(Ellora's Cave) Mary Janice Davidson - Wyndham Werewolves 01 - Love's Prisoner

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Love's Prisoner

MaryJanice Davidson

FromSecrets Volume 6 , by Red Sage Publishing

ISBN 0-9648942-6-2

To my reader:

I've always been intrigued by good guys who have to do bad, and werewolves are prime examples of

that. It's tough to be a sensitive, 21st century guy when you turn furry, howl at the moon, and crave raw

meat once a month. It's even worse if you're in love with someone who not only thinks you're delusional,

but at times actively despises you. Stick two people like this in an elevator, add one power outage, and

watch the sparks fly . . .

I hope you'll email me or visit my website to tell me what you thought aboutLove's Prisoner. I love to

hear from my readers, and I like getting suggestions on what you think I should write next.

Chapter One

Engrossed as she was inGlamour's Do's and Don'ts, Jeannie Lawrence scarcely noticed when the

elevator jolted to an abrupt halt. Shedid notice when the lights went out.

"Oh, come on!" she cried, slapping her magazine shut. Getting stuck in an elevator during a power

outage was nowhere on her to-do list. Today, anyway.

"Not now," a voice muttered, and she nearly shrieked. She hadn't known anyone else was in the elevator

with her. When she had her nose in a book or magazine, she wouldn't have noticed if Barney the

Dinosaur was in the elevator with her.

"Well, this is a fine fix, huh?" she asked the voice. "Of all the days to drop my ad copy off early! I guess

it's true—no good deed goes unpunished. What are you going to be late for? Me, I'm trying to beat the

rush hour traffic to the bridge. I can't stand it when—"

"Hush."

The voice was a pleasant baritone, one she liked despite its abruptness. She hushed, not offended.

Some people didn't like talking to strangers. Or maybe this guy was claustrophobic. Or—what was fear

of the dark? Darkophobic? Whatever it was, he was clearly unhappy to be trapped in an elevator for

who knew how long. Poor guy. She hoped he didn't get the screaming meemies. There was nothing

worse than a grown man having hysterics.

"Sorry," she said, then added, "I'm sure we won't be here long."

She heard a sound and recognized it immediately: the man trapped with her had taken a couple steps

back. Almost as if he was trying to put as much space between them as he could.

Exasperated, she said, "For crying out loud! I don't have cooties. Anymore," she added, hoping to

lighten the mood.

"Be quiet. And step into the far corner. Now."

"The hell I will!" She turned toward the voice. "Look, just because you're feeling antisocial doesn't mean

I—"

"Don't." No pleasant baritone that time. That one sounded like a growl, like he'd forced the word out

through gritted teeth. "Don't come near me. Keep away. When you move, you stir around the air currents

and I get more of your scent."

"And that'sbad , right?" Great, she thought with grim humor. Trapped with someone who skipped his

medication this morning. Why didn't I take the stairs?

"No. It's not bad." His voice, low in the dark, was a throbbing baritone she could feel along her spine.

"It's . . . extraordinary."

"Gosh, thanks." Uh-huh. Clearly a nutcake, sexy voice or no. She hadn't had time to put perfume on

after her shower. He couldn't smell a damn thing, except maybe a lingering whiff of Dial soap. "Do you

have a special doctor you tell these things to? Someone you should call when we get out of here?"

He barked laughter. "I'm not insane. I'm not surprised that's the conclusion you've drawn, though. What

is your name?"

"Jane Doe."

He chuckled softly. "What harm could it do to tell me your real name?"

"All right, but only if you promise not to freak out on me. More than you already have, I mean. It's

Jeannie Lawrence." There were a million Lawrences in the greater St. Paul area, she comforted herself,

so if he was a serial killer he likely couldn't track her down when this was over. "Now remember, you

promised . . ."

"Actually, I didn't. Not that promising would have done any good." He sighed, a lost sound in the dark.

Absurdly, she felt sorry for him, this perfect crazy stranger who talked so oddly and in the sexiest voice

she had ever heard. "You smell wonderful."

"Don't get started on that again," she warned.

