Gotta Have Faith Page 3

  The next breath she took shuddered—shuddered and almost wheezed, but for her ironclad control. Standing so close to a man so virile was hard. He was the most amazing-smelling human she’d ever smelled.

  And he was a human. Bringing up a million questions she’d thus far managed to keep to herself. But Derrick was in for some Law and Order-like interrogation.

  Did this Eli know about them? Did he know she was a werewolf? That Derrick was a werewolf and Martine was a cat? She had to tread very carefully. The last time they’d dealt with a human—her son Max’s mate, JC—they’d almost screwed everything up.

  If this scrumptious man was Derrick’s friend, she’d better warn everyone he was human before he interacted with others in Cedar Glen.

  Eli reached a hand out and placed it lightly on her shoulder in reassurance. Surely it was indifferent, universal reassurance, no different than offering a quick hand of comfort to any random shoulder.

  But it felt like everything. More than everything. His hand was wide, tanned, calloused at the palm, warm, exhilarating…and she could never run out of adjectives as she described his hand, which made her beyond pitiable—wretched might be a better adjective to describe her.

  Yet, he stole her breath, made her heart pound and her nerves flutter like the shallow flapping wings of a butterfly.

  His blue eyes glittered in the weak morning sun, pouring in from the kitchen window. “Really, it’s okay. I’m fine.” He held out his hand for the towel.

  Faith swallowed hard and handed it to him. He was so close—so close with his high cheekbones, thickly fringed blue eyes, and strong jaw. He shouldn’t be allowed to be this close to anyone in the history of anyones.

  She forced her tongue to slide over her gums and release her teeth from the inside of her lips. “Right. Good. I’m glad. So what brings you to Cedar Glen?” she asked, inching along the edge of the countertop until she was out from under his piercing gaze and away from his half-naked hotness.

  Eli’s eyes went from light, to cloudy with a chance of hiding his emotions in a split second as he pressed the towel to his lower lip. “Just passing through.”

  How casual and nonchalant. Who just passed through Cedar Glen? But she didn’t want to pry. She’d made it her mission to fringe her children’s lives as much as possible and not interfere unless it was absolutely necessary. Derrick could have as many human friends as he liked. In fact, he could have a whole roomful.

  As long as they all didn’t look like Eli Winston. Because her ovaries would have to be removed and soundly run over by a truck to squash this kind of instant attraction.

  Brushing her hands together, she vowed not to ask any more questions. “Well then, it was a pleasure to meet you, Eli Winston. If you’re here tonight, I hope Derrick will invite you to our family dinner. I cook, and there’s yelling and laughter, and even some bickering. But I promise the meal will be worth it.”

  “I remember—” he muttered, then pulled his words up short, clearing his throat.

  Alarm bells sounded in Faith’s head. “Remember?”

  Scrunching the towel into a ball, he shook his head as though he were shaking cobwebs from his brain. Then he smiled again, making the deep grooves on either side of his mouth stand out. “I just meant I remember my own family dinner nights. They sound very similar to yours.”

  Pressing her palms to the cool countertop, she forgot about her no-questions rule. “So you have family?”

  His grip on the towel grew tighter, making the veins in his hands visible. “I did. I mean, I do. It’s just been a long time since I’ve seen them.”

  Okay, no more prying. Remove thyself from the kitchen posthaste and take thyself back to thy house and knit something. Knit something to keep your cold libido warm.

  But the words he spoke, the tone he used, left her wondering what lie beneath them. They weren’t overtly forlorn, but there was a hint of longing. One she was sure he was trying to hide, and for some random, unexplainable reason, that upset her.

  That Eli was forlorn. No one should look so sad when they talked about their family.

  Oh, God, she had to go home. “Then I really hope you’ll come to dinner tonight if you’re still here. It was nice to meet you, Eli—”

  The front door to Derrick’s house burst open with a gust of wind and snowflakes and her son and his mate flew around the counter and into the kitchen, their hair wild, their eyes full of concern.

  “Mom!”

  “Faith?”

