side of the St. Croix River.
“You’re tilting at windmills,” he said as they cruised the freeway amidst a blur of red taillights heading home during evening rush hour.
Through rain, snow, hail or sleet, the Minnesota driver never backed down from the challenge of rush hour. Another reason he was thankful his job wasn’t nine-to-five or in a business complex. Ridge liked to drive, but preferred the rough back roads and anywhere away from traffic.
“After Creed Saint-Pierre and Blu Masterson got married, all the packs and vampire tribes in the area agreed to the pact to cease warring against one another,” he said, feeling it was necessary to state what the witch obviously had overlooked.
“Do you really believe that, Ridge?”
“You tell me if it’s something to believe. Did they all agree to play nice with each other? Doesn’t the Council know?”
“We always know. I’d say seventy-five percent of the opposing forces have stepped back and are now minding their own business. The Council is extremely pleased over that. The wedding was worth the effort, if you ask me. The Kila and Nava tribes have been exemplary, but then the Kila leader, Nikolaus Drake, does sit on the Council, as well. And I’m sure some of the packs are participating—”
“Some of them? You said the Council always knows. And yet, you have no idea which packs are involved in the cease-fire, if any are.”
“That information has yet to be gathered.”
“Uh-huh. Or did the Council throw a big party for the wedding, then leave the newly-weds to flounder in hopes their love would bring peace and happiness to the world?”
“You’re the one who blindly believes all the packs have ceased participating in the blood sport.”
He tightened his grip on the steering wheel. He didn’t know that for sure. And yes, he did want to blindly believe everyone—vampires and werewolves—could get along. But he wasn’t stupid. Hell, he’d grown up knowing vampires were nasty, longtooth bloodsuckers and should be taken down if they looked at him cross-eyed.
Of course, he’d grown up knowing that it was every man for himself, and no one, not even your own breed, could be relied upon to stand with you or to even be civil to you, let alone treat you with kindness.
“I know little about the River pack,” he said, “save where they could possibly hold blood sport. That is if they are involved in the heinous games. Their compound is on the other side of Marine on St. Croix. But I don’t know what you expect to do. We can’t rush them and rescue the vampire if they do have him.”
“Why not?”
He flashed her a glance, but couldn’t find a joking smirk on her face. “I thought you were centuries old.”
“I was born in 1550.”
“So shouldn’t you know more? Like how one lone wolf and a trigger-happy witch could never stand against an entire pack. Especially if they are holding the blood sport. You have to know how the wolves get worked up during a match. The scent of vampire blood excites them and jacks up their adrenaline. They think with their beast brain as opposed to their were minds. They will tear any outsider limb from limb.”
He slowed and Abigail leaned over to check the speedometer. “What are you doing? We’re on the clock!”
“We need to think this through more. A plan is in order. I’m going to take the next exit.”
“No! We don’t have time to think. Forty-eight hours, Ridge. More like forty-six now with this damned traffic. My son is in danger.”
“Did the caller indicate he was in danger?”
“He’s been kidnapped. What part of kidnapped does not entail danger to you?”
“You said they were keeping him in protective custody. Sounds kind of … protective to me.”
“I can’t believe you’re being this stupid.”
Yeah, him, either. The boy was in danger if some unknown had taken him from his mother’s care. But he needed facts, information—more than a wild goose chase—to better understand the situation and come up with a plan. He did not like reacting.
“Tell me about him.” He resumed speed, catching up with traffic, thinking if he could get more information from her, she may begin to trust him more, and then he could talk her out of this insane mission, at least until a workable plan had been solidified. “I didn’t know you had a son.”
“His name is Ryan and he attends boarding school in Switzerland. That’s all you need to know.”
“Fine.”
Boarding school? He’d never understood a mother who could send her child away for months at a time. It was wrong. Children needed parents to thrive. And for protection. But who was he to judge? His opinion had no bearing right now. Abigail was a lioness out to protect her stolen cub. He should not stand in her way.
“Does the Council know you have a kid?”
He caught her gaze and she quickly looked out the window. Well hell, he couldn’t prevent curiosity. She was known to have a wicked reputation. Motherly and protective were the last two words that came to his mind.
“I think Ravin Crosse—one of the witches on the Council—is aware,” she offered, “but no one else knows. It’s no one’s business but my own. If I want to protect my family by keeping it a secret, that’s my right. You know it isn’t easy surviving in a world meant more for mortals than us.”
