Wilder's Mate

Chapter Four

She was going to stab Wilder Harding in his sleep.

They’d waited an hour in the coach before the driver had declared them the only passengers. Then he’d climbed up into the awkward enclosure housing the controls and left Satira trapped in an absurdly gilded cage with the crudest, most aggravating man she’d ever met.

And if he made one more comment about her breasts, she was going to—

What? Hit him? Oh, she wanted to pretend violence was on her mind, but too-taut nerves had driven her past the boundaries of sanity. Losing her grip on her fragile self-control might result in acts more carnal than violent.

That self-control took another hit when she glanced from the window and found his gaze had strayed to the bare skin exposed by her corset. How very unfair that the attention stirred heat and longing, when he’d made it so very clear that his appreciation meant as much as a man’s admiration for a fine table or expensive liquor. She was a pretty object to be used and set aside. Nothing flattering in that.

Nothing personal in that, no matter how much loneliness and her own unsuitable attraction might drive her to pretend otherwise. Anger at herself made her voice sharp. “Would it help our situation if I stripped naked and let you stare? Would that assuage your curiosity?” For a moment, he looked nothing if not startled, but he recovered quickly. “If the urge strikes you, sweetheart, you be my guest.”

Perhaps he thought her too cowardly. Too modest. She was too practical, so it must have been madness that forced her hands up. She lifted her chin, held his gaze—a dangerous challenge to a bloodhound—and deliberately pushed the stiff edges of the corset together, far enough for the first hook to pop free.

He didn’t move, but he watched her closely. “Feel like playing with fire, Satira?” Yes. Her capacity for self-delusion must be boundless, because she’d even come up with a rationalization, flimsy though it was. “It might help you keep your thoughts on your job instead of my breasts. Or do you still doubt my enthusiasm? None of the other bloodhounds complained.”

“Really, now?” He shook his head and looked away. “First off, I don’t doubt anything about you.

Second, my mind is on the job, so you don’t have to do me any special favors.”

Any fantasy that her fancy clothes and prettily styled hair might catch his eye withered under his pointed lack of concern. Inspiring lust in a man was apparently a far cry from gaining his interest, but she supposed she should know that better than any.

Her fingers trembled as she carefully fastened her corset. Need. Three bloodhounds had taken her to bed and left without a backward glance. Whatever stirred that mating hunger in bloodhounds, she clearly hadn’t inherited it.

“Satira.”

Humiliation was an unwelcome emotion. It made her unkind. It made her lie. “I probably wouldn’t have been enthusiastic enough for your tastes in any case. You’re not the type of man I favor.”

“I don’t doubt that.” His dark eyes had cooled, and he leaned back against the seat. “You seem to be used to a different sort of man. One who wouldn’t be offended that you didn’t really want to fuck him, but you’d do it so he could think straight.”

He didn’t know.

Relief pounded through Satira, leaving her light-headed. Somehow the fool man was oblivious to the painful yearning twisting her up inside, and she had no intention of handing him a weapon capable of devastating her pride. “I’m used to the normal sort of man,” she said stiffly. “The kind who doesn’t seem to care why a woman’s spreading her legs as long as he gets to make himself comfortable between them.” Wilder snorted. “That’s charming, honey, but it ain’t me. If a woman doesn’t want me there more than she wants her next breath, the ride isn’t worth it.”

Arrogant bastard. “And how is that fair? For a woman to want a man that much, to need him, when he doesn’t need her? When he’ll take her to bed and leave her there, aching and alone? Is breaking a heart what makes it worth it?”

“I’m not talking about that kind of need,” he retorted. “Sex doesn’t have to be about undying love, but it damn sure better be about hunger.”

She’d never confused the two things before. Maybe she’d simply never known that her lovers’ very ability to walk away meant they’d found her wanting. How foolish to feel the lack of something she hadn’t known possible, the ghost of rejection after the fact.

Satira folded her arms over her body as if she could shield herself from the uncomfortable turn of her own thoughts. “You don’t know the first thing about what I’m hungry for.”

“An undeniable truth.” He turned his gaze back to the window.

All his warmth and good-natured affection had vanished, leaving a hard man. No, not a man—a bloodhound who had shown an unnatural tolerance for her thus far. She’d do well to remember that, and to keep in mind that tolerance could fade and leave her at the mercy of a beast.

Worse, her recklessness might endanger more than her safety. Nathaniel’s life rested in Wilder’s hands, and she’d spent the past quarter hour antagonizing him. She cleared her throat and fixed her gaze on his feet, a subtle bit of body language that had usually worked on Levi. “I’m sorry if I—”

“I don’t blame you,” he interrupted, his voice steely. “You think less of me than the mud on your boots, and that’s fine by me. No reason to pretend otherwise. But if you start talking like you need to make nice with me so I don’t leave Nate out there, I’ll spank your ass.” Holding her tongue had never been her specialty. “Is that a threat or a promise?” His answer was flat. Hard. “It’s a threat.”

