I gun my bike up the highway. We can pretend that I ride flat out because I’m worried about making my appointment on time, but the truth is that I like going fast and my ride’s built to accommodate. A wolf can pack a whole lot into a day that way. Take today, for instance. I had the whole morning for club business and beating the shit out of anyone who needs it, followed by a little up-against-the-wall action in a waterfront bar. Even had time for a beer before my four-thirty. The sun’s up, the birds are singing some kind of shit nature song, and everyone’s busy reproducing.

I may be the one who just jizzed in a club pass-around, but here’s a fact. I was thinking about getting my rocks off—not about propagating the species. Once I came and she came, our relationship was done. The people hanging out at the birthing center, however, clearly have a whole different take on sperm donation. First thing I notice when I haul ass into the parking lot is the overwhelming number of minivans. I count four Baby Onboard signs and a dozen stick-up sun shields. It’s like a baby factory exploded and now the sky’s raining newborns. It might be possible to get pregnant just walking through the parking lot.

I zip into the first empty spot I see. I no sooner kill the engine, than I spot the corny Reserved for Baby and Mama sign stuck at one end of the spot. Well fuck me. Wait. Been there, done that, and now I’m thinking I should have double-bagged my dick in case baby-brewing really is contagious. I back out of the spot and take the only other visible opening—which is way in the back of the lot underneath some kind of flowering tree that’s shitting dark purple berries everywhere. This does not bode well for the remainder of my day.

I stride toward the big glass door fronting the lot as that seems like the obvious way in. Not like I want to try for a chimney and make like Santa Claus, or sneak in the back. I’ve never been Mr. Subtle, as Keelie Sue can attest. I pass two visibly pregnant women waddling with slow determination toward the same entrance. The first one looks like she swallowed a freaking watermelon, but the second one’s got her beat. I’d be willing to beat she’s hauling around a dirigible in her stomach. She looks like she’s about to pop and drop a baby in the parking lot. I pick up my pace because no way I want to be around for that.

You think I should have stopped?

Held the door, held a hand, got ready to dial 9-1-1?

Yeah. Dream on.

I’ve got an appointment to make, and pregnant women aren’t my thing. Plus the dirigible-eating one’s wearing a muumuu the size and color of a circus tent. I hotfoot it inside, letting the glass door slam shut behind me. I warned you I’m not hero material. While you chew on that, I check out the birthing center. It has that weird chemical smell all doctors’ offices seem to have, like they pump that shit out of the air conditioning vents or stock it in a little potpourri bowl. Hard not to inhale that smell and start worrying about the state of your innards. The waiting room is full of windows and a couple more baby mamas loll in chairs, soaking up the sunshine flooding the place.

The walls are covered with that faux wooden paneling that was popular in the eighties and that somebody’s tried to cover up with a thick coat of white paint, pink and blue carpeting, and a wall full of baby pictures. It’s so fucking cheerful that I feel an urge to belt out a dirty ditty or moon someone. Since I’d probably send them into collective labor and then my appointment would get pushed back, I refrain. I’m totally learning restraint.

The birthing center has eight certified nurse-midwives. I picked the one that women swore undying allegiance to on Yelp because I want the best for Keelie Sue. Her name is Rain Sullivan. Her accessories include a bachelor’s degree in nursing from San Diego State, a shit-ton of experience as a registered nurse, and a somewhat more recent degree from a graduate program in midwifery. As far as I can tell, she’s never lost a baby since setting up shop in Baton Rouge, although she’s fielded a few hairy situations that were way over-shared on Yelp. And honestly that’s perfect. I don’t need someone who can slap a BandAid on a booboo—I need a woman who can sew your goddamned leg back on after you’ve accidentally chopped it off with the lawn mower and your ex has run the flopping, bleeding limb over for good measure. You know that movie where the alien baby comes exploding out of the baby momma’s belly? I’m betting Rain can tape that shit back together.

At least I hope she can.

You know. Just in case.

Am I expecting that level of carnage when Keelie Sue finally busts out her baby? That’s a good question. I sure as fuck hope not, but she’s not looking so good, and I’m shopping for some insurance. The only werewolf birth I’ve been a part of was my own, and since my Mommy Dearest either didn’t or couldn’t stick around afterward, I’m not taking that as a good sign. And my Alpha’s just as worried. It’s been a long, long time since the pack had mates, let alone pregnant ones, and no one knows what will happen if Keelie Sue heads to the hospital. He’s been pulling in the Breaux matriarch, but as she keeps telling him, having popped a few pups of her own does not make her any kind of expert or medical professional.