“Is he a witch?”
“It’s rare that magic is passed on to a son. That’s something I won’t know until he hits puberty.”
“Which is when?”
She huffed and gave him her silence.
“Sorry. I won’t ask about him again. Kids are miracles. You’re lucky to be a mother.”
It changed his mind a bit about Abigail to know she was a mother, and further, to know she so fiercely protected her own. He’d heard the rumors about her, that she was quick to judgment and the first in line to administer punishment at the Council’s beckon. Rumor told she’d had a crazy love thing going with a vampire once, too, but he wasn’t clear on that. What mattered was now she was clearly putting her child’s interests in front of her own.
He’d do the same in her position. If he had a son, and someone threatened him, Ridge would show no mercy and take no prisoners. Forget the plan, he’d react without remorse. Let the bloody kidnappers beware his paternal wrath.
“So I’m surprised you didn’t come to me sooner,” she suddenly said. The cool darkness of the truck was intermittently lit from the glow of red taillights passing by. “It’s been a long time. Figured you’d had a blackout and totally erased all memory of Vegas from your brain.”
“Close.” But he had never forgotten her sweet coconut scent or the softness of her skin. Never.
“So why now? It’s been over a decade. You haven’t found someone you wanted to marry until now?”
“What makes you think there’s someone I want to marry?”
“Why else would you bother with a divorce from a marriage you’d forgotten, and so quickly?”
“Just want to clear away a past indiscretion and smooth the path for when the time does arrive that I want to marry. And I’ve never forgotten this marriage, just … tucked it away into a dark little corner of my mind.”
“Yeah, a dark place,” she said absently. Then, seeming to lift from the mysterious dark place, she asked, “So you don’t have a girlfriend?”
“Not at the moment.”
“You’ll marry a werewolf,” she stated.
He clenched his fingers about the steering wheel. She had the aggravating manner of assuming her opinion was right.
He wasn’t sure who or what breed he’d marry. Just because he was a wolf didn’t mean he had to marry one. Though, a female wolf would be his ultimate match. Only a wolf could understand another wolf. There weren’t a lot of females in the area, due to rampant hunting of werewolves by vampires in the mid-twentieth century, but their numbers were slowly increasing thanks to the packs’ fierce protection of the valued females. Yet still, to find a female wolf and fall in love was like laying claim to a treasure that must be hoarded and prized. Lottery odds, that. He’d dated a werewolf once—unsuccessfully.
Last year when Amandus Masterson had still been the pack principal, he’d offered his daughter Blu’s hand to Ridge in marriage as a means to forgo her marrying the vampire Creed Saint-Pierre. Ridge had been honored for but the moment it had taken him to hate the principal even more. He’d been shocked the father could so easily pawn off his daughter on the first wolf he’d hoped would serve to his advantage. Ridge had refused, and Amandus had then offered Blu to the next wolf to walk near him, an idiot underling.
Fortunately Blu, at the Council’s insistence, had married Creed, and the match had surprisingly turned into the proverbial heaven-made pairing. The werewolf princess and the ancient warrior vampire, Creed Saint-Pierre, had quickly fallen in love, and Ridge could see the glow of love on Blu’s face every time she visited the compound.
He was glad Blu still visited. He regarded her as a friend, and she him. It had been difficult for her, growing up in the pack compound without her mother. Persia Masterson had suffered greatly at her husband’s hand. Blu had always believed her mother had run away when she was young, never to be seen again.
Ridge had done his best to protect Persia, but he’d been young as well, and a wolf could take only so many beatings. Blu knew it had been his talon that had murdered her father, and she did not hold him responsible for committing an act she had later told him was just and necessary.
There were days he blamed himself. It was your fault. At the time, he’d taken out the one man who had meant to bring down the pack by continuing to partake in the blood sport and wage war against the local vampires. But if he’d been more sensible, probably he could have found a less violent way to take care of Amandus Masterson.
Probably not. The old wolf had possessed a mean streak a mile deep. No one knew that better than his deceased wife, Persia. Masterson had treated her worse than a dog, and he’d tormented Ridge all his life. And he’d thought nothing of creating the largest blood sport complex in the state. The old man had been bad to the bone.
“You’re suddenly quiet,” Abigail commented. “Thinking about the werewolf you hope to someday marry?”
If only his thoughts could touch something so light and hopeful.
“I will marry for love, not because she’s my breed.”
