Defending Their Mate, Part One: A BBW Shifter Werewolf Romance (The Last Pack) Read online

  Copyright Information

  Defending Their Mate: Part One

  Copyright © 2015, Mia Thorne

  This serial is a work of fiction. All names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the writer's imagination or have been used fictitiously and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, scanned, or distributed in any manner whatsoever without written permission from the author except in the case of brief quotation embodied in critical articles and reviews.

  Visit Mia Thorne's website at miathorne.com to learn more about the world of The Last Pack, or sign up here to be the first to know when new installments and stories become available.

  Defending Their Mate

  Grace has found safety with her new pack. Now it's her heart that's in danger. She's in heat...and falling in love with two wolves.

  Find out more about the latest serial in the Last Pack world at miathorne.com

  Protecting Their Mate

  Ashley's been trapped for years. Now she's free to make her own choices. But what will she choose...and who?

  Part One · Part Two · Part Three · Part Four · Part Five · Part Six · Part Seven · Part Eight · Complete Serial

  Fear drove her from her bed.

  It didn't make the least bit of sense. Grace knew that, even as she eased open her bedroom door and listened for movement in the lodge beyond. It was dark and still, as the world became only in those silent hours before dawn. A pack of werewolves living miles from civilization didn't need to keep normal hours, but by midnight most of them were usually asleep.

  Them. She'd been here three months, and that was still how she thought of the wolves. The pack, not her pack. The alpha might have offered her a place here, but Grace didn't know how to belong. She didn't even know how to be a werewolf.

  That didn't seem to matter to Lucas. He'd welcomed her as a member of his pack, given her the nicest bedroom she'd ever lived in, and made no demands in return. Everything she could possibly want appeared like magic—books, movies, her favorite brand of chocolate. Sometimes she wondered if they could read her mind.

  Hell, maybe they could.

  The thought made her shiver, her fear intensifying. Stupid, pointless fear. No one here had been cruel to her. No one had laid a hand on her or cornered her to whisper gross come-ons or dark threats. Not like the other wolves, the ones who'd snatched her off the street and into this hellish world.

  She doesn't even know what she is.

  They'd laughed at her when they realized. They'd laughed and then told her the truth, and she thought they were crazy.

  And when they showed her, she'd decided she was crazy.

  She probably was. It was past three in the morning, and she was hovering in the doorway of her too-good-to-be-true bedroom, the wooden floor chilly under her bare feet as she strained every sense for the tiniest hint that anyone else was still awake.

  No footsteps. No murmur of voices. Just the wind outside and the usual creaks and sighs of any large house, no matter how well-built.

  Grace slipped through the door and into the darkened hallway.

  The anxiety in her chest eased as soon as she moved. If she'd turned around and tried to go back to bed, it would have tightened around her until each breath was agony. Once roused, nothing would silence this inner prompting. She had to give in to it.

  Instinct. She'd overheard one of the wolves use that word. Connor, the nice one with the gentle smile. He was the one who kept making gifts appear, each offered so eagerly that turning them down felt like kicking a puppy.

  But he wasn't a puppy, none of them were. They were full-grown werewolves, full-grown men, and no matter how hard they tried to keep their distance, she could feel them watching. Hovering. Waiting.

  She knew what they were waiting for. They all did, even if they didn't talk about it. They were waiting for her body to heat, for the urge to mate to wash over her, uncontrollable and supposedly undeniable.

  She grounded herself by touching the banister as she started down the stairs. Slowly, placing each foot as silently as possible. The sixth step creaked if you hit it wrong, so she placed her weight on the left side and held her breath as it let out only a soft sigh.

  No doors opened. No one came running.

  Grace still held her breath all the way to the ground floor. To the kitchen, where the tiles were even colder than the wood floor, but she barely felt the chill. She'd woken up sweating and uncomfortable, her delicate nightgown a tangle around her body and terror burning in her gut.

  She didn't like the nightgown. It was too ruffly, too sweet. It fit, but too well. She couldn't disappear into it, hide the full breasts that drew men's gazes when she didn't want them. It didn't hide the rest of her body, either—the sharp flare of her hips, the fullness of her arms and legs, the way she was soft and curving everywhere, even though stress and starvation had left her face gaunt. Her body had been her enemy for so many years. Especially once she'd ended up on her own, struggling to earn enough money to scratch out a living until the next day. So many nights she'd gone to bed with hunger hollowing her out, even after a good day with good meals.

  That was why she believed the pack that had kidnapped her, in the end. Not because a man changed to a wolf in front of her, ripping free of his skin to rise on four legs and growl at her with teeth that seemed as long as her fingers. No, it was because for the first time, so many things became clear.

  Her constant hunger. The way her senses had always been sharp, even more so as she matured. The way she could feel the moon, know how big it was without looking to the window. The dreams, the ones where she ran—not through crowded, stinking city streets, but through beautiful forests thick with sharp-smelling pine so enticing she could still smell the needles upon waking.

  And her mother—her moods, her secrets. The way she'd stop sometimes, stiffen as if she scented danger on the wind, and then hustle Grace back to whatever sublet or short-term apartment they were living in.

