Wolf Undaunted
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Shannon Curtis
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19.6K
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22
Chapter 1
Vivianne Marchetta forced herself to listen as her Southern district manager gave his report. Her first week back at work, and her days had been full of meetings, reports, brain-draining budgets...
Something dark flitted at the corner of her eye, and she brushed her hair away from her forehead. Damn it, not now, not here. It was important that she came back from her “rest” fully charged and healthy. Strong. She had to be, otherwise it would be a bloodbath for her vampire colony if there was even a hint of weakness in the Nightwing Vampire Prime. She couldn’t afford to weird out her followers.
“Explain to me again why we can’t use the river to transport these goods?” she interrupted in a cool tone. She didn’t miss the fact he’d glossed over that detail.
Mike Falcone halted, lifting his eyes from his laptop to meet hers. He seemed a little hesitant, and Vivianne frowned. Mike was rarely hesitant. It was one of the reasons he was usually so good at his job. Yet he looked reluctant to share some critical information with her. She arched an eyebrow, and he sighed as he leaned back in his chair.
“Things have changed since...” He frowned, trying to find the right word. She couldn’t blame him. What did you call an eight-month coma that was magically induced after what should have been a lethal werewolf bite?
“My break?” she supplied.
A breathy chuckle whispered past her ear, and she turned. Who the hell was that? The area behind her was empty, with just a few yards between her seat and the wall—just the way she liked it in the boardroom, so she could see whoever was coming for her, no sneak attacks...figuratively or literally.
She frowned as she turned back to the table, then quickly composed her features when she realized her six directors were watching her warily. “I’m waiting,” she prodded primly, ignoring her interruption.
Mike nodded. “Your break. Woodland Pack and River Pack formed an alliance—”
“How is that possible? Woodland are fighting with everyone.”
“Not since Rafe Woodland was cast out of the pack and Matthias Marshall became Woodland Alpha Prime.”
Vivianne’s lips tightened at the mention of the former alpha prime’s name. Rafe Woodland was the reason she’d been lying in a coma for eight months. Still, apparently there had been quite a shift since that late afternoon when the black mutt had bounded out of the shadows and attacked her. Her eyebrows rose. “Marshall is now Woodland?”
Mike nodded.
She leaned back in her chair. Rafe Woodland had been wild and erratic. Matthias Marshall would be a steadying influence in controlling the Woodland Pack and its territory. Damn it. It was so much nicer when things were a little chaotic. She’d managed to creep their border forward when Woodland was distracted with its petty squabbles with River Pack.
“Why did River Pack shut down our access to the river?” She’d asked a direct question, she’d better get a direct answer. Forcing their goods to be delivered overland was costing them a small fortune. “And please, let’s not make this a breadcrumb trail. Tell me everything.”
Mike sighed. “When you were attacked by Rafe Woodland, your brother found your body. He then attacked Woodland—”
“Of course,” she responded, dipping her head. It was the obvious course of action.
“He killed some dog, and they teamed up with River against us.”
“Well, you know my view—the only good werewolf is a dead one. My brother did the right thing. But are you telling me we’ve lost river access to Irondell, all because my brother killed some mangy mutt?” Vivianne shook her head. And in all this time, none of her guardians had successfully rectified the problem. What had they all been doing while she was in her coma? Watching the lycans ride rough-pad over the Nightwing empire?
“This was an across-kind crime. We can bring this to Reform Court and demand retribution.” She jotted a reminder to speak with her legal counsel, but paused as Mike shook his head.
“The original crime occurred in Nightwing territory, but Rafe Woodland had already been banished from his pack and was technically a stray, with no affiliation to any pack at the time of his attack on you. Your brother trespassed on Woodland territory and killed a lycan. If we requested a transfer to Reform jurisdiction, Nightwing would have been penalized.”
“And all because some measly little mongrel was put down—”
The notepad she’d been jotting notes on flipped up from the table, startling everyone, and Vivianne rose sharply from her seat.
“Stop it,” she ordered, glancing wildly about. As Vampire Prime of the Nightwing colony, she sat at the head of the table, and neither of her closest neighbors were within reach. She bent to check under the table, then whirled as she sensed someone behind her.