“So you would marry a mortal?”
“I didn’t say that.”
A mortal and a werewolf presented a sticky situation. Because the only way to bond with his mate involved him having sex with her under the full moon—in werewolf form—and mortals generally freaked whenever he wolfed out and proudly wore fur, talons and a toothy maw.
“Severo and Belladonna are making it work,” she commented.
“Yes, but she wasn’t mortal for long. She’s vampire now.”
“Right. Severo has developed an insatiable blood hunger now, too, because she bit him.”
Ridge winced. The idea of craving blood, such as vampires did, twisted his gut into knots. Wolves did not consume blood or attack humans. Ever. They did not need humans to survive. They existed among the mortal breed, but kept their distance. Unfortunately, man would always reign supreme over the beasts.
“What about you?” he prompted. “I haven’t had a knock on my door from you over the years. No boyfriend? No marriage plans? Or just happy to be my absent wife?”
“Please. I forgot all about that silly marriage days after the trip.”
Ouch. That hurt. Because he had never forgotten.
“And I don’t have time for a boyfriend.”
“Yikes.”
She shifted on the passenger seat to face him. “I mean … I don’t know. I just … I don’t handle relationships well. I have a tendency to become …”
“Too attached?”
She sighed heavily. “Obsessive.”
“Ah.”
Dare he ask? Hell, why not. The worst she could do was blast him, and probably she’d keep her magic holstered in a small space like this. “I think I once heard something about you and a vampire.”
“Oh please, not the Truvin Stone thing. I will never live that one down.”
“You don’t have to tell me if you don’t want to.”
Her soft chuckle and shake of head spoke volumes. She’d apparently suffered countless rumors over the years, yet he did believe that one because it was the one he’d heard more than a few times.
“Like I said,” she offered, “I fall in love too damn easy, and then I go straight on into obsession. I loved Truvin, and well, he was the first guy to show me real kindness. That was in the eighteenth century when witches were extremely unpopular. So what if he was a vampire? I had more power over him because back then the Protection still made witch’s blood poisonous to vampires.”
“You like to have control in a relationship?”
“Yes,” she answered quickly. Then, with a shrug of her shoulder and an uncomfortable shift on the seat, she answered more softly. “It’s hard to shuck off. The need for control. It’s my protection.”
He could understand that. A woman who was a witch had two marks against her in this patriarchal society.
“Anyway,” she continued, “Truvin spurned me. And I don’t blame him, because I got carried away with my adoration. We didn’t see each other for centuries, and then we suddenly did a few decades ago. Let’s say I had to give it one last go, and he wasn’t pleased to see me. Hell, the things that follow a girl through the centuries. Sometimes I wish I was a familiar, because at least they don’t remember their actions from one life to the next.”
“When you know better you do better,” Ridge said.
Her sigh pressed against his heart and he reached across and clasped her hand. She tugged initially, then relaxed and gave his a squeeze. Her heartbeat warmed his palm.
“Thanks for telling me that. It makes me think you can trust me.”
“I do trust you as far as being the rescuing knight and having a valorous code of honor you’ll adhere to. I guess I spilled that embarrassing relationship stuff because I need you to know that if you have the slightest notion that we could become an actual we, you should give up now. I’ve learned to not be so clingy and in control. Mostly. I don’t need to be in a relationship with a man anymore.”
“So you’re playing for your own team now?” He hitched a sneaky look her way.
“What? You think I’m a— No, I still like men. Lovers suit me, but a boyfriend? Not on my radar.”
“I’m sorry about that. I think being in a relationship would be the best thing for a person’s heart and soul. The soul needs love.”
“The soul also requires freedom,” she responded.
Her soft tropical scent filled his senses, and he was the one to break contact and put his hand on the wheel. They were opposites when it came to ideals for love.
And yet her scent had gotten into his senses and refused to leave. She would prove a distraction he’d once already fallen victim to. And if she wasn’t interested, then he should listen to her warning and keep his focus on helping her, and not on her soft, kissable mouth.
Abigail turned to her side and yawned. She didn’t want Ridge to see. Exhaustion tugged at her shoulder and neck muscles, but she couldn’t afford to sleep. Ryan had to be freaking out. If witches held him, there was no telling what her son was thinking. He’d grown up knowing his mother was a witch, had witnessed her casual usage of magic in their daily lives, and she’d taught him that he existed in a realm populated by all breeds and creatures. As well, that this mortal realm was not the only one out there. Many, including Faery and Daemonia, and dozens others, existed alongside this one.
