Mated by Moonlight
by Jessa Slade
Steel Born - 3
Chapter 1
So, an Alpha female wereling walks into a bar, and...
The rest of the joke was on Beck Villanova as his good sense evaporated like dry ice at the sight of the pocket-size beauty stalking toward him. Waves of lustrous sable hair brushed her shoulders when she twisted her curvy hips to angle between the close-packed tables. A whisper of night wind from her entrance carried her scent to him: rich, warm and spicy as an amber incense stick, smoldering.
Thankfully, the massive pine bar stood between them, or he might’ve gone right to her. His uncle who’d carved the soft wood himself more than fifty years ago to honor the trees felled to make way for the Sun-Down Tavern would no doubt have had a better joke about mighty wood.
Distracted by the insistent thump of his cock against the fly of his jeans, Beck half turned toward the taps and gave himself a quick adjustment. The brush of his hand made him groan as his erection surged higher.
He sent a sidelong glance across the busy tavern. Damn, but Merrilee was in fine form tonight.
Though he’d tried not to listen, he’d heard she was out of town last week, and judging by the sleek way she was pulled together, she’d just gotten back. Life in the Eastern Oregon mountains even in early summer tended toward flannel and denim, so her sleeveless Chinese blouse and ankle-length skirt with its slit-up-to-there ventilation looked wildly out of place.
And wildly sexy. Emphasis on the wild.
She paused to chat up a table of grizzled old-timers. Mad Dog Valley wasn’t big, so everyone knew everyone except for the tourists who came through to take advantage of the pretty vistas and outdoor activities. She smiled at Orson, ringleader of the gray-hairs, and continued her progress across the bar.
The click of her high heels tripped up Beck’s spine like teasing fingertips. Only a woman with wereling grace could walk the gravel parking lot in heels that high without breaking stride or her ankle. He found his hand on the bar rag making restless circles on the pristine pine, but all he felt under his fingers was the lush, heavy weight of her dark hair as he angled her mouth toward his aching flesh.
He swallowed hard and averted his gaze. If she glimpsed his inappropriate thoughts, she’d be on him in a heartbeat.
Not that he’d mind.
He jerked his eyes back up. Damn it, he was Alpha here, in his own territory and in his own bar. She wasn’t going to make him look away with merely a twitch of her mesmerizing ass.
He wanted to stick his head under the ice-cold flow of the taps. Or maybe he just needed to put the dispenser down his pants.
Instead, he turned to the back bar to grab a wine bottle. An up-and-coming Columbia Gorge vintage he wouldn’t have known to stock, except he’d heard Merrilee’s design company was masterminding the vineyard’s ad campaign.
“Oh, God, Beck, no more wine.” Her throaty voice wrapped around him like cool night fog. “Give me one of your homebrews.”
He veered his hand toward a pint glass. She’d made it clear enough last time, two Alphas should consider themselves lucky not to tear each others’ throats out, so he kept his tone pleasantly neutral. “How was your flight back?”
“Came in over Hell’s Canyon just as the sun was setting with a full moon chasing my tail.” She slid onto a stool and watched with avid hunger as he poured in two slow stages to give her the dense, creamy head of a good stout.
Moving closer to the bar to hide his erection, he slid the glass gently toward her, relieved his hand didn’t shake. That comment about chasing her tail...
She met his gaze—her blue eyes piercing his soul like the sight of a perfect, cloudless sky—and saluted him with the glass before she tipped his brew to her lips.
He took the unguarded moment to study the exposed column of her neck between the three undone buttons of her collar. His heartbeat stuttered and reset itself in time with the barely visible throb of her pulse.
When she finally put the glass down, half the beer was gone and most of his composure. Friend zone, he reminded himself sternly. Only a little more dangerous than a demilitarized zone.
She licked a spot of foam from her upper lip. “Ah. Now I’m great.”
“Tough week at the office?”
“You have no idea.” She leaned down—giving him a glimpse between those three loosened buttons to the shadow between her breasts—to pull off her shoes. “Why didn’t I pick a job like bartending that would keep me barefoot at home?” She set the piercing heels on the stool next to her.
Good thing the stools were hardwood. Just like the rest of him. Which didn’t stop her comment from poking him a bit. So he was a homebody, so what? He’d done his adventuring and hadn’t found what he was looking for out there. “I guess that’s what you get for running such a successful business.”
She grimaced and took another drink. “Telecommuting sounds good, but the big clients always want to meet in person.” She wet her lips again. None of the natural redness left her mouth.
Beck refused to look away, much as he imagined some New York exec had glimpsed her photo on her company’s “about” page and demanded a face-to-face.
Her pack, which claimed the upper end of the valley, was full of creative types. Her Beta, Keisha, took nature photos for all the best magazines. Even in black-and-white, Keisha had captured a hint of Merrilee’s Alpha presence: strong, focused and always in command. Seeing her in living, breathing color with those blue eyes and red lips, any man would want to capture more.
Not that an Alpha would ever allow such liberties.
Merrilee kept one hand on her beer as she swiveled the stool to half face the room, the chatting of the patrons a contented murmur in the background. “And how is the Beck pack?”
The small town—home to his pack as well as a mix of unaffiliated werelings and unsuspecting humans—nestled about two-thirds of the way up Mad Dog Valley. Merrilee’s great-grandmother had claimed the lake in the hills above to the wilderness beyond. Female Alphas—unusual among wolf-kind—had held the land ever since, even when Beck’s great-granduncle’s bigger pack had claimed the town and the lower valley and spread out onto the ranchlands below.
“Been quiet,” Beck said. “No more wanderers.”
“Speaking of.” She took another drink and glanced at him. “I’m sure you’re wondering what happened to that loner who drifted through last month.”
He shrugged. “We followed him to the edge of our territory and then I called you. I’m sure you took care of it.”
Even though he’d longed to continue the hunt onto her lands. He had met her in his human shape while she had already been in her verita luna her Second Truth. When he pointed to where the prints crossed the invisible line between them, she had blinked at him—her blue eyes paler and more piercing in wereling form—then lowered her nose to the scent and trotted off.
Stopping himself from chasing after her that night had taken all of his considerable strength. Since then, he’d been working out.
A lot.
She quirked her lips, as if she knew what he was thinking. “His tracks headed upcountry, out into the wilderness. I have Peter and a couple others patrolling that border. If he crosses back, I’m sure you’ll hear all about it.” She tilted her head toward the tavern patrons.
He found a grin at her disgruntled tone. “Small towns are the best, aren’t they?”
She looked at him through her lashes. “Unless you want to keep something quiet.”
His smile slipped. Maybe he was getting tired of secrets.
She finished her beer with another swipe of her red lips and grabbed her shoes. “Thanks for the drink. I’ll see you later.”