"The moon's coming. I can feel her." She heard him swallow hard. "There isn't much time."

"Boy, have you gotthat right." She put her arms out in front of her, feeling in the dark, then stepped

forward and banged on the elevator door. "Hello!" she shouted. "Anybody up there? A nice girl and a

raving lunatic are trapped in here!"

"You're ovulating," he said directly in her ear, and she shrieked and flung herself away from him, so hard

that she bounced off the far wall and would have fallen had he not caught her. Even in her startlement, she

was conscious of the easy strength of his hand, in his scent, a crisp, clean, utterly masculine smell that she

liked very much, despite her sudden fear.

"You—" Her mouth was dry; she swallowed to force moisture and finished her rant. "You scared the

hell out of me!Don't sneak up on me like that, for the love of—and you can let go of me, too." She

yanked her arm out of his grip, her heart yammering so loudly she felt certain he could hear it. And what

was that absurd thing he had said? Had he really said—

"It's too late. You're ovulating," he said, his voice a low rumble in the dark. "You're . . . in heat, to put it

a little more crudely. And I'm too close to my change."

"Then empty your pockets," she said rudely. "Let your change out."

"You don't want me to do that," he said softly. "Oh, no."

She supposed some women would be reduced to panic at this turn of events, but this weirdo with the

sexy voice and strong hands had no idea who he was dealing with. She had a black belt in karate, could

drill a dime at fifty yards, and had once put a would-be mugger in the hospital with cracked ribs. If this

guy tried anything with her, he was going to have a very bad day.

"Look, I'm sorry you're feeling . . . uh . . . unwell, but if you just stay calm, they'll have us out of here in

no ti—"

With that same shocking suddenness, his hand was behind her neck, tilting her face up, and she could

feel his mouth near her temple, heard him inhale deeply. "You're in heat," he murmured in her ear, "and

the moon's coming up." He inhaled again, greedily. Frozen by his actions, she waited for his next words.

"I'm very sorry."

Then his mouth was on hers. Pressed against the far wall of the elevator, she could feel his long, hard

length against her body, could feel his hands on her, could hear his rasping breath. She had the absurd

sense he was wallowing in her scent, glorying in it. And she came absurdly close to relaxing in his

embrace, to kissing him back. Instead, moving independently of her brain, her hands struggled up and

pressed against his chest, hard, but it was like trying to move a tree.

"Oh, Christ," he groaned into her hair.

"Don't—"

"I'm sorry."

"—stop it—"

"I'm very sorry."

"—before I break your—"

"Do you believe in werewolves?"

"—big stupid—what?"

"I'm a werewolf. And my change is very near. Otherwise I might be able to—but the moon's too close.

And so are you."

"Whatare you talking about?" she cried.

"I'm trying to explain. Why this is going to . . . why this must happen. Don't be afraid."

"I'mnot afraid," she hissed, shoving at his chest again. This time, it worked. Or he stepped back.

"You're a liar." Odd, how he could make that sound like an endearment. "I can smell your fear."

"I'm not sure how to break this to you," she said through gritted teeth, "but I'm not afraid of any man.

And Idon't smell. "

"Not afraid. Anxious, then," he soothed. "I don't blame you a bit. IfI was trapped in a box a hundred feet

off the ground with a werewolf an hour from his change, I'd be out of my mind."

"About the werewolf fixation," she said, striving for a note of humor—she'd always had a perverse need

to make light of any seriousness. "I confess this concerns me a bit. Perhaps there's a support group that

can help. Men-who-love-werewolves-and-the- women-trapped-in-elevators-with-them."

He laughed, a throaty chuckle.

"Couldn't you have waited another hour to have your nervous breakdown?" she complained, pleased

that she amused him. If she could keep him distracted, off balance, maybe the power would come back

on and she could—

Then she felt his hands on her arms, gently pulling her forward. "I am sorry," he said, his voice heavy

with regret. Again, she caught his pleasant, utterly masculine scent, and again she fought her unwitting

attraction. Jeannie didn't plan to let him do anything he'd be sorry for. She took a deep breath and

prepared to strike him, palm out, with all her strength. A crippling blow, and, if she nailed him on the

bridge of the nose, a killing blow. She hoped she would get him in the forehead or cheek. She didn't want

to kill the lunatic. That was her thought as she smashed her hand into his chin and felt him rock backward

with the blow.

