Page 7 of Hunted Mate
“Drop the story, Calista, or I will be back, and you’ll be bred again.”
“Get out.”
He leaves. I’m almost surprised that he goes so easily. Surprised, or sad. Hard to say. I don’t want to want him, but apparently my instincts and desires are diverging aggressively
I sit down at my desk, then stand up again swiftly as my ass ignites with sting and pain.
“Fuck!” I curse to myself, thoroughly annoyed and still kind of turned on.
“Fuck!”
CHAPTER 2
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That did not go as planned. I thought for sure she would capitulate. Most people do when confronted with a beast twice their size who knows what they’ve been up to and threatens their lives.
She was such a pretty little thing, her pink pussy working so hard to take my cock. I can still remember her scent, and the way she sounded, how soft she was, how my fingers sank into her ass when I pulled her onto my cock—and how bright, deep red her cheeks got after I punished her with my belt.
She’s so much more than another annoying little journalist looking for a weird story. She feels like she was made for me. Made for my cock, for my hands. Fuck. Maybe even for my heart.
This is not how it was supposed to go. I was supposed to scare her. Wasn’t even supposed to actually fuck her, but when I mentioned it and the air filled with desire, what was I going to do? It was all instinct from that point on. From both of us.
I like the idea that she’s out there right now, walking around with my cum deep inside her, trickling down her legs and drying sticky between her thighs because she doesn’t have panties on anymore.
Next time, I think I’ll fuck her ass.
And there will be a next time because we both know she’s not going to stop. I felt her obstinance like a force of nature.
I go back to the van, step past the cot I have been sleeping on, and get behind the surveillance equipment. She’s still in her office, rubbing her butt and cursing to herself. I smile as I pull the wolf’s head off. She’s cute. A little too cute, actually.
Later that evening, I continue my surveillance. I don’t really need to. It’s well past ten p.m., which tends to be her latest bedtime. But I can’t help myself. I want to see her again. The need to look at her is the most intense need I’ve felt in a long time.
The camera I tap into is the one located in the smoke alarm in her bedroom.
She is asleep in bed. The camera shows her tossing and turning, turning over onto her stomach and throwing a pillow across the room. Her bedroom is well appointed, as one would expect from an heiress, but not as ornate or full of useless crap as I would have expected. She spends money like someone who knows she has all of it she needs, but doesn’t really care about what it can get her. She gets no thrill from obtaining material things,because she’s always been able to have all the material things she wanted.
That doesn’t mean she’s not missing a lot in her life, and that there is not a kind of poverty gnawing at her sweet little soul.
Calista has more money at her disposal than most people could ever dream of, but very little in the way of social outlets. Lots of people want to talk to her, outside of the paper, where the other journalists take particular glee in borderline bullying her, but it is obvious that people are interested in her power, money, and clout rather than her.
So she eats dinner alone in a dining room made for at least twenty, and she sleeps alone in a bed that could sleep four, and she wanders around the big house at what feels like random times.
When I started this job, I assumed I was dealing with a spoiled brat who didn’t understand there were some things in this world left alone because that’s what’s healthiest for all concerned. Now I think she just needs something to keep herself sane.
Life isn’t exactly easy when you don’t really need to support yourself, and when you can’t really trust anyone to be a friend. I’ve had her phone tapped for a long time. I was going to tap her friends’ phones too. But she doesn’t have any.
She has a lot of acquaintances. She has people who owe her favors, and who she owes favors. She has connections. But she does not have friends. And she does not have family.
I know everything there is to know about Calista Hart. My research into her has been as deep and intense as her research into the wolf packs that it is my job to protect.
Nobody can be allowed to reveal the truth of wolf shifters. The danger to those with the cursed blood cannot be overstated. Every time wolf shifters have been discovered throughout history, death and disaster have followed. It is not simply a matter of protecting the pack. It is a matter of protecting everybody.
I am charged with ensuring that curious humans don’t ever get close to the truth. There are a lot of ways to do that. Mostly, I go for misinformation and disinformation. Filling the space with noise so that anybody looking for anything real would never be able to find the signal.
But that hasn’t been working with Calista. She’s too smart, and too dedicated. She’s been able to isolate a few pieces of specific information from newspaper articles and microfiche files of all things, dating back through the sixties, seventies, and eighties. Then she’s used that information as a filter. Anything that corroborates it or fits the pattern, she keeps. Anything that doesn’t, she dumps. It’s been terrifyingly accurate. She’s getting close to discovering some of our ancient sites, and that cannot be allowed to happen.
I have made Calista Hart the sole target of my attention. I have lived and breathed her for months on end. She has no idea. She thinks tonight’s little encounter was impromptu, perhaps the act of a madman.