There’s no one at the counter to pull a meet and greet when I saunter up, so I tap the little bell that’s got a sticky note taped to the front announcing Ring Me. Gotcha. Possibly I hit it harder than strictly necessary because a pretty little brunette—thankfully not pregnant—comes flying through a side door and skids to a halt at the sight of me. She looks left, right, and then down over the counter at my boots. Maybe some guys come here and their girls hit the floor and pop out babies in the waiting room? Fuck if I know, but she looks confused at my female-less state. And since I usually am sporting a female accessory, that makes two of us.

“I’ve got an appointment,” I announce. Look at me, still following the rules. I even fish a piece of paper out of my pocket and slide it toward her. I booked an online appointment and then I printed the proof. Honestly, I’m not turning over a new leaf—I’m growing an entire goddamned tree.

The receptionist shifts her gaze to my paper, but she doesn’t look any less confused. She examines each letter like she’s a five-year-old confronting the alphabet for the first time. “Just you?”

“Yep.” I lean my forearms on the pretty little countertop. Sure as fuck hope it’s stronger than it looks.

“Oh.” She drags her gaze back to my face, chewing on her bottom lip. “Mrs. Fang isn’t with you today?”

“Sunshine, what you see is what you get.” I wink at her.

“Oh,” she repeats. The look of uncertainty grows on her face. I wait her out because I’m not going anywhere without seeing Rain. Eventually, she rallies, nods, and shoves a clipboard and an enormous stack of paper in my direction. I grab a pen and retreat. Checkboxes aren’t really my thing, but I do my best trying to fill in the questions about how my pregnant lady is feeling. Since Keelie Sue is in no mood to overshare with me (I’ve pretty much taken up permanent residence on her shit list), I can only write down so much.

Ten minutes later, I get bored and start doodling because that’s a whole lot of white space and this room is just filled with fucking inspiration. Or maybe not-fucking inspiration because the truth is, looking around makes me realize that sex can land a guy in some really unpleasant places. All these big bellies started with sex and a nice, big orgasm.

When I’m not busy fighting, fucking, or shucking my human skin so I can run around on all fours, I draw. Have I shocked you? Yes, I do something that doesn’t involve bodily fluids and penetration of one kind or another. It’s not something I mention, and none of my pack knows about it. But it makes me a nice stack of cash and a guy’s got to have a hobby.

And I don’t just draw dick pictures, although dicks have been known to make a magnificent, super-hero-worthy appearance in my panels. I draw comic books. True story? You can make a shit-ton of money when your hero is actually a bad guy vigilante whose favorite hobbies are banging chicks and killing stuff. Were, my main lead, isn’t too particular about what he kills, either. If he thinks you need killing, you get killed. He’s a demon shifter with awesome super powers, and that doesn’t include his magic, orgasm-giving dick, either. This seems to be a popular fantasy with my readers, who are naturally mostly men. It’s not that you girls aren’t welcome to come along for the party, but whenever I release a new strip I get an avalanche of angry emails pointing out that Were is more anti-hero than caped crusader and that I’m doing the entire male sex a big fucking disfavor by encouraging them to think they can do these things, too.

Too bad, so sad. We guys are entitled to our fantasies.

While I wait, I try to sketch Were doing a couple of the pregnant chicks, and then give up. I’m not sure how the mechanics of knocked-up sex work when the chick’s reached the watermelon stage of things, and I hate feeling uncertain. The waiting room is like the seventh level of hell. I fit in here about as well as Loki at a tea party. I’m the elephant in a chicken yard full of tiny, fluffy chicks. An elephant with teeth. I ignore the side-eye from the women in the waiting room and doodle some more. I could be here on legitimate business, right? There are super-hero villains who’ve banged chicks and left a souvenir behind. Look at the Green Goblin. He did Spider Man’s first girl, Gwen Stacy, and she ended up knocked up with twins.

I think about gifting Were with twins, but even my imagination’s not that good. His half-drawn figure glares at me from the stack of medical forms.

Eventually, someone calls my name from the doorway to the inner sanctum. A female someone because this is clearly a no-men-allowed zone. Fuck me, but she’s got the voice of a phone sex operator. It’s a husky alto, all do me now, big boy, and no way I ignore that kind of invitation. I bolt out of my seat, almost upending a slow-moving pregnant lady. I grab her carefully by the elbow to steady her, but she glares at me like I just farted in front of the Pope and then she bursts into tears. The tribe of females flanking her follow up with dirty looks, and promptly usher her away from me to the seat I’ve just vacated. They’re more feral than a pack of wolves, and for a moment I’m concerned they’ll pee on my chair just to mark it as theirs.

And if it’s a question of marking or claiming territory, I’m gonna win any pissing contest. I promise you that.

I’m debating the merits of marching back to my spot—not that I want or need it but it’s mine—and whipping out my dick when, BAM. You see those letters in 48-point Courier font?

BAM it is.

