Mason didn’t care for the man’s condescending tone, but this wasn’t about only him anymore. This involved Mason, Lucy, and the entire Blackwood pack. The National Circle needed to know his thoughts, if they didn’t have suspicions of their own already.
“Word spreads fast in small towns, Roman. Frank Riverson free of jail for more than an hour before I heard about his release through the grapevine. I’d be pretty fucking surprised if he didn’t have a whole lotta hate for the Blackwoods. After everything that happened, wouldn’t you?”
Roman scowled. “How did you—”
“Never mind all that,” Mason interrupted. “In addition to the fire, the pack house was vandalized. Two days after Frank’s release.”
“You never reported that.”
“I know. At first, I thought it might be local kids from town, no big deal. After the fire though, it didn’t take a genius to put two and two together. I was preparing an official request for an investigation by the NC when all of…this happened.”
He waved a hand back toward Lucy but kept his eyes laser focused on Roman.
“Now you get some mysterious tip there’s some massive conspiracy involving our pups biting humans to grow our ranks.” Mason huffed in frustration. “You must see what’s going on here, Roman. You can’t possibly be that dumb.”
Roman’s upper lip pulled back in a warning snarl and Mason had just enough control to not snarl back. The scent of Lucy’s fear had increased steadily as the two men spoke, and he’d do just about anything to be alone with her so he could calm her. He should placate the National Alpha, keep the man happy, but Lucy needed him more than Mason needed to kiss ass.
Out in the main living area, Mason could hear his brothers talking to Roman’s beta and enforcer. Plastering a fake smile on his face, he motioned toward the door.
“Listen, I’ll gladly talk about this until we’re all blue in the face. Later. Right now, I’ve got a mate to claim and that requires privacy. Got it?”
Roman’s gaze shifted between Mason and Lucy and back again. With a nod, he finally left them alone.
Chapter Eleven
To Lucy’s hypersensitive ears, the click of the door latch catching sounded like the metallic thud of a prison cell slamming closed. Even worse, it felt like a death sentence. Oh sure, the big house in the middle of nowhere was filled to the rafters with smoking hot men—and not just regular hot, but a-nun-tearing-off-her-habit hot—but on the flip side, they all thought they were werewolves. Had she mentioned she was alone with them? In the middle of God’s nowhere? Awesome, right?
Mason snared a chair and dragged it toward her side of the bed. Lucy’s gaze darted around the room, searching for a weapon—some way to defend herself from the crazy. With Mason’s strength and speed, she’d never make it to the door before he caught her. Her only hope was that someone had inadvertently left a bazooka lying on the bedside table.
No such luck.
Mason spun the chair around and straddled the back. So very manly. So very sexy. His green eyes burrowed into her, making her skin crawl in the most pleasurable manner. Even as sick as she was and as nutso as he was, the heat between them threatened to engulf her.
This is how girls in horror movies die, dummy!
Right! She’d almost forgotten she was trapped in a house with a bunch of crazies. If she’d learned anything from scary movies, it was to never walk into a dark room after hearing a child-like giggle and to always play along with the bad guy’s delusion. He might cut someone in half with a chainsaw if they didn’t.
“I won’t taste very good, you know,” she blurted the words out. “Not even Gordon Ramsey could make Lucy Stew taste good with all the infection in my body. There’s puss and goop and icky creepy crawlies in my blood. I’d probably give you food poisoning.”
Mason’s laugh started out soft, then his belly joined in, and soon it was rumbling up from his toes. At the sound, a good portion of her fear evaporated like a puff of smoke on a windy day. He wiped a tear from his eye and grinned down at her.
“I’m sorry to disappoint you, but you’re not on the menu for dinner. We don’t generally eat humans, and not just because we’re half-human ourselves.”
Lucy’s fear should have surfaced again, but there was nothing but calm in Mason’s presence. It gave her the courage to ask questions that might have challenged an otherwise insane person’s beliefs.
“So, you’re…”
“A werewolf.” Mason didn’t hesitate to answer. Nothing but a hard certainty in his gaze.
“Uh-huh.” Lucy was doubtful and hesitated to ask him anything else. Don’t poke the crazies, right? Even the hot crazies.
He cocked his head slightly, like a curious dog—er, wolf. “Even if you believed every word I said, that can’t be your only question.”
Curiosity overpowered Lucy’s remaining wisps of fear. Even though the idea of werewolves—like, real werewolves—was completely ludicrous and beyond imagining, this was a golden opportunity not many people would ever have. To ask a “real” werewolf questions normal people often had, such as…
“Okay, I’ll bite,” she smirked when she caught the meaning of her words. “So to speak.”
Mason’s expression didn’t change. He simply sat with his forearms resting on the back of the chair, eyes on hers as he waited patiently. Though a part deep down inside Lucy sensed he was anything but patient.
“Are werewolves born or made? Every movie I’ve ever seen suggests they’re all made. Someone goes nom, nom, nom and boom, werewolf. But if that’s how they’re made, how was the first werewolf created? Movies don’t address that.” She frowned. “Talk about a plot hole,” she grumbled.
“First of all, don’t believe everything you see in movies,” he winked. “Second of all, we’re born this way. Usually.”
“Usually?”
Mason’s attention turned to the lamp on the bedside table instead of at Lucy. “There are very rare occasions when a wolf’s bite can transform a human into a werewolf.”
Lucy narrowed her gaze. He’d chosen those words so carefully. Too carefully. “Do you mean it’s rare for a wolf to bite a human, or that it’s rare for a human to survive a wolf bite?”
Mason shifted in his seat and cleared his throat. “Both.”
A deep sense of foreboding settled on her. More vague-speak. He wasn’t telling her something. Something that was obviously important, or he wouldn’t avoid spilling the beans. It was just a matter of asking the right questions.
“In what situation might a human survive a wolf’s bite?”
He finally met her gaze again. “When they’re fated mates.”
Heat pooled in her cheeks at the mention of mates. He’d seemed to be calling her that earlier. Did that mean he was going to try biting her? Anything could happen when someone was fully committed to their delusion. Maybe shifting topics would keep his mind off biting her neck.
“So, who are the surly dudes? Psycho, Rando and Thor?”
“Psycho must be the alpha, but what’s a Rando?” Mason asked, clearly puzzled by the slang.
“You know, random brown-haired dude? Rando?”
His chuckle sent a whisper of warmth through her. “So, you think Dane looks like Thor?”
Lucy shrugged and then winced as the simple movement brought a fresh wave of pain from her leg. “A little. Now quit stalling. Who are they?”
“They’re the National Ruling Circle, headquartered in Ft. Lauderdale, Florida. Psycho’s actual name is Roman. He’s the National Alpha. Rando is Silas, Roman’s beta—the second in command, or for mafia movie buffs, his consigliere. Thor is Dane, the enforcer. Basically, he’s the head of security.”
“I don’t get it. What do they have to do with you?”
Mason scratched an eyebrow as he thought. “Let me backtrack a bit. All wolf packs have a Ruling Circle made up of an alpha, a beta and an enforcer. The alpha is sort of like the president, the beta most resembles the judiciary, and the enforcer is congress.”