"Ouch," he said mildly.

She felt her mouth pop open in stunned surprise. She hit him, sheknew she hit him! Her hand was numb

from the force of it. He should be unconscious, or at least groaning on the floor.

"That was some punch," he continued, as if commenting on a drink and not a blow it had taken her four

months to learn. "You've had training."

"You're out of your mind," she whispered. Or she was. Could it be true? Was he a—ludicrous

thought—werewolf? She felt for him in the dark, sure he had to be bleeding, and her fingers encountered

his smooth cheek. She jerked her hand away. "You're completely crazy, you know that?"

"No." She sensed him step close to her and threw another punch, no more fooling around—and her fist

smacked into his open palm.

He had blocked her punch. In itself, almost impossible unless he was also a black belt. And what were

the chances of being trapped in an elevator in the Wyndham Tower with a crazy man who was also a

black belt? More worrisome, he hadseen her strike coming. Whereas she couldn't see her hand in front

of her face.

She felt his fingers curl around her small fist, felt his thumb caress the knuckle of her first finger. Her

knees wanted to buckle, either from sudden, swamping fear or the sensation his warm fingers were

calling forth. "Brave Jeannie Lawrence," he murmured, his voice so low it sounded like tearing velvet.

"What a pity you didn't wait for the next elevator."

Then he deftly swept her legs out from under her and she was falling—but he was coming down with her

and cushioned her fall and was on top of her in an instant, his mouth on her throat, his hands busy at her

blouse. She shrieked in anger and dismay, raining blows on his shoulders, his chest, his face, and he took

them all without being deterred from his task. She heard a rending tear as he ripped her blouse away,

tugged at her bra . . . then felt the shock of it to her toes as his warm mouth closed over her nipple.

She tried to lunge away from him but he pinned her easily with one hand on her shoulders, while the

other tore at her clothes. "I'm sorry," he was groaning against her breast, "don't be afraid, I won't hurt

you . . . ah, God, your scent is driving meout of my mind. " That last ended on a growl, an ominous

rumble that filled the dark elevator.

She drew in a breath to scream the building down—and sobbed instead. He was too strong for her, she

was punching him and clawing him and kicking at him and he was barely noticing. This . . . thing he meant

to do, it was really going to happen. To her. Daughter of a cop and a Special Forces veteran, a man and

woman generous with their teaching, who never wanted their daughter to be a rape or murder statistic.

Jeannie could pick a lock and knock out most men with one punch. But she couldn't stop this man from

taking her by force. Never mind the fact that her mind kept shrieking that this wasn't happening to her,

this was not, was not, wasnot. It was.

"Don't cry," he begged, and she could feel his hands shaking as he gathered her against him. "We'll be

done soon. It won't hurt. I'm so sorry to scare you."

"Please don't," she whispered, hating the way she sounded—so helpless, so frightened—but unable to

do anything about it. "Please don't do this."

He groaned again and squeezed her in a rough hug. "I have to. I'm not mated, I don't have any control

over this, just like later I won't have any control over—but you don't believe me, so we won't talk about

that." His voice was still soothing, and now his hands were beneath her, stroking her back, forcing her

chest up, and his mouth was buried in her throat, kissing and licking and even—very gently—biting.

She could hear his breathing roughen in the dark, heard another rip as her skirt was torn. She

remembered herself and struck out at him again, blindly, connecting hard but with no apparent effect. He

shredded her linen skirt like it was paper . . . Christ, he was strong! But his hands on her bare flesh were

gentle, almost languid. They were everywhere, stroking her skin, sliding across her limbs, and she felt her

nipples harden so much it was almost painful. When his lips brushed across one she almost wept with

relief, even as she was pushing against his shoulders with all her strength. He rubbed his cheek against

that same nipple, his stubble rasping across the sensitive bud, and her fingers curled into fists so she

wouldn't touch him with tenderness. She couldn't give in to him, no matter how—

Stubble?