Because like any villain getting his come-uppance, life smacks me right on the nose. Hard. I get my first good look at the woman calling my name. Fuck me, but she’s gorgeous. Downright magnificent. More than a little fierce (pretty sure she saw me upend that other gal and I’m not winning any points for that in her book). How come she appears to be almost the only female not knocked up? If she were mine, I’d be banging her night and day, and no way I’d want anything between us. I’d take her bareback, jizz over every delicious inch of her, breed her good.

Wait.

Do they pump the air full of pheromones in here? I’m a babe man, not a baby daddy. This isn’t me.

And yet I can’t stop looking.

Wanting.

Her hair is long and brown, twisted up on top of her head in a gravity-defying do anchored with lacquered chopstick things. In a comic book, those sticks would actually be a stealth, werewolf-killing weapon, but I suspect they were just the first things she laid hands on. Little tendrils have gone AWOL and fly around her face. She’s got hazel eyes. She’s wearing a pair of pale pink nursing scrubs that bag off of her, concealing her curves. The corners of her mouth tip up as she watches me bolt toward her. She knows I’m not comfortable and she’s enjoying my pain. I like her already, even if she is completely off-limits. I need what’s in her head, not what’s in her pants.

I drop my gaze to her tits—which are big enough to make a spectacular impression despite the baggy scrub shirt—and spot the nametag perched above her right nipple. Rain. Ever since I looked her up online, I’ve been wondering what the fuck kind of name is Rain? Is she gonna pop out babies called Thunderstorm, Cloud, and Hail?

Doesn’t matter if she’s got a stupid name, I remind myself. I can always rename her—or give her a pet name. Maybe Sunshine since the sun always makes an appearance after the rain comes. Kinda like the thought of that, all bad puns intended. This is my girl.

“Mr. Fang?” Her mouth twists, as if she thinks my name is funnier than hers but she’s trying not to laugh. Her gaze takes in my vest, my boots, the general package. Her eyes narrow. I think she’s got the idea. I’m a biker and I’m riding alone.

She holds her hand out. She’s playing by human rules, being polite, but my wolf doesn’t give a shit. She’s offered skin privileges and I’ll take it. I wrap her hand in mine and hold on. Her fingers are slim and strong. For a moment, she tries for the quick press and release but I don’t let go.

Don’t fucking want to. Ever.

Her gaze drops to our hands, and a throaty chuckle escapes her throat. My wolf thinks she’s fired the starter’s pistol in some goddamned race, and we should chase her. Catch her.

Do her hard.

Not mine.

I need this woman’s brain, I remind myself. I need the information she’s got locked up in her head.

She looks behind and around me, like she’s expecting more. Unfortunate really, because what she sees is what she gets. “Are you flying solo today?”

“Yeah.”

You think I shouldn’t growl at her? Probably right. I don’t want to scare her, not yet.

She shakes her hand in mine—not the polite up-and-down this time, but a firm let-the-fuck-go yank. My respect for her ratchets up.

“I’m going to need that back.” Laughter dances in her voice again.

Christ, she’s amazing. I force myself to let go. It would be so easy to pull her up against me, to toss her over my shoulder and storm off with her. Brain, I remind myself. Doctor. This is the last woman I should be fucking.

Her whole face softens and she beams at me. “It’s so sweet of you to come even if your partner wasn’t feeling up to it. Come on back.”

I should probably feel bad about the assumptions she’s making, the way I’m sort of lying through omission, but my new-leaf tree is more of a seedling than a mighty oak. Her assumptions are convenient so I let them go. Time enough to introduce her to my reality later.

She turns and heads down a hallway. Her ass. Sweet fucking Jesus but this woman has a spectacular ass. She’s rounded in all my favorite places, and the same scrubs that hid her tits from my front view now cling to each delicious curve as she leads me somewhere. Not like I give a fuck where, although some place with a bed would be my first choice. My dick stirs to life, nodding its agreement. We’ve just had a bologna sandwich back there at the bar, and now life’s teasing us with a four-star gourmet meal. Who eats a Lean Cuisine when he could devour a steak from Wolfgang Puck?

We reach our destination before I’m ready to be done staring. She pushes the door wide open and steps in. I don’t spend a whole lot of time in medical offices. One advantage of being a shifter is that healing is pretty much a DIY operation. I get the shit beat out of me, I shift. Problem solved. Even the well-deserved ass-kicking I took when Jace claimed Keelie Sue didn’t put me down for more than a few days. Pretty much would have to rip my head off or my heart out to KO me.

Rain’s office, though, isn’t what I expect. I thought doctors specialized in antiseptic crap, but Rain’s walls are a deep blue like water at night. A white ceiling and white trim frame a black wood floor with a black-and-white strip rug. A desk that looks like one good fuck would finish it off holds a computer monitor, a neat stack of files, and a white vase full of orange tulips. A pair of white bookcases flank the desk, the insides painted a perfect peach, as if she just sliced open a cantaloupe and used it to color in the empty spaces. It’s all bold lines and color, like one of my comics. Got a big ass window too, so that’s perfect. It’s like the universe just put its seal of approval on my plan.

