Cht 2

Stewart woke, feeling like a sleeping pill hangover was blanketing him in groggy dimness. He glanced around the low lit room, wondering where he was. There was a smoldering fire in a granite fireplace, putty colored walls, and old Turkish rugs. Books in built-in cases lined the walls, giving off the musty smell of old money and over all of it was the scent of her. The girl from last night, he thought. A rustle of fabric behind him had him turning on the chaise where he lay, a crimson velvet throw draped over him. From the shadows of the room she emerged, the same dark woman from the night before.

"I've drawn the curtains for you, Mr. Swinton, as it's broad daylight," she said evenly, "and while you were sleeping I took quite the trip through your memories. You're an accomplished asshole."

He regarded her solemnly, sizing her up. She had knocked him out with a touch of her fingers. Small and slim she may be, but as fantastic as she smelled, there was a slight bite to her scent that he now reasoned must be the scent of magic. Strange gypsy witch, he thought. What did she see in my memories?

As though she could hear his thoughts, she continued, "you slept with and killed your boss's wife, stole his job…you have lied, cheated and stolen your way to the top before karma caught up with you. And make no mistake, Stewart that is exactly what happened. She bitch slapped you and delivered you directly to me. You are a weak little troll of a beta, and you need a strong alpha to take you in hand."

She walked closer until she stood over the back of the chaise, looming over his seated form. She used the height difference to her advantage, intimidating him further, she knew. She reached across the back of the seat and carefully took his right hand.

"I traced your fate line," she said, tracing lightly over his palm. "It links with mine. We are connected, you and I, and it falls to me now as your chosen mate to train you properly."

"Wait a second, Miss…" he scoffed softly, "I don't even know your name, but—"

"I am Ella. I descend from the Medicis, even from some of the first Knights Templar. There are several distinguished lines running through my blood," she said, drawing herself up. "My family name is Arceneau. And by biting me, you recalcitrant fool, you have bound me to you."

"Hey, wait a second sweetheart," he began with a smirk, "I don't care who you are. I'm not exactly a—"

Smack! She delivered a backhand directly across his cheek.

"First of all, you don't get to call me sweetheart as we are not lovers. Second, you are now bound to me and as such will respect me. Like it or not. You will most certainly care. You have made quite a few powerful enemies as of late and whether you know it or not, you are in desperate need of my protection. You may be smarting from that slap, but I guarantee those bullets stung quite a bit more. And that won't even touch what your alpha wolf would do if he got ahold of you. The one who bit you…would go for your jugular after what you did to his mate."

At her slap, he had started to rise but as she spoke, with a calm voice she allowed her palm to hover over the open air above the chaise and lowered it slowly. As she did so, Stewart found himself compelled to sit. The bitch could physically force him to obey, but damned if he would do it willingly. His face was a mask of mutiny.

She smiled softly, holding the energy over him and refusing to withdraw it. If she did, she knew he would bolt up and attack. The wolf rose in him, his own animal power coursing through him, and he longed to go for her throat as he had Charlotte's. But her substantial power eclipsed his own and he sat, trapped and seething. Somewhere in the recesses of his human brain, he conceded that she was right as well. His days were numbered if Will ever got ahold of him.

"Now, now, Stewart," she whispered, leaning in close. "You're allowing your anger to cloud your instinct. You know you need me, and you know there is a threat out there that is only too willing to take you down. I saw the attack on Laura, on the other man's wife. You have naturally poor impulse control and it is exacerbated by your wolf nature."

In a flash, she grasped a handful of his hair and yanked until he leaned upwards so close to her face that he could feel her breath tickle his nose and her scent enveloped him, making other urges stir deep in his core. A low guttural rumble escaped and she laughed low. She lowered her gaze, watching his mouth. His tongue flicked out and licked his lips, his breath hitched. She closed the space between them and she felt the punch of energy as his energy bucked against hers. She chuckled into his mouth as she pushed back and tamped him down again, turning his growl into a frustrated whimper. Ella broke the kiss and tilted her head, smiling down at Stewart. His chest heaved and he writhed against her magic, trying in vain to break free and jump her. He wasn't sure just what he would do if he got ahold of her, and that, he realized slowly as his common sense took hold, was the problem.

"Like I said," she smiled archly, "poor impulse control."

Two soft raps at the door and scurrying feet broke the swirl of tense powers batting back and forth—his wolf nature to her witchy one. His nose twitched with the savory smells coming from under the door and Stewart could scarcely contain himself again. Ella cast a quelling look over her shoulder and said tersely, "patience, Stewart."

She opened the door and pulled a caterer's cart into the room, lifting the lid on the dish that had Stewart salivating and all but quivering. His eyes dilated at the strong smell of blood and meat, his claws extending. Growling once more, he snapped as she lifted the veil of magic tamping him down and tossed the rare steak. He caught it in midair and tore in, jaws grinding and chewing, tearing the flesh as bloody juices dribbled down his chin.

Ella watched the display grimly. This will not do, she reasoned. But as she watched, she began to formulate a plan for Stewart's training. He would have to be put in his place, she knew. Wolves of all kinds, even werewolves, had an established hierarchy. Part of Stewart's bad behavior, she knew was due to the anxiety of not being taken care of by his alpha and trying to run things on his own. Instead of having an established pecking order in that office, there was chaos by a lazy leader who refused to see what was in front of him and who refused to take measures to care for his crew until he had been bitten. Stewart needed rules and expectations. And structure. More than anything, he needed to know he was taken care of, or he had a tendency to lash out irrationally. He murdered his former mate when he felt abandoned and desperate. Mating with her in the first place had been a bid for dominance, as had vying for his boss's job. When his boss finally cornered him and demanded he resign, it only threw Stewart further into panic. A panicking beta with no direction and no recourse. That is exactly what had landed him on her property with so much damage in his wake. He needed to be seen to, cared for, nourished and nurtured. But moreover, he needed some direction and purpose.

Stewart finished the entire meal before he noticed the mess he had made. Blood and bits of meat covered his shirt, his hands and face, the throw. He looked balefully up at Ella and tried in vain to lick the worst from his mouth. It looked so childish and helpless that Ella nearly laughed. She bit the inside of her cheek to keep from smiling. What an undertaking this man is going to be, she thought.

To Stewart she said, "you're getting a bath!"