He had been clean shaven two minutes ago.

She shoved that thought away, hard. His rough tongue swept across her nipples, a blessed distraction

that made her want to scream, made her want him, and she hated wanting him. She tried to remind

herself that this man was raping her, but the only thing she could really understand was that he was

making her feel as no one had ever made her feel. She was no stranger to sex, but the only man she had

ever been intimate with was her college boyfriend, and that was almost three years ago.

In the back of her mind, a constant refrain: this isn't happening. It's not real. Ten minutes ago I was on

my way home; now I'm having sex in the dark with a stranger. Thus, this is a dream. It can't be

happening,ergo it's not happening. Tempting to believe that voice, to give in to the pleasure he could so

skillfully offer her, to . . .

She realized she hadn't hit him in quite a few seconds. That she no longer wanted him to stop. That

traitorous thought alone galvanized her into raining more blows on his head, until he caught her wrists and

pinned them above her head with one hand.

"Enough," he said hoarsely, and she cringed, wondering if he was going to hit her back. "I don't blame

you one bit, but . . . enough, Jeannie."

He pinned her knees apart with his own, kept her hands out of his way by keeping them above her head,

and bent to kiss her. He jerked back and her teeth snapped together, bare centimeters from his mouth.

He could apparently see in the dark like a cat.

Or a wolf.

She put the ridiculous thought out of her mind as quickly as she could. That way lies madness. That way

lies . . .

His thumb was stroking the soft cotton of her panties. And moving lower. Her breasts were pressed

against his chest, her knees were flat against the carpet, forcing her thighs wide apart, and now his

damned fingers were—were—inside her panties. His breathing was so harsh in the dark, almost panting,

and she could feel his body thrumming with tension, could hear his teeth grinding together as he

fought—what? It was clear he was in the grip of urgent lust, that he wanted to surge inside her and thrust

until he could no longer move, but something was holding him back. And now his fingers were delicately

brushing the plump lips between her thighs, stroking so sweetly and tenderly . . . and then his thumb

slipped between her nether lips while his tongue thrust past her teeth and she nearly shrieked, so intense

was her pleasure.

He groaned into her mouth and then his fingers were spreading her plump folds apart and his thumb was

slipping inside her and his tongue was licking, darting, and she sobbed with frustration and strained

against him. His fingers danced across her slick flesh, sweetly stroking, probing, oh so gently rubbing a

circle around her throbbing clit, a circle that got smaller and smaller . . . and then his thumb was dipping

inside her again while his fingernail flicked past her clitoris, and she shivered so hard she nearly bucked

him off.

He growled. The sound did not frighten her. It kindled her blood, made her want to growl back, made

her want to sink her teeth into his flesh while his flesh sank into her again . . . and again . . . and again . . .

She realized dimly that he wasn't growling, he was saying her name, but his voice was so thick and deep

she could hardly understand him. "Jeannie—let your—hands go?"

"Yes!" she screamed, wild to touch him, to feel his flesh against hers, to rip off his clothes as he had

ripped hers. He released her wrists and in a flash her arms were around him, pressing him closer, she was

tearing at his shirt, frantic to get the damned cloth off him and he was helping her and now her clothes

weren't the only ones in shredded ruin, after all, what was sauce for the goose was sauce for the

werewolf, and—

His hands were beneath her buttocks, raising her to him, and she could feel that long, hard, hot part of

him nudging for entrance. For an instant, reason reclaimed her. Was she really going to do this? This

crazy thing? She had no protection and without it, in this day and age, she was taking her life in her

hands. And why was she cooperating in her own rape, for the love of God?

"Wait—" she said in a thin, high voice, but he drove forward, thrust into her with power and searing heat

and her good sense left her; she threw back her head and screamed until she thought her throat would

burst, screamed at him to nevernever stop and still he came, that hot hard length parting her, filling her,

and it should have hurt, it should have, he was very large and she hadn't known a lover in years, but her

need for him was as great as his for her, and instead of hurting, she needed more.