  She hid her embarrassment by wiggling her fingers and smiling. “Hey, you two. Did you forget I was dropping off your mate…um, engagement gifts today?”

  “You have no clothes on,” Derrick seethed, his fists clenched.

  Faith bristled, looking down at her jeans, her cheeks flushing again. “I do so, young man.”

  “Not you, him.” He pointed an angry finger in Eli’s direction, moving toward him with menace.

  But Martine latched onto his arm and yanked him back to her side. “Derrick,” she said, jaw clenched. An obvious warning if Faith had ever heard one. Her future daughter-in-law’s face went suddenly bright when she turned her gaze to Faith. “So I see you’ve met Eli?”

  Faith moved protectively toward Eli without even understanding why she felt the unwarranted need to protect him—or what she was protecting him from. Yet, she found herself compelled to create a barrier between this man and her son.

  She put herself between Eli and Derrick and demanded an answer. “What’s going on here? Why are you treating your friend like he stole your favorite food processor?”

  Derrick’s eyes bulged. “My friend? Is that what he told you?”

  Faith poked a finger into her son’s chest, signaling him to back up, her brow furrowing as she did. “He didn’t tell me anything. I just assumed. I mean, he was here, in your house showering. What else would I think?”

  Derrick clenched his jaw, reminding her so much of Brock. “He’s not my friend, Mom.”

  Faith’s eyes narrowed, her lips thinning when she turned to look over her shoulder at a very sheepish Eli. “Then whose friend is he?”

  “Derrick,” Martine warned in a low growl. “We discussed how to go about this. Don’t be the bull in the china shop.”

  But Derrick shook his head. “There’s no easy way to do this, honey. So here goes. Mom? Eli says he’s a friend of Dad’s.”

  Chapter Three

  Eli Kanye Winston, aka Brock Adams in disguise, decided it was time to take charge. He’d managed to skate by with his fainting performance last night, and Martine had been kind enough to get him to a cot they had in their laundry room, where she insisted he spend the night.

  His plan this morning had been to shower, dress, leave them a nice note and get the hell out to his cabin in the woods before anyone got back, but he’d overslept and as a result, run into Faith.

  Jesus. Just seeing her standing there, still as beautiful as when he’d left her, tough as damn nails, too, had nearly ripped his heart from his chest. Even without his werewolf senses, without the ability to scent all facets of her, her perfume still drove him wild.

  The way she’d moved with such caution after he’d introduced himself, the way she’d scurried out of the room as fast as she could in order to get away from him, her vulnerability, all of it made him want to haul her into his arms and tell her everything.

  But he couldn’t. He’d made a deal. A deal with a she-devil, but still a deal, and there was nothing he could do to change that—except find out what had gone so fucking wrong.

  Because if the rumors he’d heard from an old drunken pack member in Albuquerque at some dismal bar full of road dust and the pungent stench of vomit were true, he’d left his family, the love of his life, and his pack—and given up his immortality—in order to break a curse that had never truly been broken.

  And when he got his hands on the bitch who’d promised to break the curse, he was going to kill her.

  Until then, it was time to man
-up and take charge of this mess he’d stepped into because he was a foolish, heartsick ass. It hadn’t been so long that he didn’t remember what it was like to lead a pack. And it would never be long enough that he didn’t know how to handle Derrick.

  It was getting up the balls to walk away from his wife forever—again—that was the hard part. But if it meant her safety, he’d sever his own limbs in order to protect her.

  So Brock held up his hand. “I’m sorry for the confusion, um, Faith, is it?”

  She put her hand to her throat, the red sweater she wore matching the stain on her cheeks. “Yes. It’s Faith. How do you know my husband?”

  Her tone changed when she said the word “husband”. It became possessive, maybe even a little angry. He couldn’t tell for sure, because he couldn’t smell her emotions anymore, but he knew her well enough to read them in her wide blue eyes, and he read a hint of anger.

  Squaring his shoulders, he stepped away from his son and his wife, giving himself enough room to command their attention. This was the tricky part—explaining this to them and getting out of said explanation with minimal questions.