Anger and guilt formed a hard knot in her belly as she curled her fingers around the edge of the seat.

“You’re a bloodhound. I was raised to respect your temper and know that it is not always within your control. You make it too easy for me to forget.”

“You mean that I upset you.” He leaned forward, his elbows braced on his knees. “You’re so mad you could spit.”

“Yes,” she agreed readily, still staring at his legs. “Because you treat me like I’m one of them. I think you’re an unholy, arrogant bastard, but I’ve never thought for a moment that you’re beneath me.”

“No, you think I’m mercenary and mindless, which is even worse.” Her temper snapped. “You are mindless if you can’t tell that I look at you and see the only safe thing left in my world. It’s not my fault you’re a fool!”

He surged across the coach so fast it swayed. One strong hand curled around the nape of her neck, and his breath blew hot across her cheek. “I should kiss you now, show you what a fool I really am.” The heat of him burned through her, leaving need in its wake. She pressed one hand to his chest, fingers spread wide as if she had a hope of holding him back. “And I’d be one to let you, if you’re so dense about women that you think I don’t want you.”

“You’re a prickly sort. Hard to figure you out.”

So strong. So close. She closed her eyes and rubbed her cheek against his, though his rough stubble scratched her skin. “I’m lonely.”

Just like that, his touch gentled. “Shh, you’re all right. Safe.”

“Be a fool,” she whispered. “Kiss me.”

His fingers tightened for a mere second, but then he released her and retreated to his own coach seat.

“That would be a damn bad idea and you know it.”

The warmth of his hand lingered on her skin, but the rest of her was cold. Aching, even if she knew he was right. “Then only one of us proved herself an idiot.”

“You’re too hard on yourself.”

Simple words, but they made her uncomfortable. “I can’t afford to forgive my own mistakes when they might cost Nathaniel his life.”

His eyes shadowed. “Are we back to that? You not trusting me unless you give me what I want?”

“No,” she said quickly, not allowing herself to consider the subtle shift. What I want. “No, I simply mean—I want to help. I need to help, so I can’t make mistakes.” Wilder turned to the window once more. “Everyone makes mistakes. Convincing yourself that you’re different doesn’t help anyone.”

“I suppose it wouldn’t.” She dropped her hands to the smooth fabric of her skirts and closed her eyes.

“What will we do when we reach the border?”

“If I played my cards right, someone will come to us.”

“Someone who will lead us to wherever they’re keeping Nathaniel?” His jaw tightened, as if in anticipation of the fight to come. “Someone who will lead us to someone important. That’s where we start. If it also happens to be whoever has imprisoned Nate, all the better.” Wilder was smart. Skilled. For the first time it struck her as odd that someone so valuable had been sent on a rescue mission. Her willingness to risk her life for Nathaniel made sense. Perhaps his did as well, if he’d forged a friendship during his training.

But bloodhounds were not their own masters, and the Guild had better uses for them than rescue missions that would only save one man, no matter how brilliant that man might be. “Is this what you do?

Save people who have been spirited away into the Deadlands?”

“I solve problems,” he answered simply. “Doesn’t matter where they are.”

“And Nathaniel…” It felt traitorous to even imply that he wasn’t worthy of rescue, but he was the one who’d taught her to assume the Guild was always looking out for their own best interests. “Is it because he’s good at his job? Or because of whatever secret project it is that he kept locked away where I could never see it?”

He glanced at her, just a little too sharply. “What sort of project?” She’d only glimpsed inside the private workroom once—an accident Nathaniel had been careful never to repeat. Curiosity might have led her to snoop once—or twice—but when her mentor wanted to secure a room, he knew all the ways to do it. “I’m not sure. I thought it was one of his pet projects.” He watched her, his gaze intense. “What do you know? It could be important, Satira.”

“Nothing,” she repeated, dread uncurling inside her. “But I’m beginning to suspect you know more than you’ve said.”

“All I know is that Nate was working on something big. Something important to the Guild.” To the vampires too, presumably. Levi’s death during the last new moon had given them the perfect opportunity. A well-planned attack, under cover of darkness… “So that’s why they left me alone? Because they were only there for Nate?”

His hands closed into fists. “I don’t know.”

Satira wrapped her arms around her body and fought back a shiver. “He managed to set off our alarm before they took him. I was still half-asleep when they reached my room, but I’d already—” Guilt very nearly choked her. “I have a safe room. Levi taught me to lock myself in if anyone attacked. Perhaps it wasn’t worth it to break their way in once they had who they’d come for.” His voice lowered to a tense rasp. “It means they came in with a very specific objective. A task to complete.”

“And they completed it.” She closed her eyes and drew in a slow, careful breath, desperate to settle her nerves. “So he’s more likely to be alive, then?”