“Normally, I’d take you and your partner into one of the examination rooms, but since you’re flying solo today…” She shrugs, her face crinkling with amusement. “I can’t imagine you want to sit on the table.”

I’ve never had dirty doctor fantasies. Had a girl once who liked to play naughty nurse. She also had a thing about thermometers and the smell of latex made her come on the spot. Didn’t understand what she liked about the fantasy so much, but now I do. My imagination parks Rain’s sweet butt on one of those little wheeled stools and scoots her over until she’s between my legs. Then she can look up and ask me where it hurts because I’ve got something for her to kiss better tenting the front of my jeans.

Oblivious, she waves me toward a chair, and then she walks around the desk and sits down. We’ve got two feet and about a hundred pounds of file folders between us now. I reach behind me and push the door shut.

She smiles and my dick jerks. “Why don’t tell me why you’re here.”

Without missing a beat, I launch into the story I’ve prepared. “My girl’s expecting, and she’s been having some issues. So I wanted to find out what I can do to help.”

Rain nods, her gaze thoughtful and concerned. “Let’s start with the symptoms, okay?”

And then she launches into a rapid-fire series of questions. How many months? Nausea? How often does Keelie Sue vomit? How much? Has she lost weight? Is she cramping? Bleeding? What color?

I think I might pale at that last one. I’ve never paid a whole lot of attention to the color of the blood I spill, but apparently I’ve been missing some important clues. Does Jace know this? Because while I can smell the blood on Keelie Sue sometimes, even I don’t have the balls to waltz up to her and ask her to describe it. Not planning on fucking checking either, or Jace will skip ass-kicking and move straight to decapitation.

And then Rain tackles the elephant in the room. “Why isn’t your partner here?”

I smile at her. This is usually the part where the girl I’m wooing starts dropping her panties. Rain’s made of tougher stuff though because she just smiles back and waits.

“We’re fighting,” I admit.

I think that covers it, don’t you? Every member of the pack is well aware that Keelie Sue would like to disembowel me with a grapefruit spoon (that’s the kind with the pointy little teeth for digging into the fruit for those of you pagans who think you can eat your grapefruit however you goddamned please). And if evisceration is off the table, she’d settle for never seeing me again.

“Mr. Fang.” Her mouth tightens, so I know I’m not gonna like what comes next.

“Is there a problem? I’m just trying to be helpful.” I lean forward, resting my forearms on my thighs. It’s cute the way she thinks she’s put some space between us. I could be over that desk in a hot second.

“It’s very hard to diagnose a patient I’ve never seen,” Rain says dryly.

“Float me some theories. I want to fix this.”

“Give me specifics about when she doesn’t feel good.” She puffs out her cheeks, blowing air through her pursed lips. It’s cute and funny and she’s clearly lost in thought, mentally replaying everything I’ve just told her. This is what makes her perfect—she wants to fix my problem, too. Oh, and the fact that she buys my bullshit. In fact, I get bonus points for being such a sweet sack of shit.

Ten minutes later, I run out of things to say. I’ve told her about every bout of morning sickness I’ve witnessed. I’ve told her about the paleness, the pain, the way Keelie Sue constantly rubs at the side of her belly and the fear in her eyes. It’s the fear that kills me. Even I didn’t manage to scare her for long, but this baby has her worried. This seems to be the safest way to make shit up to her.

Rain exhales slowly, her fingers stroking slowly over the folder in front of her. She’s got Keelie Sue all written down there, but she keeps looking at me. I meet her gaze. If you’re a wolf, you don’t drop your eyes unless you’re ready to submit, and I don’t do submission. Rain may not be a wolf, but she’s trying to establish dominance and I won’t let her so I stare back.

She sighs again, her gaze dropping to the folder. I win. That’s right. She just acknowledged me as her Alpha, even if she doesn’t know it yet.

“I think it’s wonderful that you’ve taken this step to get some medical advice, but you need to convince your partner to come in person. In addition to the difficulties of diagnosing blind, there are a number of medical privacy laws that would prevent me from discussing her condition with you unless you’re married.”

She pauses and looks up at me expectantly.

Undeterred, I grin at her. “Sunshine, I’m the last guy she’d marry.”

“And yet you made a baby with her,” she says dryly.

Wish that were the truth. Wish I had some claim on Keelie Sue that was stronger than pack because maybe then I could fix her. Her belly just gets bigger and bigger, but her face stays pale as fuck, these big, purple shadows drowning her eyes. And it’s like all the weight’s gone straight to her middle or that baby’s eating her up, because her arms and legs get thinner and thinner, and I’m not the only one worried that there won’t be much left of her when this thing is done.