  No doubt when he told them he’d met Brock, that last he knew their pack leader was alive and well, they’d have a million questions. The only thing working in his favor was his scent. They knew he was human. Any questions they asked would be guarded to protect themselves.

  “There’s been a huge misunderstanding here, and that’s partially my fault. I’ve been on the road a long time and when I introduced myself so unexpectedly at your door last night, Derrick, I was tired and a little disoriented from the cold, I guess. I only met Brock briefly. We met at a motel I was staying in while I was on a jobsite. I’m a carpenter by trade. We chewed the fat over a couple of drinks.” Brock paused and forced a sheepish smile. “Well, I admit, maybe it was more than just a couple of drinks on my part; made the last part of our conversation a little hazy.”

  Derrick grunted his disapproval, his features like chiseled ice. “Just get on with the story.”

  Brock shrugged his shoulders. “It was no big deal, really. He mentioned he was from Cedar Glen, New Jersey, and said if I was ever in the area and needed some work, to drop because his family sometimes hires out. I was in the area, just passing through, mind you. Thought I might try to grab some extra work before I had to be in Pennsylvania. I saw the name Adams on the mailbox, and that’s what led me here. I’m sorry if you thought I had some other intention or information when I showed up on your doorstep. Now, if you’ll all excuse me, I’ll go dress and be on my way.”

  “Wait!” Faith yelped, gripping his forearm before snatching her hand away.

  Damn. This was exactly what he wanted to avoid. But he waited—because it was Faith, and he’d wait for an eternity just to spend a couple more minutes with her.

  “When…when was this? Do you remember when you saw Brock? How long ago?” she asked, the hitch in her voice making his gut clench.

  Brock turned and looked her directly in the eye and lied right to her beautiful face. “It was a long time ago. Can’t say I remember exactly when. I’m sorry. I move around a lot.”

  Her lower lip almost trembled, but she clamped it tight before asking, “What did he look like? I mean, did he look well? Sick? Hurt?”

  More of the questions he wanted to avoid, so he was going to shoot for as vague as possible. If he told her Brock looked fit as a fiddle, it would hurt her. It would hurt his son. They’d think he’d skipped off to the end of the rainbow without thinking twice about them. If he told them Brock looked sad, they’d only worry more than they obviously were already. And he fucking hated that.

  Hated it but hard.

  He took a deep breath and let it out with a slow exhale and a shrug of his shoulders. “He looked okay, I guess. I don’t make a habit out of looking at men to see if they’re, er…sad or not. The name of your town stuck out more than he did. I’m sorry. I’m not trying to be insensitive, but that’s just how I remember it. And now I really do have to go. I thought I had some extra time on my hands, but it turns out the job I have lined up needs me sooner. I have to get to Pennsylvania. So if you’ll excuse me…but thank you for your hospitality, Martine. I appreciate it.”

  Martine shook her head, her face grim. “I doubt you’re going anywhere, Eli. Have you seen what it’s like outside? The forecast calls for a blizzard.” She pointed to the window over the kitchen sink, revealing the thick fall of white flakes and gloomy skies.

  He walked to the big window in Derrick’s living room and grit his teeth. But he had to get the fuck out of here. He couldn’t stay so near his family until he knew what was happening with the curse. The deal was, he had to give up his immortality and pretend to be dead if he wanted to save his sons.

  He’d done that, only to find out that the bloody curse—the one forcing his sons to mate with unknown, nearly impossible destinies or die—was still in effect. Both Derrick and Max had mated in the nick of time, according to Ephraim Moore, but the curse was, as far as Ephraim knew, still in place, and would affect any male werepups the boys had.

  Now, Ephraim Moore was a drunk, no two ways about it. He liked his whiskey straight and in massive quantities. So when he’d told his slurred tale to, one Brock was grateful would come off as an old drunk’s ramblings to anyone other than a fellow paranormal, he’d paused.

  He’d thought about how lucky he’d been to run into someone from his pack in a place as random as Albuquerque. Then he’d decided he needed to verify what Ephraim told him.

  So he’d hitchhiked his way back to Cedar Glen with Winston, skulked around for a couple of days and hid under a haystack outside his nephew Hector’s barn.

