Pawn Among Wolves Ch. 12

The accented voice softened, "Watching both you and the Mackeld together, I believe that you do have a true, deep bond. You both brighten and relax when he is with you. When you lose yourself to rage, he spends every atom of his strength protecting and trying to console his insane mate."

Valerie paused, and sighed. "If you lose the ability to regain your sanity, then he will spend the rest of the long life of a werewolf guarding you, and loathing himself for not protecting you from this. When you die, early or late, then so will he, in grief, and guilt."

The aged physician's voice was low, deep with feeling, and she paused again before adding, "Are you going to condemn your songmate to such an existence?"

Caught, Gemma stared at the screen, quivering. The urge to tear into the machine, rip herself, anything, was sinking beneath the weight of worry for her mate. And love of him. So, so much stronger. Tears welled up in her eyes as her emotions writhed under the soft words, and she shuddered. Yes. She knew Mac. Knew what she was doing to him. She couldn't do this to him. Yet she was.

Valerie smiled briefly, a flash of sun across the stern features, "Aha, as I thought. Both sides love him, and will pull together for this," she said with satisfaction.

Gemma breathed harshly into the long silence, and felt, in wonder, the rage ebbing away. This was the first time it had subsided fully in days. Tears welled up, and began to roll silently down her cheeks, head sinking as she pondered the impossible.

How to not get angry.

Gemma sank down onto her chair again, lifting her heels onto the seat and hugging her fur-covered lycan knees, stunned, her body shaking with fear of what she would do to Mac. Shuddering at the thought of what he went through, every time she lost control. How she would feel, if it was him slowly, slowly turning insane. And her fault, her bite. She couldn't bear it. But how could she control herself? The harder she tried, the harder it was to control. She lifted her wet eyes, begging to the Alfamme on the screen.

"How?" she whispered. No one else had managed it. No wereem. Ever.

"So," said Valerie, her voice soft again, caring, and she nodded in satisfaction. "You must learn to embrace the fierce, flamboyant, feral side. Not everything the wolf within guides you to do will be wrong, Gemma. It is like trying to suppress the urge to mate or eat or sleep - you may be able to smother or distract your wolf instincts for a while, in fact you must be able to, but you must also indulge them to survive. You must build in time to become a wolf mentally, as well as physically."

"How?" Gemma whispered again.

"We'll start simple," her old mentor reassured her, then smiled warmly. "Something you will enjoy. You and your mate."

Gemma growled in a sudden pulse of intense frustration, her clawed fist smashing down to squash the stupid, delicate myo-arm that she couldn't get to tease apart the fond filaments under the microscope.

Her fist was halted millimetres from impact by an immovable clasp about her wrist, and a second hand gripping her left hand tightly as she drew that back to use instead. Gemma snarled and wrenched against his hold, but Mac hauled her back, away from the bench lining the wall of the lab.

"I think you need a break, Gem," he said. The words were soft in her ear, smothered by the frustration dinning in her head as she fought viciously against the grip holding her fast, suspended above the floor as she squirmed.

Then she relaxed in his hold. Her jaw was still partially wolf, and she forced it back to human as she bit out, "I'll take a break when I've put this lot in the incubator." And waited for him to let go and get back to his own work setting up and calibrating the newly delivered photospectrometer on the other side of the laboratory.

"Well, I think you need a break now, Gemma. You've been getting more frustrated all morning," Mac said quietly.

Her insides twisted again with rage, and she wrenched against the unmoving grip, snarling, "I'll decide when I need a break!"

The Alpha's voice was even softer as he replied, "I'll give you a count of three to decide for yourself, Gem. Think about it. Are you thinking clearly right now? Just take a break until lunchtime."

He was going to order her out of the lab?

Her anger swelled, and she struggled harder, but his last word also caught at something inside her, and a different surge of feeling rose in contrast to the anger. She battled, head wanting to keep working, to not obey every little word he said. Yet her heart wanted to stop. And make lunch.

A pulse of happy anticipation surged through her, swamping the frustration, and the respite from the smothering anger allowed her to realise how unproductive her juvenile refusal to listen to his reasoning was. Simply because he always thought he was right. So Gemma stilled again suddenly, a little smile playing over her lips.

Lunch.