She had explained to Ryan he would come into his magic when puberty hit. Or not. She knew a daughter born of two fire witches was likely to also be a fire witch—and as a result, would drain her parents of that magic when she came into her own. But the males were hit and miss. Rarely did a boy gain magic from his mother if his father was mortal or another breed. But it could happen when both parents were witches, so she’d wanted to prepare him for that possibility.
Truth was, Ryan could gain magic—or something else all together. It was the something else that disturbed her now.
To keep her thoughts from dire scenarios, she let her gaze glide along Ridge’s profile. The light from passing cars frequently glanced off his square jaw. He was a solidly built man with a thick, muscled neck that alluded to much physical labor, thanks to him being a lumberjack, or so she’d heard. His masculine yet crooked nose made her wonder if it had been redesigned once or twice in his lifetime due to brawls. His hard jaw was set and determined, and he wore stubble as a moustache and along his jaw. The hair on his scalp wasn’t much longer than the stubble on his face.
Dark brows furrowed over deep brown eyes that always startled her when they met gazes. He was so intense. Nothing ever appeared casual about him, and everything seemed as if it was the Most Important Thing to him.
And that everything growled power and strength. Don’t mess with me, you’ll regret it. It also screamed dangerous and wild. He was a beast, a man who possessed an animal side that must be released every full moon. A beast that could barge out if it wanted at any time of the month.
Like that night in Vegas.
She wasn’t afraid of werewolves. Certainly she’d known her share through the centuries, and she was on good terms with Severo, who occasionally served the Council.
Werewolves were at times playful among their pack, and she knew they were devoted and protective of those they loved. But the man-beast werewolf form they shifted into did give her caution. A seven-foot man-wolf with razor-sharp talons and a maw full of teeth made for grinding and tearing wasn’t something Abigail wanted to mess with or invite over for a cozy dinner over sauvignon blanc.
And yet, despite what she’d told him after he’d pounded on her front door, she had thought of Ridge over the years. Often. She didn’t want him to know that seeing a television commercial for Las Vegas could rocket her memories back to that weird night of fire, vodka and crazy, drunken sex. And then on to dreams of what might have been with the sexy man who had selflessly saved her from the killing flames.
And she would never reveal that sometimes her dreams had her twisting between the sheets and moaning for the missing touch from the one man who had not only startled her but had also awakened her to new wants. He’d changed her in ways she was only beginning to grasp now. The obsessive lover in her? It was still in there, but she had been tamed and turned onto something less greedy yet perhaps a little more wanting. She wanted smoldering desire countered by a patient passion. Such wanting was intent to wait for the right man instead of Mr. Right Now.
She’d dated Miles Easton—the witch who’d tied her to the stake—for six months after the crazy notion to move to Vegas for a year, and had resigned herself to the fact most men were basic, functional and sufficient in bed. They put out no more than they expected back. And they expected to come every time they had sex, then roll over and snore. Boring.
But Ridge? As soon as the sheets were pulled away, he became a literal animal. And she wasn’t as frightened by the prospect of another go-round with his werewolf as she should be. For beyond the smoldering desire, her cravings whispered of wild, spontaneous sex. Hot, no-holds-barred sex. Make-me-dream-about-it-for-days sex. Make-me-shiver-when-I-think-your-name sex. Heck, she liked it a little rough, or so she imagined she would because she’d not yet found a lover to meet her pining desire to be held under control.
Ridge recognized her need for control. He was a smart man, but then again, perhaps she was overcontrolling, and who wouldn’t notice that? Ryan even rolled his eyes at her when she demanded too much from him for chores and homework.
At least she recognized her control fetish. And if the tables turned, maybe she’d finally get a handle on it and surrender completely.
But it was foolish to feed those fantasies. The werewolf wanted a divorce, and she wanted her son, safe in her arms.
And so she had steered her course directly into the fray. The River pack, if they participated in the blood sport, would present everything she did not want to deal with. As Ridge had said, when the wolves viewed the sport, they often shifted and impromptu matches were held between their own. They became enraged and hungry for physical fight by watching two vampires go at one another to the death.