  Listening to Derrick and Hector recount an incident involving Max and his near death before his mate JC saved him, all while cloaked in the scent of cow dung so his son and nephew wouldn’t smell him, had his guts all twisted up.

  At first his heart had pumped with happiness and pride for his son. Max and alive, mated and happy, and that was all that mattered. But then he wondered about Derrick and his fate.

  Then he’d stewed.

  Lorelei had made a deal with him—just before she’d locked him up right next to poor Winston. She’d promised to break his family’s curse if he left his pack, making everyone believe he was dead. And to ensure no one ever found out he was still alive, she’d imprisoned him in the basement of her ancestral house with some magic spell or another. And as a bonus, he’d to give up his immortality to her so she could add it to her arsenal of magic.

  Apparently, immortality was all the rage in the witch world, and having some eternity to bargain with was like gold. And he’d done so his gladly, knowing well Lorelei’s hatred for the werewolf council’s elders.

  Her fury, coupled with that of her sisters, was legend in their circles. Breaking the infamous Adams curse wasn’t just revenge upon the council for having her mother killed hundreds of years ago, it was a coup she could brag about for centuries to come around cauldrons of steaming eye of newt.

  And when he’d agreed, he’d been sure not only would Lorelei benefit from sticking it up the council’s asses, but his sons would, too. She had every reason to want to create havoc after what the elders had done so long ago to her mother, and he’d bought her vengeance. Hook, line and sinker. He’d had no reason to believe her quest for payback wasn’t real.

  And that’s how he’d met Winston, in much the same predicament as Brock. At least, he thought Winston was locked up after making a deal with Lorelei, but they never discussed it. The subject was taboo to Winston. Brock knew minimal details about his friend’s incarceration, only that it had something to do with love and betrayal.

  If Brock even mused out loud about why Winston had landed in Lorelei’s personal prison camp, the fairy fell apart in puddles of his own tears. Brock’s imprisonment was all part of the sacrifice for breaking the curse—or so he’d thought. But Winston’s was hazy.

  So they’d lived together t
hat way for a long time, locked in a dark, dusty basement full of all sorts of strange objects and pieces of art, with absolutely no contact from anyone—not even Lorelei.

  Their food magically appeared three times a day on a tray always set in the exact place they’d left their empty ones the night before. No one harmed them. There was no torture aside from the idea they’d both die in their basement prison. But he’d made a deal with the devil herself, and Brock Adams didn’t damn well renege on a deal. The only consolation he’d had was, as a human, he’d eventually die much sooner than he would as a werewolf.

  But late one night while they were playing tic-tac-toe, Lorelei finally returned. And after hearing bits and pieces of a conversation Lorelei’d had with her familiar about how she’d pulled one over on Brock Adams, he and Winston had finally gotten the break they’d needed.

  It was sheer luck that Lorelei’s familiar happened to pop into the basement to check on her wards. He was nosy and a little drunk after stealing sips of Lorelei’s wine, and in his drunken state, he’d forgotten to recast the spell keeping them locked in the room.

  That was when he and Win had staged a jailbreak. They’d slipped upstairs and landing in a room that, looking back, Brock recalled Winston seemed to know well. A room where Lorelei kept hundreds of spell books.

  They’d found a book with a spell that would cloak him in a disguise, and somehow, even after a small fire and a couple of blown electrical outlets, they’d managed to correctly cast the spell, and they’d taken off.

  Now he was here—back in Cedar Glen with his family who didn’t recognize him and thought he was some kind of drifter who needed their pity.

  “Eli,” Martine said, pulling her knit gloves off and dropping them on the counter, cutting into his thoughts, “you can’t go out there. I absolutely won’t let you.”

  “Sure you will, honey,” Derrick drawled slow and long with a message that was loud and clear. I don’t trust you. Get out.

  Faith—the Faith who Brock knew, strong, independent, one helluva mother—spoke up. “No, Derrick. We won’t. Now, I won’t hear another word about it. Gather up your things, you’re coming back to my house. I have a spare room you’re welcome to until this storm passes.”