When he was seated completely within her, somehow, somehow, he made himself stop; he gathered her

against him and she could hear the furious hammering of his heart. His hands behind her back were hard

fists and he was shaking as though he had a fever, and still he stopped. When he forced the words out

she could barely understand him.

"—doesn't—hurt?"

"No," she gasped, wriggling against him, his throbbing cock within her making her frantic. "No no no

please, please you can't stop now you can't you can't you—"

"You're—very small—sure—doesn't hurt?"

"—you can't you can't please I please don't make me—"

"Don't—be afraid—tell truth." He took a deep, shuddering breath; his fists were still clenching beneath

her and, very distantly, she heard carpet tearing. "Can try—wait—if you—"

"—beg, don't make me beg, please please please PLEASE!"

He pulled away but before she had time to groan her disappointment he slammed forward. His mouth

covered hers, his tongue mating with hers as he took her again and again, as they made love so fiercely

the elevator shook. And above it all, beyond it all, she could hear someone screaming with hoarse joy

and dimly realized it was she making the noise.

Her orgasm slammed into her as he was, spasms so fierce she could actually feel her uterus contracting.

He stiffened at the height of her climax, threw his head back, and roared at the ceiling in pure animal

triumph.

For long moments, she didn't think she would ever be able to move. She could smell the scent of their

lovemaking, could hear his heavy breathing, hear her own. Her pulse thudded in her ears and she was

damp with sweat and . . . other things.

He pulled back and out, his hands frantically feeling her limbs, her neck. "Are you hurt?" he asked

hoarsely. "Did I hurt you?"

"No," she said tiredly, ready to sleep for a week. A year. "No, it was a surprisingly painless rape."

She felt him flinch, and wondered who she thought she was fooling. It might have been rape for the first

minute, but after that she had been an eager participant. Shame made her flush.

"Jeannie—I'm so very sorry. I don't expect you to understand." She felt his hand on her arm and cringed

back, hating herself, hating him, and most of all, hating the fact that she wanted to do it all over again,

right now. Right here. "I'm sorry," he said again, quietly. "My poor Jeannie. You were so brave."

"Don't call me that," she snapped. She tried to pull her shredded blouse together, but might as well have

tried dressing with confetti. "Don't call me anything. Don't talk to me at all."

"We need to get you out of here," he said urgently, completely ignoring her order. "And quickly. The

moon's almost up."

"Donot start that again," she ground out.

"Out," he was muttering, "Need to get you out. Not safe here."

"Brother, have you gotthat right." She started to stand and nearly pitched forward; she would have

thought her eyes would have adjusted to the dark by now, but she was still effectively blind. And

exhausted. And—how was this for the stupidest thing ever—she wanted him to put his arms around her

and promise everything would be all right.

What if she was stuck in here with him all night? What if he decided to take her again? Could she fight

him off? Did she want to?

She heard him stand, heard him bang experimentally on the elevator roof, then heard the groan of metal

as he somehow forced the locked hatch. She shook her head at the sound, amazed at his strength. He

could have broken my neck, she thought dumbly. Anytime he wanted.

"Why thehell didn't you do that twenty minutes ago?"

He gripped her waist and lifted her up, up . . . and through the small trapdoor. "I had other things on my

mind," he replied shortly. "Like how badly I needed to touch you."

"Bastard."

"Yes," he said quietly. "But now I can think again. For a while."

"Don't flatter yourself," she mumbled, cautiously getting to her knees on top of the elevator. She heard

him chuckle beneath her and then abruptly, shockingly, he was crouching beside her on the roof. Off the

floor and through the trap door in one bound, apparently. It was almost enough to make her wonder . . .

But that was ridiculous. This was the 21st century, and there were no such things as werewolves,

dammit!

"Why have we left the relative safety of the elevator, to teeter out here on top of the elevator, you

nutcake?" she asked with saccharine sweetness.

"I'm definitely planning on falling in love with you," he said casually, in a tone he might have used to ask

her to close the window. "Any woman in mortal danger who can tease her assailant after being terrified is

definitely worth taking to mate. Just so you know."