She could stand before a gang of vampires without fear, and usually walk away without giving blood. Truth was, vampires still held a healthy regard for witches even though their blood was no longer poisonous to them. And she could hold her own against any witch who possessed earth, air, water or even fire magic. She didn’t mind demons, but ultimately, they were all idiots contained by their mortal shells.
But werewolves were half animal, and Abigail had a healthy respect for wild animals with big teeth. Much as her bad ole self wanted to burn magic through werewolf hides, she had to admit, she was glad to have Ridge along for the ride. He offered the instinct and strength she needed. Her magic was powerful, but facing an entire pack could overwhelm her, and then she knew she wouldn’t be able to direct her magic efficiently.
Which meant she was using Ridge as a means to an end. But it was more important to her to save Ryan than to worry about using one man. Ridge was tough; he could take it.
Besides, much as she should sign those papers right now and let the man off the hook, she couldn’t make it so easy to get a divorce. No, she must offer the man a challenge to prove his worth in the ending of their sham of a marriage.
You’ve got to stop thinking of him as a knight in shining armor, Abigail. Putting men upon a pedestal always gets you in trouble in the dating arena. Be smart.
And she would be.
“The last place I know where the River pack could possibly be holding a secret match is just ahead,” Ridge said. “That building down the road.”
Abigail straightened and surveyed the lights winking in the distance across the snowy field stretched before them. They’d turned onto a gravel road, which was lined with pine trees on one side and high snowbanks on the other. What she guessed were yard lights beamed across the soft blanket of snow, making it glitter as if a faerie stage. The beauty of winter offered a deceptive masquerade.
“I thought this was an old property the River pack had abandoned for digs in Wisconsin, but there are lights on everywhere. Hell,” Ridge said. “Could they really?”
“They’re obviously up to something,” she said.
She knew it pained him to consider any from his breed could still be involved in the blood sport. His naivety was odd, coming from one who had garnered much respect from his peers through his fierce mien and honorable manner.
“Do you know this vampire? What’s his name? What does he look like?”
“I, uh …” She didn’t know what he looked like.
Ridge flashed her a wincing shake of his head. “How are we supposed to find the guy if you don’t know what he looks like?”
“I’ve been told his name is Mac York. We just call out his name.”
“That’s your plan? If you were a vampire—any vamp—kept chained and starved by werewolves in a filthy cell, and you heard a rescue team call out a name other than your own, wouldn’t you stand and plead that is your name?”
“Oh.”
Ridge pulled the truck over on the side of the road and turned off the headlights.
“We can’t stop—”
“We are going to think this through,” he said firmly over her complaint. He cast a narrow, hard gaze at her that she could see, despite the darkness in the truck.
Abigail did not back down. Instead she lifted her shoulders and delivered an admonishing gaze right back at him. No one told her what to do.
“You can stare at me all you like, Abigail, but I can smell your fear. So just chill and let me think this through.”
“If I wasn’t afraid I’d be too cocky,” she challenged. “Fear is necessary when facing an enemy.”
“Abigail.” He clasped her jaw and turned her chin to face him. Normally she’d fling magic at anyone who touched her without consent, but his domineering manner quieted that urge. “This is going to be dangerous. I know nothing will stand between you and saving your son, but let me be your shield, will you? Don’t get in front of me. In fact, stay as far back as possible. Let me stand before whatever danger presents itself, or neither of us will survive.”
“But I can throw magic—”
“How far? And what kind? Are you going to geld them all like you did me? That’ll only make them angry, and you know they’ll all wolf out then. If they’re not already in werewolf form.”
“I didn’t geld you.”
“Close.”
“Whatever. I’m a master with air magic. I can toss a man through the air, send objects flying like a car, weapons, whatever you need me to do. I’ve also mastered fire.”
“Is that so? Tell me how a practitioner of fire gets herself tied to a stake with a circle of flaming fagots laid around her feet?”
Indeed, how? Had it been because she’d been so stupid in love—as was her frustrating mien—that she hadn’t seen it coming? “He overpowered me. I am a woman. That means there are some men who are stronger than me, no matter what my skills.”
“Exactly. So let me do the talking, right? And keep your flaming trigger finger holstered until I say so. No flames, Abigail. Deal?”
She nodded, but mentally crossed her fingers. She’d walked through more than a few wars in her time. She knew how to wield magic in battle. Real battles that had involved men on horseback brandishing swords and fighting for their king and country.
This witch could certainly handle a few werewolves.

Chapter 4
He had a very bad feeling about this. But he wasn’t a wolf to run with his tail between his legs.