Only, nobody was there. She turned back to the table, and something dark shifted in her peripheral vision. She twisted again, only to see her PR director’s puzzled expression as he, too, peered over his shoulder.
“Did you see that?” she demanded.
He shook his head, wary and confused. She glanced down the table. “Did any of you see that?”
They all shook their heads, and Mike rose slowly from his seat. “Are you all right, Vivianne?”
It was the quiet concern that gave her pause, and she glanced at her guardians. They were all looking at her as though she was either having a medical episode or just slightly unhinged.
This was not the impression she needed to make in her first week back at work after surviving a werewolf bite.
“I’m fine,” she muttered, as she stepped back a little from the table, although she glanced vigilantly around the room.
“Do you need a break?” John, the PR director queried, although his lips curved in the smallest of smirks. “Maybe you’ve come back too soon.”
Vivianne forced a smile as she strolled around the sleek curve of the glass and chrome board table. She had her suspicions about John. He was good at what he did. Always on message. Particularly if it was his own message, like a leadership gambit. She also suspected he’d had something to do with tipping off the lycans and allowing them access into Nightwing in order to abduct a murder suspect—one who turned out to be innocent of the charge. Either way, her border had been compromised by the wolves, but only with inside help. Not that she could prove her suspicions. Still, he was challenging her, in a very subtle way, one that she couldn’t let slide if she was to restore control and calm to her colony.
“You know, I think you’re right, John. I think I do need a break,” she sighed as she patted him on the shoulder. Quick as a flash, she grasped his chin and shoulder, then twisted, hearing the satisfying crack of bone. Her momentarily dead PR director slumped over in his chair, his forehead landing with a distinct crack on the glass table, his neck bent at an unnatural angle. When he revived once again, he’d have a hell of a headache.
“Anyone else think I need break?” she inquired calmly and glanced at each district guardian in turn around the table. All of them quietly shook their heads. She nodded with satisfaction. She was older than most of them. Stronger, too. Hopefully that killed any suggestion that she was not fit to work, or to hold the position of Vampire Prime for the Nightwing Colony. “Then let’s stop wasting time. I want that river access reopened by the end of the month. Now, Jimmy, what’s happening over on the west coast?”
She resumed her seat, crossed her legs, and continued to chair the meeting.
* * *
Zane Wilder bared his teeth as the Marchetta prime held court. That little—she’d called him a mangy mutt. A measly little mongrel. He held up his fisted hands. He felt so damn ineffectual. Nobody could see him. Nobody could hear him. He didn’t know what the hell was going on, but he didn’t like it. He certainly didn’t like being attached to the stone-cold heartless head of the Nightwing vampire colony.
Everyone knew of Vivianne Marchetta, heiress to the vast Marchetta Empire. Ruthless, relentless and strategic, the daughter of a Reform senator, Vivianne’s reputation was widely known, and in some cases, feared.
Not by him, of course. No. She was a vamp. She was walking worm food, just like that vicious, feral brother of hers. Zane rubbed his neck. He couldn’t feel any markings, but there was still a shadow of pain from where he’d been bitten by Lucien Marchetta. After that, he had no recollection, not until he awoke, along with the Marchetta prime, in an underground clinic. Since then he drifted around with this stone-hearted corporate crocodile, an invisible, silent shadow. He’d watched her rule over her colony. He’d watched her hunt. He grimaced. She always gave them a fighting chance, no sneak attacks, but every single one of them seemed mesmerized by the little pocket-sized beauty and would succumb without much of a struggle at all. Surprisingly, though, it was always men, no women, no children—no easy prey.
He eyed her as she concluded the meeting. Every now and then, he thought he was getting through...like just before. She’d heard him laugh. He was sure of it. She tried to ignore him, but every now and then she’d crack. Her eyelids would flicker when he spoke, or...she’d peer under the table for him. He chuckled. That had been a good one, he had to admit.
Vivianne glanced about, then rose from the table, effectively dismissing her minions. She collected her bag and notepad—she’d occasionally surprised him with her old-school practices. Most everyone else was using a device, but she used the old-fashioned method of notetaking—pen and paper.