"Save it for your parole hearing, pal," she said. Before she could elaborate on what the judicial system

would do to him with her blessing, she heard their death warrant: the elevator cables groaning from

stress. She belatedly realized she was in danger of more than forced sex this evening. "Oh, God," she

said, abruptly terrified. Had she thought she was scared when Tall, Dark, and Horny had taken her

against her will? She hadn't known what scared was. "Oh, God—what should we do?"

"Live," he said simply and, absurdly, she took comfort in that. She had to, because never was the dark

more terrifying. She could hear his rapid movements, hear twangs as parts of the cable give way under

the stress, hear the elevator doors two feet above her creaking as they were forced open.

"Be careful!" she said sharply.

"Always," he said, and suddenly his hands were on her again, and she felt herself effortlessly boosted

and shoved. She reached out and clutched wildly, and felt the carpet in front of her. The building was as

dark as the elevator had been, but she could tell he had held her up, almost over his head (no one is that

strong) and boosted her through the elevator doors. In the pure dark, she could sense no one else

around, which was just as well, given the shredded ruin of her clothes. Now his hands were on her heels,

and he shoved, hard. She zipped across the carpet as if it was wet tile, her entire front going warm from

the friction (he's not crazy, he really is a werewolf).

She turned around and crawled back toward the open doors, groping for the drop-off. "Come out!" she

cried in the dark, hearing the sharp twang of more cable parting. "Jump out! Quick! You can do it,

weirdo!"

"Stay back from the doors!" he said sharply. "You can't see a thing, you'll fall right back down here.

Stay—"

She would obsess about that for weeks, that his last words were warnings to her. Because at that

moment, the main cable parted and the elevator car plummeted five floors into the basement.

Her rapist had become her savior. And paid the price with his life. She shouldn't have cared. She should

have been relieved. And she was relieved. So relieved that she put her face down on the dusty carpet

and sobbed as if her heart would break.

Chapter Two

Of course, there were questions. There were always questions. And when she stopped crying, Jeannie

tried to answer them. No, she didn't know the elevator passenger's name. No, she didn't know how he'd

managed to break the hatch lock and lift her several feet to safety. No, she didn't know how he'd

over-ridden the safety locks on the doors, forcing them open. No, she didn't need to see a doctor. No,

she couldn't identify the body—when they found it—because she had never seen his face. No and no

and no.

She supposed she could sympathize with the building's management. A half-naked, hysterical woman

cheated death on their property and now only wanted to go home . . . of course they were loathe to let

her go.

She had her chance to tell them what he had done to her, how he had forced her—there was even a

lawyer in the room to take her statement (the building management's corporate counsel, doubtless

prepared to beg her not to sue)—but she couldn't do it. As much as he had scared her, used her, she

couldn't bring herself to lay charges against him. If the price for her life was forced sex and mind-numbing

pleasure, she was going to count herself very lucky indeed.

She saw a doctor at their insistence, a doctor who raised his eyebrows at the shredded ruin of her

clothes but said nothing, a doctor who could tell she had recently had sex but, after her rude replies to his

carefully phrased questions, said nothing to the others. Probably assumed it's my nature to seek out

quickies in elevators, she thought darkly, and at the thought of her "quickie" partner, crushed and dead,

she nearly started crying again.

The doctor had tried to insist on an overnight hospital stay; she had been firm. Like mountains were firm.

She would not stay, she would spend the night in her own bed, thank you, will someone call me a cab?

They gave her a cab voucher—her purse was at the bottom of the elevator shaft, along with her wallet,

ATM card, credit cards . . . and her rapist/savior. The cab came. She got in. The cab dropped her at

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Love'sPrisoner MaryJaniceDavidson FromSecretsVolume6,byRedSagePublishingCopyright©2000byMaryJaniceDavidsonISBN0-9648942-6-2 Tomyreader: I'vealwaysbeenintriguedbygoodguyswhohavetodobad,andwerewolvesareprimeexamplesofthat.It'stoughtobeasensitive,21stcenturyguywhenyouturnfurry,howlatthemoon,a...

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