"OK," she breathed out, releasing the last of the anger, stomach trembling now for a different reason. Anticipation. "I'll stop working and make lunch if you promise not to come upstairs until it's ready."

Her blood began to purr.

His nostrils twitching to the abrupt change to his mate's scent, Mac set her gently back on the floor and turned her to face him, looking suspiciously down into her gleaming, hooded eyes.

"What are you going to do?" he asked.

Gemma's smile was sweet, and smug. "Do you promise not to come upstairs until I call?" she repeated.

Mac's eyes narrowed a little, and he offered cautiously, "I promise not to come upstairs until you call me, unless you do something dangerous."

"Done," she agreed, shooting him a mischievous look.

Mac sighed, nipping her lower lip lightly in a soft kiss, and drawled, "What are you up to? I'm nervous."

Gemma pulled her face together and looked melancholy, sighing, "You don't trust me."

He snorted, "When you try and look innocent? No."

Gemma grinned back up at her mate, and set a finger to his lips.

"Shh," she whispered. "It's a surprise."

Mac made a noise that was half growl, half-whine under his breath, and nipped her finger.

Gemma laughed and turned towards the door. "I'll call you," she said.

"Be good," growled her wolf, turning back towards his task with a little smile on his face.

You bet.

Half an hour later, having prepared all the basic ingredients with care and set the dining room table, Gemma unearthed the simple jar of peanut butter from behind the washing powder, and stood weighing it in her hand, a little smile on her lips.

The jar was still sealed. She had sneakily bought it last time they'd been grocery shopping, while Mac had been at the deli counter ordering meat, and she had hidden it in her shoulder bag before rejoining him for the main shop.

She found it endearing that Mac had such a weakness for peanut butter. When he had first moved in with her in her flat, she had begun to notice that whenever she made herself a peanut butter sandwich or piece of toast, she'd find a new, unopened jar on the shelf the following day. Or later that evening. Eventually she'd investigated, and had found the old, empty pot hidden underneath the rest of the glass recycling, looking as though it had been licked clean.

Which it probably had, come to think of it.

She'd taxed her flatmate about it, and he'd looked very sheepish as he'd confessed. He could manage to leave a sealed jar alone, but as soon as it was open, he'd just have to have a little taste. Two. Or three. And end up buying her a replacement jar.

Gemma smiled to herself as she walked to the top of the stairs, holding the pot behind her back.

"You promise to stay downstairs until lunch is ready?" she called.

Mac appeared in the lab doorway, looking deeply suspicious as he took in her serious expression, belied by the sparkle in her eyes.

"I have promised, picchu," he agreed. "You are just making me more nervous now."

"Good wolf," she replied sunnily. Then Gemma pulled the jar out in front of her, unscrewed the cap, carefully broke the seal and took a tiny taste with the end of her index finger, smiling mmmm at him as the flavour exploded on her tongue.

The next second, the jar had disappeared from her grasp, and Mac was scooping out a fingerful, standing three steps below her, holding it out of her reach.

"Mac!" she called, shocked. He had promised.

"I'm still three stairs down," he grunted, the words muffled by the spread coating his tongue.

Gemma made an exasperated noise and dove for the jar, which was whisked out of her reach, although his other hand steadied her ungainly landing on the bare wooden steps.

Gemma stamped on his foot, grabbing again at the pot. His foot moved before hers landed, the stair echoed hollowly, and he smiled lazily at her around his third mouthful of peanut butter.

Tears sprang into Gemma's eyes, of irritation and disappointment, and she bit her bottom lip to stop it wobbling. "I'm making peanut butter chicken!" she protested, wiping off the blood from where her stupidly sharp teeth had sheared through her bottom lip, "Give me that! You're ruining my lunch plan."

Mac hesitated, finger poised, looking back deep into her eyes. Then his face contorted briefly in effort, and he handed her the jar. His hand was trembling faintly as he forced it to let go.

"Sorry - but don't challenge me unless you expect a reaction, picchu," he suggested quietly. Then Mac bent his head swiftly to run his tongue along her cut lip, sealing the bite. He followed up the healing with a soft brush of a peanut-scented kiss, before she moved back out of his reach.

Gemma stared up at him balefully. His eyebrows twitched together.