One of the guardians waited for her at the door, stepping aside as the others filed out. Zane couldn’t help noticing that nobody moved the guy with the broken neck. He shook his head. Vampires were nasty. So little regard for life. Still, the guy was annoying, and Vivianne had been quite effective in silencing him. He liked effective. Not that he liked Vivianne. Hell, no.
Zane’s gaze dropped to Vivianne’s hips as she halted at the doorway, and he folded his arms, leaning against the jamb. Much as he’d like to get the hell out of Vamp Central, he’d discovered he couldn’t range far from Vivianne. The voluptuous little vampire was exhausting. Constantly on the go, from one meeting to another, although how she managed to do it in those killer heels all day, he had no idea. He eyed her legs. Her slender, golden-skinned legs...the top of her head barely grazed his shoulder, but she had the figure of a pocket Venus, all curves and hollows and smooth skin, dark chocolate eyes and lips that were full and pouty. He frowned. If you were into that sort of thing.
“Uh, look, I realize you’re probably busy, getting back into the swing of things, and all,” the guardian began. Zane noticed it was the one who told her about his death. Death. But not...quite. He didn’t feel dead. He didn’t know what death was supposed to feel like, though, but he didn’t think it was this. He was...aware. He always thought death was supposed to be peaceful. Being somehow anchored to Vivianne Marchetta was not peaceful. His eyes widened. Maybe he was in hell. Yeah. A werewolf being stuck with a vampire for all of eternity sure sounded like hell to him, especially if that vampire was Vivianne. The woman brought a whole new level to the world “cool”. Arctic, maybe.
“I’m fine, Mike. Really,” she said, her tone confident.
“Yeah, I can see that,” Mike said, lifting his chin to indicate the slumped-over vamp. “I just thought, with everything that’s happened while you were on your ‘break,’” he said meaningfully, “that maybe, if you needed to be quietly brought up to speed, I could help.”
“Oh, puh-leeze,” Zane muttered. He could see the thinly-masked appreciation in the guy’s eyes.
Vivianne stiffened next to him, and he saw her eyes shift, just a little. She tilted her head, and her dark hair slid across her back to brush Zane’s arm. He glanced down. She had dark, wavy curls that he’d learned were all natural. Pretty. He frowned and moved to create a little more distance. He didn’t need no sexy, alluring vamp to rub herself up against him, with her tempting hair and—he inhaled—damn it, not even her scent was soft or comfortably, florally, feminine. No, it was zesty and spicy and sexy all at once and was becoming part of his natural breathing, no matter how hard he fought it...
“What are you suggesting?” Vivianne asked, her voice low and husky.
Zane frowned. “You’re not falling for this, are you?”
Vivianne tilted her head forward, her expression hidden behind that ebony, wavy curtain of hair.
“Perhaps dinner?” Mike suggested. His voice had lowered, and there was a definite glint in the guy’s eyes.
“I think I’m going to puke,” Zane muttered. “Get me out of here.” Watching vamps flirt was about as much fun as being skinned alive, he was sure of it.
“I think dinner could be a good option,” Vivianne agreed evenly. “You can fill me in on anything else I’ve missed.”
“I’d be happy to fill you in,” Mike said, winking. Zane made a gagging noise. The guy was not subtle at all. “I’ll pick you up—seven?”
Vivianne nodded, then watched as Mike left the room, whistling. At least, Zane thought that’s what he was trying to do. It came out like a little wheezy whine.
“This is definitely hell,” Zane said, nodding. Watching these two vamps tap dance around a flirty little power play was beyond tedious.
Vivianne frowned, and Zane’s eyes narrowed. “Can you hear me, darlin’?” he asked, straightening up from the doorjamb to face her, excitement and hope flaring within him.
Vivianne stepped toward the door, her chin lifting as she flicked her hair over her shoulder—and into his face.
Zane flinched as a tendril caught him in the eye, his lips tightening, then he followed the vamp. “Your taste in men sucks. He can’t even whistle properly.”
Vivianne walked away faster. Zane was content to hang back and watch the swing of her curvy hips.
