Taken, Lane L.V. [free novels to read .TXT] 📗

on the horse where it will cloud my every thought. It has reached the stage where it is permanently tickling the back of my throat, even when she is a distance away. Taking a piss has become the only point of relief, although it’s a small one, for I do not like leaving her alone.

She pauses her eating to stare at me. I want to fucking order her to tell me, but it feels like an abuse of my power. She is no subordinate pack member who needs putting in her place. Nor do I seek obedience for her safety or wellbeing.

Although I’m sorely tested daily not to throw her to the ground and rut her, so there is that.

“I need another mate,” she finally says sadly before returning her attention to her mash. “And none of my mates know whom this might be.”

I growl. I don’t mean to.

Suddenly, much that has confused me makes sense.

A mate? I had a future planned involving much glory and the rutting of willing wenches of every kind until I was too old for adventure. There were vague, unformed plans that I might return to my pack where my cousin rules, and challenge the bastard for the place. But half of the attraction was in riling my cousin rather than a genuine desire to lead.

As I try to reject the notion of taking Priya as a mate, who is both human and an Omega, a kaleidoscope of images hit me in a rush. The appeal of an Alpha female was in her handling of my rough ways. An Alpha wolf has appetites that few females of any race can satisfy. Yet, Omega females are well known for their lusty ways and craving for dominance from their mates.

I never envisioned myself sharing a lass of any kind and certainly not presenting as the fourth and unwelcome cog in an existing Alpha triad. Yet, the allure is both undeniable and right. 

I’ve watched Hawthorn fuck his way through a bevy of willing wenches amid drunken revelry in his younger, soldiering years. Soldiers are rarely shy when enjoying downtime between duties. Through misplaced respect, I’ve forced my mind not to dwell on imagining Hawthorn forcing his cock and knot into the tiny, highborn lass who sits demurely eating her mash beside me.

Now, I can think of nothing else.

“I happen your mates know exactly who it is,” I say before I can think better. Well, one of them. Having heard about my betrayal of the King, and my subsequent sentence to hang, the honorable bastard would have been seething with rage even as he rutted into his little Omega’s welcoming cunt.

She makes a dismissive, huffing sound. “You do not know my mates very well. They are noble in ways that a man who betrays the King could not begin to understand. They would tell me if they knew.” She shoves a spoonful of mash in her mouth to signify the discussion is over.

Mine. 

Such a fierce hot wave of possessiveness and lust hits me that my vision momentarily spins.

My growl turns to a chuckle.

Hawthorn will not be happy with this development.

Not at all.

For all we are in the most desperate of situations, I’ve never felt more joyous in my life.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

Caden

WE HAVE RIDDEN with barely more than snatches of rest for many straight days. Questioning ourselves at every juncture, but still trusting in our instincts that tell us we must press on. Like when we were lads, and she fled to the castle ruin, we are connected to her in ways that earthly reasoning cannot explain.

We are tired, our horses pressed to their limits, and yet we are always behind.

Today, we will reach Darkmouth.

Today, we will find out if we are too late.

The sun is setting on another dull autumnal day as we break the cover of the trees. Before us, farmlands give way to the port town of Darkmouth. Pushing our horses into a final canter, we ride for the city gates. A small nook offers a place to stand out of the wind and rain for the watch on duty, and we pull our horses up beside it.

“Business here?” The watch on the gates eyes us and the sorry state of our once proud clothing bearing the Wittner crest like we might have turned to the Blighten.

Another man steps out of the nook. “Wittner?” he asks. “We got word from your lord a few days ago to expect your arrival. We have not been told of your business, but you have leave to search as required.” He dips his hand inside his tunic breast and pulls out a folded piece of paper.

I take the letter with a nod.

Patrols have brought us here from time to time, and we know the town well enough. A sprawling network of cobbled streets, shops, businesses, homes, and this besides the substantial docks and accompanying stores.

“We will never find her,” Brook says, and I cannot readily decide if I want to beat him or give him comfort.

“We will find her,” I say. “I will accept no alternative.”

He turns quiet. We are both restless now we are close. Our horses’ hooves clatter against the cobbled streets as we trot briskly toward the port and docks.

I’ve seen a few such locations in my earlier life as myself and Brook traveled from the northern borderlands with our remaining family in the wake of the Blighten attack. As ports go, Darkmouth is large. A dozen ships line the wharf, each with gangplanks jutting out at neat intervals into the quayside. Tall masts, sails folded neatly, unfamiliar flags flapping, ropes binding, and creaking timber, the ships sway gently in the light swell. Chests and crates line ship and shore alike, caged birds, and sacks of grain. Seagulls cry overhead, circling and swooping in the dull autumn sky, while below, comes a steady symphony of calls from sailors and hawkers. The smell of tar, salt, fish,