Maybe there won’t be anything left.

“She’s not with me and won’t ever be.” Oversharing with Rain wasn’t part of my plan, but it works out for me. Her face softens, as if now she’s feeling sorry for me. I don’t do pity, but maybe I can work this to my advantage.

“What do I ask her primary care physician?”

Rain’s forehead puckers as her thought train switches track from Pity Central to doctor mode. She pops to her feet, starts pacing, and opens her mouth. An endless, encyclopedic list falls out of said mouth. Who knew babies were so freaking complex? Still, I write everything down. She’s given me a shit-ton of stuff to remember. Only paper I’ve got is the little sketchpad I carry around with me, and it’s mostly drawings for my comic. I fit the words in around and over Were in all his ballsy, evil magnificence. She’s going too fast for me to capture this crap on my phone, so the pencil-and-paper route it is.

While I’m scrambling to write down the last thing on her never-ending list, she sneaks up on me. I mean, of course I hear her coming, but she thinks she’s in stealth mode, so I humor her. She’s looking at my notepad. Kinda want to point out that my dick’s a way more impressive sight, but I refrain. That whole turning-over-a-new-leaf thing is really starting to stick.

“You draw?” Her breath tickles my cheek—she’s real close and it’s awesome. She’s not touching me, not directly, but I can feel the heat from her body and the scent of her skin drives me fucking nuts. Something vanilla and warm overlays the sweeter, muskier scent of Rain, like she’s a cookie I can’t wait to devour.

“Nothing much.” I’ve made bank on my drawings, but there’s no accounting for taste. I mean, just look at Keelie Sue. She picked Jace when she could have had me. I look down at Were. He’s a big, dark, muscled bastard, which I guess is the appeal. I draw dark and dirty, and humans like that. These lines are just scraps, though, and not ready for prime time. I don’t want Rain looking at anything but my best.

“Doodles,” I growl.

Back the fuck off.

She blinks and actually does it. It’s just one step, but it makes me realize I don’t want her any farther away from me. Prince Charming I’m not. I need to do the woo, make her smile, make her drop her guard and come closer. What the hell was I thinking coming here?

I snap the notepad closed and jam it into my jacket. “They’re nothing.”

“They’re wonderful.” She zips back around her enormous desk like she’s grateful for the barrier. I make her nervous.

They’re nothing much—just barebones ink, simple lines filling in the space. But she’s looking at me like I’m fucking Michelangelo. I don’t mind that at all.

“Stick Figures R Us.” She points to herself, making a face. “I can’t draw to save my life.”

And then she laughs, her nervousness dissolving. She’s got the prettiest laugh. I’m not Mr. Shits and Giggles, but it makes me want to grin back at her. Tickle her a little until she does it again and then lick her until she’s laughing and coming. I’ll bet she’s an awesome multitasker.

She shakes her head, still grinning. “I hope your kid inherits your talent.”

Right. We’re back to my imaginary mini-me.

I know what my Pop-Pop would say if he were still alive. He put the ornery in old bastard, and he’d never liked me. I was his freakish grandson and the fur and fangs put him firmly in the flat out hate camp. To his mind, I was a waste of skin and bones like the AWOL sperm donor who’d planted me in my mother, and he made sure I was crystal clear on his opinion. Since he liked to reinforce my understanding on a daily basis with his belt, I got the point.

Someone knocks on the door.

“You go right ahead and take that,” I tell Rain when she looks at me. It’s downright cute how polite she is.

She carols out a come in (yes, please) and a mountain of red roses waddles into the room. I’ve never been a flower man myself. Once you cut that shit, it dies. I’m more of a plant-you-a-garden guy. If I’m gonna make an effort, I want it to have roots, but even I have to admit that this is one impressive floral bouquet. I’m not sure there’s a rose left in our fine state of Louisiana.

“Laney.” Rain sounds distinctly unhappy.

“I couldn’t refuse them,” the flower mountain whines. Guess the scrub-covered legs sticking out from beneath the flowers must belong to Laney. We’ve already discussed my difficulty remembering names, so Laney could be the girl or the blossoms, although I’m betting on the human. “The florist was already halfway out the door.”

And… that’s my cue. I’m a regular do-gooder today.

“Problem, ladies?”

I take the vase from Laney, shove aside a few file folders, and set them down on Rain’s desk. There’s a small, white card tucked into the heap. Rain’s name is written in a bold, masculine slash, so it sure seems like some dick’s definitely gone all out in the hopes of impressing her. I shouldn’t give a shit about what’s going on in her personal life. All I need is her medical expertise. But it wouldn’t hurt to know if someone’s gonna be expecting her home tonight.

“Yes.” Rain levels a death glare on the flowers.