"What?" he drawled sarcastically. "Did you think I wouldn't react to you tormenting me with peanut butter?"

"I thought you would stay downstairs," she retorted.

"I am downstairs. You should be more specific in your demands," he replied, not in the least abashed.

Huh.

Then he smiled beautifully, a hopeful look appearing in his eyes. "Are you really making us chicken with peanut butter?" he asked.

"I was," Gemma answered sarcastically. "I will, if there's enough of one of the main ingredients left."

Mac leaned back in again and kissed her fleetingly, hard.

"You are gorgeous, you know that?" he said, eyes beaming.

Gemma tried to remain indignant, but melted in the face of his delight, and turned away with a little smile.

"Stay at the foot of the stairs, in the basement," she instructed over her shoulder as she walked back to the kitchen.

"Yes, oh my little jug of sweet sweetness," Mac replied, enthusiastically bounding back down the steps.

Gemma checked that the table looked perfect, untying the apron which he was wearing over her favourite sundress. She was still smiling, and her blood was soft in her veins. Valerie had been right. The wolf within her loved indulging her mate, settling into peace for the first time in days. And she was enjoying herself. While the food had been cooking she'd decorated the table, showered, rubbed lavender oil into every inch of her skin to make it extra supple and smooth, then dressed in the flared, simple green dress which he loved, carefully brushing out her long, wavy locks.

She hummed as she carefully polished a little water mark off his knife, and straightened it on the table. She couldn't do this all the time. But she could build in time to do it. She loved doing this. Loving him.

Gemma walked back to the top of the stairs, standing barefoot on the end of the carpet, and called softly, "Lunchtime."

Her ears twitched to a metallic clang, a crash and swoosh of a deluge of liquid from downstairs, and then soft lips brushed over hers, her fingers closed gently over the delicate object which stroked over them and Gemma stood gaping up the stairs to where her wolf had just disappeared from sight, shivering from the freezing drops of water which had hit her as he passed.

He'd jumped into the emergency shower?

Her eyes fell to the object in her hand. A peony: one of those which were still lingering in the flowerbeds outside the side door of the lab. Her lips twitched, as she realised that Mac wouldn't have even had to step outside to pick this for her, hence sticking to the letter of their agreement.

"The food will get --," she called indignantly after him, but stopped, breathless, when her wolf appeared beside her again before she finished the sentence, dressed in the immaculate white shirt which he hadn't worn since their first night out with Jonathan and Lianna, and taut black trousers moulded to his thighs. He usually wore loose, casual clothing, it made it easier to shift between wolf and human, but --oh, did she love him in tailored trousers and shirt.

His hair had been roughly towelled dry and raked back with his fingers, and his only ornament was the chain around his neck, from which, nestling against his chest in the v of his open shirt, hung her engagement ring for safe-keeping. She couldn't wear it in the rage.

Gemma gulped at the sudden, overwhelming sense of him, dazed eyes watching him wrestle with his cufflinks, gaze caught by the fine golden hairs decorating his strong wrists. Then she murmured shakily, "Let me," and stepped in to help. The heat of his body this close set her trembling, his musk melting into her. His breathing grew slightly heavier as she stood within the ring of his arms, shakily feeding the links through the buttonholes. She was aware of an answering tremor lighting along his limbs, his scent growing stronger.

"Let me wear my ring?" she requested, breathlessly.

Mac lifted her chin with a gentle finger, and looked deep into her eyes. Then he smiled softly, lifted the chain over his neck, freed the ring and kissed her palm before separating her slender fingers, hold her hand steady to thread his ring back onto the middle finger.

HELP!

Gemma's mind and heart were suddenly seared by a haunting cry. She was jolted, jerked into bewilderment and anguish by the feelings accompanying the single word: terror, misery, and a faint, final, begging hope; the little cub calling her was desperate, pleading.

Please help!

The scared, confused conveyance tugged at Gemma's heart strings, and she was already leaping toward the front door when she was halted by the palm clamped implacably around her wrist.

Please?

The fact that the conveyance was now being phrased as a request, rather than order, helped her mind to clear, and Gemma looked back over her shoulder to stare at her mate, startled, questioning.

Mac was perfectly still, standing in a very alert, wary stance. Battle ready. He had obviously caught an echo of the shout in her head, but he shook his own. "It's a trap," he muttered.

