“It wasn’t completely awful. Autonomy is big there, and one of the reasons the pack isn’t particularly cohesive,” she said. “But it’s not the life I wanted. Still isn’t. And that’s why Sara and company are here no doubt—to ensure I stick around to be the prize.”
The Suitor’s Brawl was problematic. It was as important to the Blood Pack as the Choosing ceremony was to the Shadows and the Winters. The Earth Pack had a more organic approach to mating, thus the consultation with crystals and dead matchmakers. All the same, negotiating Roxie’s freedom would not be possible. Her mother, Karen, was well-known for being a cut-first-beat-questions-out-of-you-later type of alpha.
It was time for bold action.
“Mating would remove your viability as the Suitor’s Brawl prize.”
Roxie stared at him. “Mating. Um … with you?”
And Grant. “It solves your problem.”
“No offense, but you’d be Blood chow before you even scented me.”
“I don’t think so, Roxie. I’m the alpha.”
“You’re the alpha?” She hesitated. “You mean you’re one of the alphas.” She considered him once more, and if he wasn’t mistaken, her gaze lingered seconds too long on his swim trunks. “Where’s the other one?”
“Making his muscles bigger,” said Jack dolefully. “Grant likes to work out.”
“You don’t exactly look like a slouch in that department.”
Her compliment pleased Jack. “Thank you.”
“Look, why the hell would you and muscle-man even think about mating with me? I bet they’re lined up at your door with the preacher in tow.”
“Actually, they’re not. In my pack, there aren’t any females of suitable age who are not already promised or married.” He reached out and stroked her tattoo. “Our pack psychic consulted with Matchmaking Matilda. She said we needed to come here, and that our mate would be a woman with a fiery heart.”
“Uh, yeah. Matilda sounds nutballs.”
“She was—and even more so since she died. But when it comes to mate choosing, she’s never been wrong.”
“Let me get this straight. A crazy dead lady told the Earth Pack alphas to come to Vegas and marry a woman with a fiery heart.”
“Yep.”
“Huh. And you think that’s me?”
“Roxanne!”
The strident female voice had them both turning. A blonde dressed like she was an extra from a Mad Max movie—along with three bigger, broader males who seemed to collectively agree wearing black leather in summertime Vegas was a good idea—hurried toward them.
“Don’t you dare move, you bitch!” screamed the blonde.
“We should probably run,” said Roxanne. She turned and hauled ass. Jack wasn’t about to lose her, even if it meant fending off Blood Pack members. He followed her across the fake beach toward an Exit door that blended into the fake ocean wall.
Shit. What had he gotten himself—and by default, Grant—into with the curvy, tattooed beauty?
2
GRANT WELLS INSERTED the key card to the hotel suite. He was hot, sweaty, and wanted a shower. He’d taken his T-shirt off and wore it slung over his shoulder. He’d gotten some interest in the gym from females and, if he were honest, a couple dudes, too. Not one of ’em had a fiery heart. Of any kind. He looked. On clothing. On skin. On iPods. He even tried to take it to a symbolic level with maybe someone acting fiery-hearted (whatever the hell that meant). Nothing. Nada. Zip.
This whole fucking thing was stupid.
The light went green and he heard the door click. He pushed it open.
“Grant!”
At the sound of Jack’s harried voice, he looked over his shoulder. His co-alpha ran down the hallway, followed by a curvy, red-headed babe dressed in a black bikini. Her breasts bounced in the most beautiful way as she jogged behind Jack.
Holy crap.
“Get in, damn it.” Jack nearly rammed him through the door as he and the mystery woman piled in behind him. Jack turned and made sure the door was shut tight and then engaged the other safety locks.
“What’s going on?” asked Grant. He sniffed the air. The female was a werewolf. He could practically taste her panic. Jack’s vibe was no better.
“Marriage?” The red-head grinned at him, all attitude and fire. She was good at hiding her fear. With that delicious body she could probably distract the freakin’ pope. There. Above awesome breast number one: A heart tattoo with a fiery sword plunged through it.
“She’s the one?” asked Grant.
“I think so.”
“Suits me.” He strode to the red-head, ready to test their attraction level, but she threw her arms up.
“Don’t make me punch you,” she warned. “I don’t even know if I like you yet.”
“Oh, yeah,” said Grant, grinning. He loved a woman with a mouth on her. One he couldn’t easily boss around. “Let’s keep her.”
“Okay, but we might have to fight the entire Blood Pack.”
Grant’s ardor immediately dimmed. “Shit. You’re a Blood?”
“Alpha’s daughter,” added Jack as he strode by and headed toward the wet bar.
“Your Karen’s kid?”
“Don’t look so surprised,” she said snidely. “I hide all my malformations.”
Grant gave her the slow onceover, and then his eyebrow winged up. “Where?”