She’d make an excellent wolf. She really would. Too bad all those conversion myths are just that—myths. I’d be happy to bite her and bring her over to the dark side.

“Not into flowers?” Since we just spent fifteen minutes discussing an imaginary vagina, I feel like we know each other well enough for me to ask why the fuck she’s got a thing against flowers. For someone who’s in the baby business, she’s pricklier than a porcupine. You ever touched one of those? Fucker looks all soft and cuddly until you’ve got a mouthful and then it’s nothing but quills. I learned that the hard way. Rain looks at me like she’s just waiting for a reason to stab me. Clearly, I’ve been judged guilty by association.

“My ex,” she emphasizes, “thinks I’ll take him back if he buys me enough flowers.”

Told you the flower donor was a dick.

“You want me to get rid of them?”

Her gaze shifts from the roses to me. Back to the roses. Not because she’s indecisive but because this woman is used to thinking a situation through, assessing all the possible actions and outcomes, and then acting. I’m actually nervous that she might not decide in my favor—and that never happens, at least not since Keelie Sue. Not the nerves, not the girl passing on my dick, my help, or my fucking presence in her life. Rain’s not a sure thing.

She’s not my thing.

A smart wolf would head straight for that door and find himself another solution to his baby momma woes because Rain is gonna be nothing but trouble.

“Make it so,” she says in her best Star Trek voice. Jean Luc Picard is not my kind of sexy, but for her… for her, I could make an exception.

Instead, I do what I signed up to do. I grab the massive bundle of roses, cart them out to her waiting room, find the woman I nearly knocked over, and work my charms on her. I tell her that I want to make it up to her for crashing into her. I tell her that I hope she’s okay. And with each comment, I drop another rose into her hands. Dickish Ex went all out and splurged on the kind with the smooth, long stems. I’m sure you know as well as I do that all roses have thorns. Big ass, vicious, skin-tearing, heart-ripping thorns. He’s paid someone to strip them bare and make his flowers soft and pretty for Rain, as if she couldn’t handle the real deal.

“What’s your name, sweetheart?” I add another rose to the woman’s hands.

She looks a little dazed as she tells me that she’s a Barbara. Could be the effect of me, could be pregnancy hormones. I read a book about how baby-making works (the less fun part that takes place after I come) and honestly it was scarier than any horror story by Stephen King. Personally, I’d never volunteer to push a melon-sized anything out of my dick.

I drop to my haunches in front of her, offering her another rose. “Barbara, I need to hear you’re okay. Can you tell me that?”

She giggles, her face going soft and happy. “I can.”

“Awesome.” I rain flowers down on her, letting my eyes laugh back at her. “Then these are for you because you deserve them for being so understanding about my crap.”

She beams at me and then she tears up. Stupid pregnancy hormones. I turn to her female posse. Her entourage includes two older women and another woman about her age. I divide up the remaining roses between them.

I wink at them. “You guys take good care of my girl here, okay?”

Now I should point out that you can practically hear these ladies melting for me. I’ve done their girl wrong, I’ve upset her, but now I’m on my knees (or close enough) and I’m paying attention to them. I’m making sure they’re good, they’re happy, they’re Team Fang. If this were a bar, I’d move on to picking out a lucky girl to come home with me, but pregnant women are now on my very short no-fly list. Not because of the big bellies (they’re fucking gorgeous) or even the psychotic swings between tears, happiness, and anger (I love me a challenge), but because they tend to have males of their own waiting in the wings and I don’t need to add any more trouble to my shit list. I’m a retired bad boy.

Mostly.

I shove to my feet and grin. “Ladies, you’ve made my day.”

They smile back at me. Can you hear the birds singing and the music rising to a fan-fucking-tastic crescendo? It’s like the last strip in one of my Were sagas, where he’s vanquished shit and now he’s stomping off-frame, victorious. He’s invincible, about to get laid, and life’s probably gonna shit rainbows and magical, orgasmic unicorns, too. I’m not about to come, but I’ve got everything else going on for me.

Flowers re-homed, I saunter back the way I came. The receptionist beams at me like I just won the Nobel Peace Prize and I’m the man of the house. I peer at her tits and the name badge pinned an inch above her right nipple. Laney. Okay. So it was the girl and not the flowers. I should explain that I’m making a point of remembering that name because that’s what you do when you turn over a new leaf. It’s not because I plan on using it. Pretty sure I could bang her, but somehow I’m not interested. I’d rather go back and torture Rain some more. So I confirm that I’m Rain’s last appointment of the day and let Laney know that she’ll be taking off soon.

“You have plans?” Laney beams up at me. Apparently she’s anti-the-ex as well.

“You bet.” I wink at her.

