She didn’t, not really, but she didn’t release him yet. “Is that how you want me? Helpless on my knees? Begging for it?”

“Begging to be fucked,” he agreed, sliding a hand between her thighs, meeting no resistance. She hadn’t bothered with lingerie, not that night. Besides, she spent too much on it for it to be ripped or discarded in the woods, gone forever. Far better to leave it at home, along with her inhibitions. His fingers were stubby and thick, and he groaned again when they pushed between her lips, into her wetness. He was right – she was dripping.

“I want you to choke on my cock,” he repeated, circling against her sloppily, “and then get down on your knees and beg for my knot. That’s how I want you.”

A pity for him, she thought, for she was unmoved. None of these wolves made her weak, none of them made her blood thrill with helplessness, and none of their knots would be enough to satisfy her. Vanessa could still feel eyes on her back, though, and she shifted her body as the shorter man’s hand withdrew, allowing her watcher to see as she squeezed the other man’s cock. This wolf was right — she was dripping, had been since the moment she’d arrived, and her nose picked out his singular scent. Dripping and hungry and eager to be filled . . . but not just any knot would do.

“You’ll have to catch me first,” she smiled up at the wolf, cock straining against her palm. His eyes narrowed when she released him, straightening the hem of her stola before turning away.

The atmosphere in the room had shifted, she realized, nearly without her notice, a sign that the ceremony was nearly about to begin. The music’s tempo had slowed, the string quartet winding down their shift before they were replaced with the drums, and suddenly there was a heat behind her, a hand that landed on her hip with a bruising force, hot breath stooping to reach her ear.

“I wasn’t sure if you were coming tonight. Since you’ve been so busy.”

The solid pressure of his arm pushed into the small of her back, leaving her unable to turn, and she flinched away from the deep voice at her neck. She heard the rancor there, unsurprising, since their schedules hadn’t meshed all month. Vanessa had expected his acrimonious tone. She hadn’t been as prepared, though, for the tinge of bitter hurt that laced his words.

“I have been. McClellan went to trial, but we wrapped up about a week ago.” It had been closer to two weeks and she knew that he knew that, but the masks they wore were designed for hiding.

“Are you ready to run, rabbit? Found a cock you like the shape of yet? Picked which one you want to ride, which knot you want filling you? Or are you going to let us all take a turn?”

She grinned a sharp-edged smile, uncaring if the man behind her was unable to see it. Let him be hurt; let him be jealous. He would run that much faster.

“That doesn’t matter, does it? If you’re too slow, you don’t get to play.” The chase was the fun part. “Perfect time to walk back on bad decisions. But if you want to win, you’ll have to catch me first.”

His laugh was low and rough, and her wolf reared, wanting to bite and fight with the owner of such a patronizing chuckle.

“If that’s what you want. Run, rabbit. Let’s see how fast you can move.” When he released her, she nearly stumbled, looking up in time to see the back of his head as he strode past her, never pausing. His dark hair caught the golden-hued light from above, the crowd parting for him like the sea, swallowing him up until it closed in his wake, leaving her behind, alone in the ocean of masked strangers.

* * *

The Chase

Chapter one

She had been trying to make Grayson Hemming chase her since the first day they met.

He was arrogant, imperious, and a world-class prick, and she disliked what her attraction to him said about her. Likely that she had daddy issues (she didn’t,) or that she was a shameless social climber (she wasn’t,) or that poor self-esteem made her tolerate toxic traits she’d not put up with if only she respected herself more (she quite liked herself, actually, and more importantly, she’d never been at a loss for male attention, which proved how absolutely without worth it was.)

“Public defenders have the least transferable skills of any sector,” he’d said bluntly during the second round of her interview process. “You’ve never had to work with a team. You’ve never had to undertake the discovery process or the intricacies of civil litigation. We don’t just show up before the judge not knowing our client’s name. Your resume is about as useful to me as a first-year law student’s.”

He’d been late that day. In court, they’d said, unavoidably detained, and the managing partner had opted to start without him. She’d seethed when he leaned back in his chair, crossing his arms in a way that suggested no further argument, and she’d wished he’d been unavoidably detained beneath a bus. His tight-lipped smile was smug, and there was something about the way he looked through her as if she were invisible, not worth his time, that made her fists ball at her sides. His dismissiveness caused something to misfire in her brain, a spark of defiance she’d been unable to tamp back.

“That’s one way of looking at it,” she’d gritted out. “A rather shortsighted viewpoint, if I’m being frank. Another perspective for you to consider — I’ve likely gone to trial more times than three of your most senior associates combined.” She sucked in a breath before continuing, nostrils flaring. “I clerked for Judge Arnulf on the appellate circuit, and I’ve been in private practice for two years, starting at the bottom.”

Another tight-lipped, supercilious smile. He leaned forward, steepling his fingers on the table, and Vanessa tried very hard not to notice the breadth of his shoulders as he did so.

“Our clients have particular needs, Ms. Blevin,” he began, the tone of his voice suggesting that he was speaking to a very small, particularly stupid child.

“And more importantly,” she’d gone on forcefully when his mouth had opened to continue his interruption, “every client I defended was a shifter of some sort. I clerked for a wolf. I’ve been in a private practice that chiefly serves companies owned by other wolves. I’ll do my job to the best of my ability for my client, regardless of who my client is, but human interests will never be my priority if they run contrary to my community’s. I wonder how many of the other attorneys you have working here would be able to say the same with the track record to back it up. Trust me, Mr. Hemming, you’re not going to need to give me directions to the elevator every time I need to leave my desk.”

She had done her homework. Grayson Hemming wasn’t the managing partner at this firm, but he was one of the most vocal. He had an in-house reputation as a ruthlessly efficient litigator and brought in the firm’s largest clients, thanks partly to a prestigious family name. More interestingly, she’d thought, every pro bono case he’d taken in the last five years had centered specifically on werewolf advancement.

She’d seen his photo on the firm’s website, but she’d not been prepared for the in-person anomaly. The huge man who’d breezed into the room nearly thirty minutes late loomed over her with a slight air of impatience, as if he hadn’t been the one keeping them waiting. He seemed too young to be an equity partner, too big and muscular for a white-collar desk job, far too handsome to toil behind closed boardroom doors and in courtrooms all day. Tall and broad, he had glossy dark hair and piercing, nearly black eyes; eyes that held a silver gleam that gave away his less-than-human nature, not that she needed to see to know what he was.

His smell had overwhelmed her from the moment he’d entered the room, and she was able to smell everything about him, from the citrus and juniper notes of his high-end aftershave to the expensive leather of his shoes and every solid, meaty inch in between. More than that, though, she smelled his wolf. Pitch black, he smelled of towering pines and wet earth, sex and sweat, and something primal and vicious. Someone else had begun to speak, one of the other partners droning on about the firm’s mission statement, but she couldn’t smell any of them, as if no one else in the room existed other than him, trapping her in his cocky, penetrating gaze.