“The Guild seems to think so.”

Looking at him was more difficult this time, but she forced herself to do it. To reassess what she’d seen of him, and the conclusions she’d drawn. It had been easy to believe the Guild wouldn’t waste a competent asset to rescue one lone man who was likely already dead. But with an important project at stake… Oh yes. They’d send their best.

Perhaps it was time to assume Wilder might deserve a little bit of his ego. “Then I owe you an apology. I made certain…assumptions about your qualifications as a rescuer.” Wilder actually laughed. “Yes. Yes, you did.”

Satira pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes. “I wasn’t the only one.” He acknowledged the truth of her words with a small nod. “So we’re square now, right?” As square as they could be with no mention of how very close they’d come to kissing. Or that she’d slept in his arms the previous night, safe and warm and more at peace than she’d been in weeks. “I believe we are.”

Again, he nodded, this time as if her words settled the matter. “Then we can get on with what needs doing.”

Saving Nathaniel. For the first time since he’d been taken, Satira honestly believed they might manage it.

They reached the border just after nightfall, and the main street through the rough-and-tumble settlement blazed with gaslights and lanterns hung from windows. More than half were red, though there was no telling whether they advertised sex for sale…

Or blood.

Wilder climbed out of the carriage and held a hand out to Satira. “I know which hotel we should go to. I’ll do the talking, you just stand there and look put out if it takes too long.” 32

She slipped her hand into his and stepped down, still a bit uncertain in the heeled slippers Polly had provided. Her gaze swept the street, taking in the details in a slow, methodical fashion until the first piercing whistle split the night air.

A dirty, intoxicated gunslinger leered appreciatively at her from the opposite side of the street, and Wilder was close enough to hear the tiny, nervous hitch in her breath before she tightened her hand around his and lifted her chin.

He bared his teeth, and the drunk man sneered but backed down. “Keep walking,” Wilder whispered to Satira. “You don’t notice his sort, because that’s my job.” She nodded, the barest whisper of movement. “I’m ready.”

He nodded toward the saloon, a three-story affair that surely had rooms upstairs for all sorts of things she’d never considered. “Even ready for that?”

“The men won’t do more than look at me, will they?”

Over his dead body. “Not a chance.”

If she pressed any closer to his side, she’d be climbing him. “Then I can stand anything.” They both had to stay calm and hold their ground, because the last thing she needed was to watch him fight to defend her. So Wilder took a bracing breath and climbed the wide steps up to the swinging doors.

Deafening silence didn’t fall when they walked in, but those at the tables closest to the doors turned to stare, mostly at Satira. More than a few covetous gazes, male and female, followed her as they walked to a small table near the bar and sat.

It took the space of three heartbeats for his gambit with her alias to pay off. The bartender appeared at his elbow, bowing so low as to be obsequious. “If I might inquire… Could this beautiful flower humbling my establishment be the lovely Lady Rothschild? Word of her arrival has preceded her. Several have already left messages, requesting the honor of an interview.” Satira looked at Wilder, her widened eyes saying more loudly than words that she thought he’d lost his mind. “The lady is fatigued from her journey,” he told the man gruffly. “She’ll only consider interviews and offers once she’s had some rest, but she would like some refreshment.” The man shifted his attention to Satira, who managed to plaster a haughty look on her face, though her jaw clenched so tightly it looked like it hurt. When it became clear she had no intention of saying anything, the bartender looked back to him. “Of course. Only the best for our distinguished guest.” Wilder mustered a dismissive nod and went back to studying the room. When the bartender had gone, he leaned close to Satira. “Gonna make it?”

Her lips barely moved with her whispered reply. “I’m suitably occupied planning my revenge.”

“It got their attention, didn’t it?” The look she gave him was worthy of any outraged heiress, and he rolled his eyes. “It worked. Now we just have to play it out.”

She parted her lips, glanced around the bar at the dozens of eyes staring at them in abject curiosity, and snapped her mouth shut. Color crept its way up her neck and into her cheeks, but she clung to her aloof demeanor until the barkeep returned with bread and stew and a vinegary wine that a true aristocrat wouldn’t have let within a stone’s throw of her lips.

Satira ignored everyone else in the saloon as she ate. Though her discomfort was plain to him, he doubted anyone else would notice. When she finished her meal, he tossed several crisp bills on the table and rose to offer her his arm.

Half the bar watched her slide her hand into the crook of his elbow and rise, her back held stiffly straight and chin high. Wilder got more than a few irritable looks from men and a couple of come-hither smiles from women whose eyes promised they’d give him a better time than any stuck-up blueblood.

It wasn’t unusual for guards and escorts to extend their duties into the bedroom, and many of them probably figured he’d be climbing into Satira’s bed with her tonight. His dick grew hard at the thought, and he didn’t have to feign a dour expression as they walked out.

If only they knew.