Gemma twisted her wrist frantically in his grip, stomach writhing in urgency. "She's in a forest - carried by her father; he's helping her convey, boosting her range, but he can't stop running," Gemma explained urgently, the tears starting in her eyes at the terror of the cub. "He's been recalled by Grey, somehow. And ordered to bring his daughter." The explanation was totally inadequate, she couldn't convey the weight of the desperation in her mind. Both the cub's, and the distant echo of the father's.

"I can sense the cub through you, picchu, but not the wolf," replied Mac. "Yes, your little mordeuse believes that they have been recalled, and maybe her father cannot fight it - although he can boost her call." But that does not mean that it is true, or that it is not a trap, he finished on a gentle conveyance. His words clouded the desperate cling of the cub, and she pushed them aside, impatient.

"Even if it is a trap, that cub needs help!" she protested.

If what she says is true, and Grey can somehow recall his wolves, then they all need help, Gemma. They need us to stop him; to find him. And to track him, we need you here, unravelling the drug. Mac was adamant.

Frustrated, frantic at the sinking hope in the scared mind still just clinging to hers, Gemma hauled at the unmoving hand about her wrist, snarling, "I have to go!"

Her Alpha's eyes were growing dark, glowing, "You have to think. Reason, Gemma. One cub, one adult - very sad, yes, but there are many, many more who need your help. Without you, none of them have any hope."

"Let me GO!" howled Gemma, yanking furiously at his implacable grip. She couldn't believe he'd said that, and glared at him furiously. "I am not sacrificing a little cub on the chance that we can save more. You can't be serious, Mac!" she protested.

Mac's eyes were opaque, black depths, the power echoing in them and he sighed softly, "I cannot allow you to go."

HAH.

"I am not your chattel," she gritted furiously between her teeth, anger melting through her.

She was wrestling bruisingly against his grip now, her second clawed fist also held fast so that she couldn't rake him with it, then suddenly she felt a pang of intense loss shoot through her as she lost her connection with the cub. The little tot had lost her last hope.

Gemma froze, washed by a new sense of guilt, and suddenly her head drooped to hide the tears running down her cheeks. Mac wouldn't let her go. Maybe he was right, but- she couldn't bear it. How could she? How could she go on? Go down to the lab and get on with the next test? Anne killed. Bethan and Kate had been taken. The young Mackeld wolves guarding them had also been killed. Now she was abandoning a tiny cub to Grey. God only knew what he would do to her.

Her mate stepped closer, sliding his palms softly up her arms, but she stood frozen, her mind racing, driven by knotted, bone-deep pain. No. She couldn't accept this.

"Will you go?" she asked her mate softly, voice choked.

"I have to guard you, Gemma," Mac answered.

And guard others from her.

"I will stay in the room," she promised, the desperation rising within her. Don't give up, little cub. "I have a lot of results that need interpretation; I can work in there, work with Valerie; you said it yourself, no-one will find me here, in the city." Please don't give up.

Mac growled, "I don't think anyone will find you in the city, Gemma. But I can't risk it, and leave you unguarded."

Her head snapped up, and she stared intently up into those glowing eyes, her own fiery, "The risk is minuscule, compared with the risk to that cub and her father. I heard them, Mac, you didn't, not properly. She can't - we can't just leave her. Them. And you know why Grey wants to get hold of my other mordeur, don't you? She is being taken back because of me."

She stared up at him, eyes fierce, yet begging.

Her Alpha stared down at her silently, challengingly.

Her lip was lifting as she continued, but her face was also creasing in sorrow, emotion writhing through her, "I can't leave her to whatever Grey has in store for her, Mac. I can't. You can't."

There was a silent battle going on between them, she felt as though she was battering against that wall of iron control, soundlessly hammering her fists against the unyielding surface. Mac knew what was logical, what was right. He wasn't budging. He wouldn't repeat it, but she could feel the no in his mind.

Her face puckered. "I can't," she rasped harshly, angry at her own tears, closing her eyes to squeeze them back, "Please, Mac."

He flinched.

Her eyes flashed open again, and she stared hopefully up into his angry, frustrated expression. Mac didn't believe this was a good thing to do at all.