  "Time for a new adventure, Gracie Lou," she'd say, leaving Grace to pack everything they owned into their two battered suitcases while she stared at a map full of tiny red X's and found a new city. A place they'd never lived, and had never fled.

  Over and over, until the day when they didn't run fast enough.

  Guilt joined the fear, still fresh even though it had been years, because it had taken her that long to understand the truth—no one had been chasing Grace's mother. They'd been chasing her.

  The lodge had a huge kitchen with an equally large dining table, and a marble island that stood between them. In a few hours it would be covered, heaped with enough breakfast to feed a house full of hungry werewolves, one of whom was eating for two. Right now it was smooth and clean, and held only one thing—Grace's goal.

  The block of knives was of the finest quality. She reached for the chef's knife and pulled it silently free, transfixed as the faint light reflected off the shiny steel blade.

  The fear clawing her up inside faded. She had a weapon. There was no reason to use it, or to believe she'd need to, but not having one had become intolerable.

  "Probably not the best choice," a low voice rumbled behind her.

  Grace whirled, raising the knife.

  Shadows curled around the looming figure behind her, but even in total darkness, she would have recognized his scent. Mac smelled like oil and leather, like the woods and wildness—like the
dreams she'd had before she understood what she was.

  Like home, came the thought, but she shoved it away. Mac was not home. He was big and rough and watched her with dark, blank eyes that revealed nothing but seemed to see everything. Even when she was huddled in oversized sweatshirts and jeans, he made her feel exposed.

  In her flimsy nightgown, caught stealing knives, he made her feel naked.

  He nodded to the blade in her hand. "It's useful if you want to carve a turkey or chop some vegetables, but not for self-defense. The blade is too thin."

  No comment about how she was out of bed. No questions about why she wanted a knife. The other wolves would have offered reassurances, promises that she was safe. Mac critiqued her choice of weapons.

  He was dark, all right. And it didn't scare Grace the way it should have. "I've made do with worse," she said hoarsely.

  "You shouldn't have to." He pulled a knife, sheath and all, from his back pocket and held it out. "Hunting knife. Serrated blade. It's sturdier. Go on, take it."

  She did, gingerly accepting it with her free hand. It was harder to turn her back on him and slide the chef's knife back into the block. She could feel him all along her skin, a presence at her back that scraped her nerves raw.

  She didn't face him again. If she did, he'd see her expression as she eased the hunting knife free of its sheath. The wooden handle fit in her hand—smooth, almost sensual. The blade was sharp on one side, curved to a wicked point, while the opposite side bore jagged teeth, mean and dangerous.

  It was beautiful and deadly, and she hated her own fascination with it.

  "If you ever feel like you need to use it," Mac said quietly, "then I want you to."

  Her gut twisted as she remembered the last time she'd wielded a blade. She'd stolen that one too, slipped the steak knife from the table during dinner. The wolves holding her captive had brought her here, hoping to exchange her for someone less mean, less broken.

  They'd ended up dead. Grace had killed one of them. And when Mac had tried to take that steak knife from her, she'd cut him up, too. "Even though I've already hurt you once?"

  "You had reasons. Maybe none that were my fault, but reasons, all the same. Anyone who says you didn't is lying."

  Her reasons? Pain. Fear. She could only tolerate so much of either before something inside her snapped free and turned into a snarling, violent…

  Werewolf.

  Swallowing hard, Grace shoved the knife back into the sheath and turned. "You shouldn't give this to me. I could hurt someone."

  "You could," he agreed. "But I don't think you want to, so I trust you."

  "Wanting or not wanting doesn't always matter." Especially not now, when everything felt so different. Her inner violence had risen close to the surface, and Mac's… Oh, she could see it in him. The danger. The darkness. She wanted to test herself against it, to find out what he'd do if she lunged at him.

  "Then consider it a responsibility."

  She rubbed her thumb along the handle. Responsibility felt strange because it implied power, and she'd been helpless for so damn long. She'd been backed into so many corners, she couldn't remember what it felt like not to lash out.

  Nice, probably. Maybe even safe. "Okay. I'll try."

  "You have to." He straightened from his leaning position against the door jamb, but only to open the refrigerator. The harsh light illuminated his even harsher features as he pulled a bottle of water from its shelves. "Think about Ashley and the baby."

  Grace stilled, her heart stopping for one terrifying moment. Ashley was the only other female in the pack, a sweet and generous woman who had worked hard to make her feel welcome and safe. She was the reason Grace had snapped the last time—not to hurt her, but to protect her.

  "I wouldn't hurt Ashley," she whispered, uncertain until the words left her lips. But they felt true in a way little else had, and her heart started beating again. "I know I wouldn't."

  He shut the refrigerator and offered her the bottle. "How do you know?"

  Because if things could continue like this, she might not have to hurt anyone else again. Ashley didn't scare her, and neither did Blake, her mate. He was so devoted to Ashley he barely noticed when Grace was in the room.

  The others saw Grace. They watched her. And when her body became her enemy again, she'd need things, them, so badly the hunger would tear her up inside.

