we would do the married thing.”
“The married thing.” She tapped the rain-streaked glass with a knuckle. “What does that imply exactly?”
“Living in the same house. Appearing to others as a couple. Conversation.”
She waited for him to summon further examples but he did not. Because he could not? He was not so pleased with this arrangement either, she bet.
At least they had one thing in common.
“Sex?” she prompted.
“Of course.”
“You wish.”
“The marriage must be consummated.”
“The Council’s idea of consummation is not sex.”
“You would take my bite?”
“When hell freezes over.”
The car swerved sharply, shoving Blu roughly against the door. She sensed her husband’s smirk as he pulled through an automated gate and onto a cobbled driveway that curved before a three-story brick mansion.
Supposedly her new hubby lived in France during the summer months and wintered in Minnesota. He’d moved back to the States a few months early after agreeing to the marriage. What a freak. She’d take the glamour of Paris all year if given an opportunity.
The estate fronted by climbing vines initially impressed Blu until she decided it wasn’t so grand. Her father’s compound covered more acreage, and the pack probably owned more surrounding land—no thanks to the greedy vampires.
“Big mansion,” she remarked. “You must have servants.”
“Gardener and Housekeeper.”
Short, to-the-point answers. Wasn’t he the one who’d suggested marriage implied they converse?
“Has anyone ever told you you’re a real conversationalist?”
The car abruptly stopped and he shifted into Park. Blu jammed her heel into the floor mat to keep from lunging forward.
Twisting and leaning his forearm on the steering wheel, Creed turned to her. “Let’s get things straight between us, shall we? I can assume we are both uncomfortable with this arrangement.”
“Hallelujah.”
“Yet while I have vowed to myself, and my tribe, that I will do everything in my power to make this work, for the sake of both nations, I suspect you have made no such personal vow.”
“Vows are so medieval. I’m just here for the show, Credence.”
“It is Creed,” he corrected.
“Creed,” she tried. “So alpha. Shouldn’t you have a vampire name like Damien or Lucien or—”
“Or something inane like a color?”
Blu gave him her cheek, peering out at the increasing rain. Bastard.
“Our first fight,” he said. “I suppose that falls onto the list of what is expected of married couples, eh?”
Despite herself, Blu smirked.
“Let’s go inside and I’ll give you a tour. I understand your luggage was delivered earlier. I’ve ordered it placed in our room.”
Our room? She closed her eyes and bit the inside of her cheek. Since puberty had struck, and she’d become a kind of beacon to male wolves, she had been fending off testosterone like a vaccine-resistant plague.
She didn’t need it from a vampire.
“Could you please leave me alone a bit?”
“Here in the car? But it’s raining.”
“Please, Creed,” she said softly. “I need a few minutes to myself.”
He didn’t reply, and instead opened the door and got out. Unmindful of the rain, he strode to the front door and left it half-open to expose the soft golden light shining within.
Blu pressed the side of her head to the passenger window. Her reflection wavered in the glass; green bob smooshed against a cheek, and dark eye shadow smears. Tears streamed down her cheeks, falling more swiftly and harder than the rain.
“Creed Saint-Pierre,” she whispered. “Don’t hurt me like the others have. Please.”
SHE SAT IN THE CAR for fifteen minutes before Creed wondered if he should go out for her. Was she pouting? More likely trying to prove she would not listen to his authority.
It wasn’t difficult to guess she would be obstinate to a fault. She was so young and inexperienced. He would teach her manners and respect. It was the very least he could do—send her back to Daddy more respectful and submissive.
Because he would send her back eventually.
Creed paced before the glass-and-stone-tiled bar that curved along the wall in the main room. This mansion had been built in the seventies and retained much of the original design, only now he could pass it off as retro.
He liked the massive fieldstones set into the floor and the open three-story entertainment and living area. It was a sort of landing, a place to relax and order his day, before venturing outside or to his office in the back. Once or twice he’d held parties, and the guests usually convened in this spacious room or outside by the pool.
He glanced up the curving red-carpeted staircase. He’d had her things—three large traveling trunks—delivered to his bedroom. She hadn’t liked that.
Resisting a smile, he decided she would have to get used to answering to a new authority. Surely she must have practice. Packs revered their females yet would never allow them to step out-of-bounds. They were also fiercely protective of the rare female wolf.
How had Creed managed to simply drive away tonight with a valuable female without bringing the wolves upon him?
Could this peace thing really work?
“I’ll be damned if it does.”
When the door opened and a sodden green-haired werewolf stepped inside, Creed sucked in a breath.
The thin fabric that had barely covered her breasts was now wet, revealing the gorgeous shape of them, erect nipples and full, delicious volume. He did love to caress a woman’s breasts. To lick at them. To nuzzle into them and suck her to climax. Heaven.
“You keep staring like that, vampire, I’m going to have to punch you.”
Or hell, depending on the woman.
She strode past him and dropped her shoes and purse on the damask sofa. With the same nonchalance, she plopped onto the sofa and put up her feet on the Brazilian ironwood coffee table. The wood wasn’t supposed to get wet.
Creed went around and shoved her feet off it with his heel. “Your manners are lacking. But what should I expect?”
“From a werewolf? I suppose you expect me to romp about on your furniture and tear it apart with my teeth. I probably better not wash or comb my hair either because that would destroy your mental picture of me. Should I stop shaving my legs and do the whole hairy thing?”
Creed paced to the bar and poured two fingers of whisky. Putting it back in a tilt did little to curb his annoyance. Irritating as she was, though, he couldn’t deny curiosity. He had expected her to look much different. Distasteful.
Not like a colorful and very sinful dessert.
“Let’s do the tour and get you situated,” he said, leaning over the back of the couch.
She stood before he could slide his gaze down her dress. “Can we save the tour until morning? I’m tired. I just want to shower and hit the hay. You have a stable out back? Wouldn’t want you to have to board an animal in such a fine home.”
“Your