Shifting into gear, Ridge drove the pickup, headlights out, up the long drive that preceded the River pack’s property. If the pack was holding a blood sport match, the grounds would be open to any wolf, even those from other packs. He’d attended a few of the games when the Northern pack had been holding them. He hadn’t a choice, because that was when he would have done anything for Amandus’s respect. From that experience, he knew they would be frisked and assessed before being allowed entrance into the private games.
Ridge also knew he would never be allowed entrance. Since he’d taken over the Northern pack he’d received a very clear message from the other packs that he was not welcome. He’d slain Amandus Masterson. Strangely, many had admired the old wolf. The many who believed they could do as they pleased and participate in a vicious sport that tortured vampires. Ridge had gone so far as to denounce the blood sport. And though there were packs that had agreed not to participate after the Saint-Pierre match had proved successful, those packs would not publicly denounce it, for fear of being detested by their peers, as well.
It was a fine line to walk, yet Ridge wasn’t about to cower to maintain a perceived standing of misplaced solidarity among the other packs. If they couldn’t handle him open and truthful, then he didn’t want to deal with them. A man was nothing without his integrity.
The only thing that bothered him was the few pack members who had left the Northern pack in search of the family he was unable to provide may have joined up with a pack involved in the sport. It hurt his heart to know the men he had once called brothers could participate in something so cruel.
Perhaps Abigail was wrong, and the River pack was merely holding some kind of party tonight, celebrating or something festive like that.
Unfortunately, intuition pricked his hackles like no full moon ever had.
Ridge exhaled, accepting what would come.
Abigail strode around the hood of the truck, fluffing the fur coat collar about her neck. The white fur framed her black hair and heart-shaped face, and for a second Ridge saw a snow goddess, pale and like porcelain, but possessed of a steely inner strength her outer appearance wanted to conceal.
A woman like her certainly did not need a man, or a husband, to survive. Hell, with fingers such as hers wielding magic, survival was a guarantee. Too bad. He could imagine protecting her and holding her close.
The clatter of tiny ice crystals on the surface of the snow sounded like a symphony at their feet. It redirected Ridge’s thoughts from holding her to eerie foreboding.
He held out a hand to keep her behind him, but when she instead clasped his hand, he sucked in a breath and tugged from her touch as if hit by her electrical magic.
“What’s wrong?” she asked.
Everything. He didn’t want to think about how soft and warm she was right now, even though it was her suede glove against his bare hand. How just beneath the fur rimming her neck were full, gorgeous breasts, rising and falling, tempting him to touch. He needed to stay alert and ultrasensitive to his surroundings.
“Can you stay behind?” he asked, knowing her answer before she would refuse. “If this gets tough, I won’t be able to keep an eye on you.”
“I’m a big girl, Ridge.”
“Big enough to stand against a pack of shifted wolves?”
When she didn’t reply, he almost lifted her over his shoulder to carry her back to the truck and shove her inside and lock the door. At least there he could be confident she wouldn’t get in harm’s way. But the scent of another warmblooded creature distracted him.
Ridge lifted his head and closed his eyes. The icy air focused every scent, yet also kept it close to the source, making it difficult to grab distant odors. Yet it lingered, teasing his nostrils.
It came to him on a whisper. Barely there, yet traveling the atmosphere on heavy particles. Blood. And not from a small animal that may have landed in a hunter’s trap in the nearby forest.
It was thick, and too strong, vibrant yet with life. Vampire. He hated that smell.
“Something is going on,” he muttered, his jaw tight. Heartbeat racing, he squeezed his hands into fists. “Follow me, and stay out of sight.”
A dozen vehicles were parked in the snow-plowed area before what was actually an old barn that had been reconditioned and made to look new with a fresh coat of red paint. A rooster weather vane sat still at the roof peak above the double doors.
Ridge sensed the wrongness of the place as soon as they emerged on the cleared parking area beneath a shelter of high-trimmed northern pines. The blood scent traveled his system and formed a tight knot in his gut. Aggressive male shouts from inside the barn prodded at his inner beast. No chickens or cows on this pseudofarm.
It was difficult to maintain stealth with the ice pebbles coating the snow. It had misted fine sleet earlier in the day, and the delicate ice beads crushed like glass beneath their feet and skittered across the glossy, iced surface, no matter how carefully they stepped.