Pretty sure the receptionist thinks I’m asking her boss out on a date. Tomato. Tomatoh. Wouldn’t mind banging her, and that’s the truth, because Rain’s hot and I have a dick. The sexual tension between us is downright bounteous, but I’m pretty sure she won’t touch me as long as she thinks I’m somebody else’s baby daddy. I stroll back into Rain’s office and hold up my rose-free hands.

“Mission accomplished.”

She laughs. “I could use you full time.”

She’s welcome to use me whenever she wants. In fact, I have a few suggestions for her. I’m gonna have to reach down and do some readjusting in my jeans, however, if I keep thinking like this, so I remind myself of a few unpleasant facts. I start with Jace’s knuckles reinforcing his hands off Keelie Sue policy and then follow with the pack’s enforcer lending him an assist by ramming his steel-toes into my ribs. Even got my Pop-Pop’s voice screaming in my head too, if I need an extra dose of humility.

Since Rain’s not thinking about sex, however, she stands up and comes around the desk. She even holds her hand out to me. “It was nice meeting you.”

I know a dismissal when I hear one. Our appointment’s up, so I’m supposed to go quietly. As if. I step in and take the hand she offers, wrapping my fingers around hers. Fuck, she feels fragile. Given what this lady does, it has to be an illusion.

She looks up at me. I have no idea why I like that, but she’s a tiny thing compared to my bulk. I’m a good six foot two inches, and she’s barely measuring up to my shoulder.

I look over her head and take in the nice, big window behind her desk. This is my cue to go before she decides she has to throw me out or something stupid. I need her feeling friendly. “I’ll be seeing you.”

She takes her hand back and I let her. “And I’ll look forward to meeting your partner. I hope everything works out for you.”

I give her a brief nod and beat feet for the door. Hope isn’t a strategy, and I have no intention of leaving Keelie Sue’s pregnancy to chance. So I go outside, brush way too many sticky, black berries off the seat of my bike, and head back to my place. It doesn’t take long to switch the bike for my truck, and then I’m back on the road.

In fact, I’m back right as the clinic is winding down for the day. Imagine that. Guess I do have a talent for planning after all. This time, however, I don’t park in the lot. Instead, I drive around the back of the building. Rain’s got her window propped open to catch the afternoon breeze, and the bright purple African violet on the windowsill is all the target I need. It’s like she’s just begging me to come on in. I kill the engine and coast until I’m nice and close. I leave the keys in the ignition, grab the gear I’d stashed behind the front seat, stick a nice big piece of duct tape to my palm, and get to work.

She makes it so fucking easy.

In Rain’s world, people use the doors and their words. So when I tap on her windowsill, lean in, and grin at her, she looks startled but then she smiles back and rolls her chair over to see what I want. Fortunately for her, I’m about to teach her an important lesson about trusting people. Don’t.

“Did you forget something?”

“Sorry, sunshine.”

I take a second to nudge her plant out of the way because smashing her shit won’t endear me to her any and I might actually mean the sorry part of things. Maybe. It doesn’t stop me from vaulting right inside, however. She didn’t see that coming because her mouth sort of opens and closes, like she’s torn between shrieking and ripping me a new one. And this is where me looking the way I do—all muscles, leather vest, and ink—does me a solid. For one second too long, she’s convinced I’m just mannerless. That I think this is funny or cute or somehow okay. And so she doesn’t scream. She takes that one second to think about how she’s going to rip me a new one and where she’ll start on that.

Me? I’m not thinking. I’m doing.

I slap my hand over her mouth.

She goes wild then, figuring out way too late that I’m not Mr. Nice at all. I slap the duct tape over her mouth and whip out the rest of the roll. It takes me less than a minute to giftwrap her. She makes muffled squawking sounds, bucking against my hold. It wouldn’t be a big deal except she somehow manages to shove her tit into my hand. Cupping it is just automatic on my part, but she squawks louder. I wish it was on purpose, but the woman wants to amputate my balls with a rusty spoon, not get it on.

“Sorry,” I mutter. Yeah. Turns out that’s mostly not true, but I don’t want her pants-pissing terrified.

I remove my hand too but only because of the whole new leaf thing. All that personal reformation doesn’t mean I don’t notice that she’s wearing a real nice bra underneath the medical scrubs—something silky because my thumb just glides over her curves. You think she’s a black lace girl? Or maybe she likes the pink froufrou stuff that looks like a garden explosion?

It’s none of my business.

I’m the villain in this story, and I need her to feel friendly, so what she is or isn’t hiding underneath all that pink cotton doesn’t matter. I toss the blanket over her, truss her up like an enchilada, and cart her straight out the window. Now I should explain that I don’t generally have an issue with committing felonies. Only law that matters is pack law, and I’ve already busted that.