  Pain and fear. And if they tried to soothe either, she might tear them to pieces.

  Mac was still staring at her. Waiting, holding out the bottle of water. She reached for it and nearly gasped as her fingers curled around the chilly plastic.

  She felt hot all over. She pressed the bottle to the side of her face, soothing her flushed cheeks. "Ashley doesn't scare me," she said finally. "It only happens when I'm scared."

  "Makes sense." Mac took a step back. "Put the knife under your pillow and try to get some sleep, Grace."

  She edged past him, forcing herself to take steady steps. Conflicting desires clashed inside her, the urge to rub against him and the equally strong temptation to bolt and see if he'd chase her.

  She allowed herself neither. But she did stop in the doorway and glance back. "Thank you, Mac."

  "Anytime."

  Grace kept her easy, slow pace until she reached the stairs. Then she scampered up them, her thoughts whirling, her body tensed as if Mac would appear behind her at any moment, his big body curling around hers—

  She reached her room and slammed the door behind her. Her heart raced as she leaned against the wood, and she closed her eyes and pressed the water bottle to her throat. It was already warming against her feverish skin.

  She clutched the knife to her chest. Her nightmare was coming true. The heat, the intrusive thoughts. Imagining things she didn't want, like being chased, being touched. Like Mac's hands on her body.

  Things she didn't want—or shouldn't. It was impossible to tell the difference now. Everything had become a confused tangle, one she couldn't unravel with exhaustion making her slow and stupid.

  She set the water on her bedside table and crawled into bed. The knife went under her pillow, and it did help. Not just knowing it was there, but knowing Mac had given it to her. She wasn't a prisoner here. She had choices.

  If things got too complicated, too terrifying, she'd make the choice to protect them all.

  She'd leave.

  At one time, the basement gym had been more than a luxury. It had been a necessity, a place for them to learn—not how to fight, but how to fight easy. How to moderate force and speed so that their attacks were effective, but not lethal.

  Mac had needed it more than anyone. Too often, in the heat of battle, he could feel instinct rising, threatening to take over. The blinding rush was indescribable, something beyond rage or fear. Something primal, and no words existed to explain it.

  But Lucas understood. He'd given Mac this outlet, taught him control—and he'd tried so hard to never, ever put Mac in any situations where his control failed him.

  He'd tried, and that meant something.

  Mac didn't bother wrapping his hands. Usually, he'd hit the speed bag for an hour or so, but tonight, he needed to drive his fists into something solid, feel the force of his blows directed back at him. So he headed for the heavy bag and cleared his mind.

  The first blow carried with it too much of his frustration, and the bag swung with a wild shudder. He steadied it for a second blow, pulled himself under control, and hit it again and again, until the world around him blurred into the background, and all that existed was the coarse, primitive satisfaction of action.

  "She's back in her room."

  Mac's muscles were burning, and sweat dripped down the side of his face. He didn't know how long he'd been there, slamming his fists into the worn vinyl, but it had been long enough for exertion to dig its claws into him. Too long.

  He punched the bag one last time, then turned and swiped his arm across his forehead. "For now."

  Connor leaned a
gainst the wall, his expression mirroring Mac's fatigue. "For now, yeah."

  Mac's hands were stiff, painful, and he winced as he flexed them. "I gave her a knife. That's probably gonna bite me in the ass."

  Connor tilted his head. "Why'd you do it, then?"

  Because being unarmed had driven her from sleep, from her room, in the middle of the night. Because she felt helpless, and beyond that lay worse things—suspicion that turned into obsession, and fear that crossed the line into paranoia. "I don't want her to wind up like Serena."

  "Your instincts are good. I trust them." Connor pushed off the wall and crossed to grab one of Mac's wrists. "Except when it comes to taking care of yourself. Dammit, Mac, breaking your fingers won't help anyone."

  It wouldn't hurt, either. No one but him. "I'm all right, Con."

  Connor shook his head, but released him. "None of us are. Everyone's on edge but Blake, and we're going to be until—"

  His words broke off, unfinished, but Mac knew. They all knew—until Grace went into heat. She was flirting with it already, flushed and aching. She smelled like she was ready—

  But she wasn't, not by a long shot. Not if she still needed to sneak into the kitchen in the dead of night to steal knives.

  "We'll deal with it," he said flatly. "Just like everything else."

  "We will." Connor sounded a little more confident. "Hey, I know it's scary because she's not happy and trusting like Ashley. But she's not like Serena, either. Serena was...fractured. You know that's not Grace's problem."

  The people around here sure seemed to know a lot of things, and with a certainty that confused the hell out of Mac sometimes. "Serena didn't seem that bad at first, either."

  "No," Connor agreed quietly. "But we didn't know what to look for back then. Now we do."

  That was true enough. Mac's next words burned in his throat, but he forced them out anyway. "Lucas may be the only one who can make her feel safe enough to mate."

  "Mac." Connor nudged him with an elbow. "If you didn't make her feel safe, she wouldn't be cuddled up in her bed. You figured out what she needed."