He scanned the parking area, taking in the cars and finding no one inside any of them. He saw an old farmhouse, one that had been added to over the years, as if someone glued two houses to each side and had painted each with a few tones darker paint. It was lit with a soft inner glow, but he didn’t see figures moving inside behind the pale curtains.
A couple of wolves carrying blue plastic cups wandered around behind a dented SUV to take a piss. He pressed Abigail behind him where they stood in the midnight shadow of a pine tree with branches stretched out over the car in front of them.
“Shh,” he said, and sensed her heart beat a rapid pace.
She’d said fear was good. That was true. But doing the right thing was also a good reason to stand tall and proud and never let them see you sweat.
Times like this, he wouldn’t ask to be anywhere else. Sure, he felt it best to avoid confrontation. But if this pack were involved in the crime of blood sport, he wanted them to answer to his wrath.
Glancing to Abigail, he conveyed a warning. She nodded and pointed at the ground, studiously placed her feet together, as if to say, “I’ll stay right here.”
Not completely satisfied she would stay in the shadows, but unwilling to argue with an opponent who could win with a flick of her fingers, he stepped out beyond the car bumper. Here, where the tires had rolled over the packed snow, the ground crunched like Styrofoam under his boots.
One of the wolves scented him, his head lifting and breath exploding in a foggy cloud before his face. Eyes narrowed, the ski-capped wolf turned to sight the new wolf walking casually toward them.
“Chilly night, eh?” Ridge offered. “The match already begin?”
“Yeah,” the one who was zipping up said, as Ski Cap approached Ridge cautiously. “Beer’s inside, and on the house. Or should I say on the barn? Ha!”
“Martin, shut up,” Ski Cap snapped. “Who are you?” he asked Ridge, his pale eyes narrowing. “We’ve closed for the night. Full house. And I don’t recall you checking in earlier at the gate.”
“I’m late. And I didn’t see a gate.” Ridge splayed out his hands, opening himself in an attempt to appear as nonthreatening as possible. His fingertips tingled though, his talons aching for the shift even as he told himself the situation was a bad one. “I brought a roll of cash for wagers.”
The one in the back, Martin, chuckled and lifted his cup in a toast. “Benjamins!” He was already wasted, which was not so much a good thing as a warning.
Ridge stepped up and the one in front, taller and slimmer than Ridge, but not lacking in bulk for his arms arched out from his muscled form, took a step forward, as well. He wore no coat, but instead a thick, insulated plaid shirt over black leather pants. He scented the wolf’s aggression, and tried not to put out his own surging rise to anger. He must remain calm if he wanted to gain admittance.
“What’s your name?”
“Richard Addison,” he answered. Few wolves knew him by his birth name.
“What pack you with?”
Now that was the question he couldn’t honestly answer without shutting down this reconnaissance adventure faster than a speeding bullet.
“I just wanted a look at the fight,” he said. “Won’t bother anyone. Come on, we’re all brothers, yes?”
He saw the fist swing toward his jaw, and caught it smartly with his open palm. The loud smack echoed in the still winter night. A bird fluttered out from high in a pine tree.
Martin the beer drinker wobbled, but he observed their interaction with keen eyes.
“Now that wasn’t very nice,” Ridge said. “I was being polite and all. Why’d you have to do that?”
“I know who you are.” The capped wolf bounced in preparation to deliver another fist. “You’re the one who killed the Northern pack’s principal. Think you’re all high and mighty now, do you? Did you come to preach to us against torturing vampires?” He swung again.
Ridge dodged the slow fist. The man’s breath reeked of beer but he wasn’t as inebriated as the other, who stood watching, his jaw hinged open and beer dribbling out of his tilted cup.
“I’m not a preacher by any measure of the word.” Ridge lifted his fists in defense. He liked a good fistfight. No high kicks or martial arts moves for him. Keep it simple. Nothing fancy. A well-delivered fist trumped a kick to the jaw any day. Pummel your opponent’s weak spots and organs until he puked. “You know the blood sport has been outlawed.”
“Yeah, yeah. Every decade or so the Council sends out a new list of stupid rules. We’re wolves, man. Don’t you want to live like one?”
“We don’t need to kill to survive. And we certainly don’t need to celebrate the deaths of others. That kind of gang mentality makes all the rest of us look bad. Why don’t you think for yourself?”
“I do, and I take great joy watching vampires tear out each other’s veins to get to the blood they crave.”

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