But because I’m working on my gentlemanly side, I take a moment to snag her purse because women like their stuff and she could be on the rag or have some dire medical condition that requires a dozen pills or maybe she’s just got a clean pair of panties and an emergency chocolate bar stashed in there. I chuck it out her window, through the open driver’s side window, and watch it land on my front seat. That’s a three point shot right there.

Then it’s Rain’s turn.

I don’t toss her. I’m super careful. She makes all sorts of squeaking sounds, but I pin her tight against me so she can’t bang against the window frame and I get her out quick. It’s a fast crouch and drop to the ground, and then I pop the truck door and slide her into the little space I’ve made behind my seat and the back of the cab. Got some blankets and pillows for padding too, but no one will spot her there. Not unless the police pull me over and search.

She makes one last bid for freedom, trying to bust out, but I outweigh her and easily muscle her down. Keep her there too with one arm as I turn the key in the ignition. From the way she’s kicking the back of my seat, I’m pretty certain she’s both getting enough oxygen and not dead, but it wouldn’t hurt to check. For just a second. Engine running, I lean over the seat and ease the blanket off some. The baby books I’ve been reading claim newborns love a nice, tight swaddle, but clearly adults outgrow that shit because Rain’s looking none too happy about her blanket burrito wrap. Or maybe it’s the duct tape she’s got a problem with. Her hair’s gone everywhere, the precarious knot exploding in waves and curls. She glares up at me, fuck you written all over her face. If this were a comic strip, her thought bubble would be all right-angled, pissed off scream.

“Promise I’m not gonna hurt you,” I tell her. Can’t help rubbing my thumb over her cheek where she’s silky soft, which doesn’t endear me to her either.

“I just need your help with my girl,” I continue. “We covered this earlier today. Not gonna lie to you—like I told you, she’s not my girl. She belongs to a friend of mine and he cares about her something fierce and I’d like to see the two of them end up happy, you feel me?”

She makes an outraged sound.

Yeah. That would be a no. Guess she’s not interested in my single status, either. So we’re gonna have to be all business.

“You fix that baby for me, and then I’ll let you go. You just do what you’re good at and make everything right, okay?”

My question is followed by a long moment of silence. I take advantage of it to put the truck in gear and get the hell out of Dodge. I’m not too concerned about getting caught in her parking lot, but it’s still going to be a challenge to explain what I’m doing with a baby doctor roped and tied behind my seat.

I drive nice and steady to the exit. Even fucking use my blinker as I pull out. I think I made the situation perfectly clear. Rain’s a nice woman. It didn’t take me long to figure that out. The people at her work like her, and I think she genuinely cares about her mommas and their babies. So why can’t she care just a little about my Keelie Sue? This whole thing isn’t nearly as bad as she’s making it out to be.

Okay. Yeah. So I tied her up.

And I kidnapped her.

A more mature guy might have tried using his words or, failing that, his black Am Ex. But I prefer my solutions efficient, and I know she’s going to see things my way. Eventually.

Possibly in about a thousand years and an ice age or six.

Two miles into our ride, I risk a quick look over the seat back. She’s lost the blanket entirely and now she’s either performing a downward dog or trying to work her phone out of the back pocket of her pants. Loosening the blanket wrap was clearly a mistake, as was failing to search her. I don’t usually make stupid mistakes like that. I pull over, reach over, and flip her over so her nose is pushed up against the seat. It’s the wolfie version of the naughty corner. Her eyes get wide as they peep up at me, like she knows exactly how much trouble she’s in.

I grin down at her. She’s so busted. “Naughty, naughty.”

And since she’s conveniently ass-up, I land a nice, sharp smack on the curvy real estate I’m admiring. It’s a love tap, nothing more. I promise. She squeals anyhow.

I lean down, getting all in her space. “You want me to kiss it better?”

She sucks in an indignant breath or tries to. Since I’ve got her mouth duct-taped shut, she sort of snorts through her nose. She’s so fucking cute. I’m pretty sure she knows I’d like to eat her up--and she doesn’t mind. When I inhale, I can smell her arousal. It’s a soft tease of scent filling up the barely there space between us. She thinks it’s a secret because she doesn’t know about my wolf, but I know.

Since we’re playing good cop and the bad girl (or hey—I am), I work the phone out of her pocket and toss it into her purse on the front seat before I pat her down. You know. Just in case she’s hiding a distress flare or a machine gun or something equally lethal and disturbing beneath the thin layer of pink cotton. I come up empty, though, so I flip her back over and look her in the eyes.

“Promise you’ll help me and I’ll let you sit up front,” I offer. “We don’t have to do this the hard way.”

She gives a baby growl, bringing her knees up. I think she might be going for my balls in her imagination, but her range of motion’s all jacked up by her current position. Too bad, so sad.

I pull back.

I’d rather spend the rest of my day looking at her and kissing shit better, but instead I turn around and get busy driving. Pretty sure she won’t let me within a mile of her pussy now.