Blue Moon Brides: The Complete Series by Anne Marsh Page B

invited. He set the neat stack of pots on one corner of the porch and tugged her over to a wooden rocking chair, pulling her down onto his lap before she could protest.
    “Rafer—” The sound of his name on her lips had him hardening, the thick ridge all too evident beneath his worn jeans. Yeah, she sounded skeptical, and he couldn’t blame her. Still, he could no more turn off his reaction to her then he could stop the moon from rising. 
    Capturing her hand, he massaged the palm with long, sure strokes. She was tense. Tired.
    “God,” she breathed. “That feels good.”
    Her pleasure pleased him. “Tell me more about your mortgage.”
    Her fingers were long and capable. Bare. Unexpectedly, he found himself wanting to give her a ring, to mark her like human males marked their females. He needed everyone to know that she’d chosen him.
    Except that she hadn’t. Not really. She hadn’t understood Luc’s question last night.
    Not yet , he told himself fiercely. Not yet, but she would. Soon .
    She leaned into him, and he wondered if she knew that she had, even as he savored the soft heat of her. “This was my grandmother’s farm. When my mother brought me here, my grandmother was still alive. She’d run this farm since my grandfather’s death twenty years before.”
    “She must have been lonely.” Humans died. The thought of losing his Lark made him painfully glad that wolves rarely outlived their mates. When he lost her, he would follow her shortly thereafter. He wouldn’t have to give her up or leave her. Ever. “And glad that you had come to be with her.”
    “I hope so.” She paused, clearly remembering those long-gone days. “I was a child. Maybe I didn’t see everything I should have. But I loved her. We were happy here,” she said fiercely. “And then, when she died two years ago, she left me the farm. All of it. The fields, the flowers, the customers—and the bills. The mortgage. The good with the bad. I did the best I could, but there’s not much money in selling flowers.”
    Selling flowers was foreign to him. He’d seen the stalls in New Orleans, known that those blooms had come from somewhere, but he’d never stopped and wondered where. Humans bought, and the stalls sold—a rainbow of cut flowers, bouquets and potted arrangements. A few dollars bought an armload—so she couldn’t have been making much. And she owed money.
    “Maybe it was stupid,” she said.
    He let go of her right hand, picked up her left, and started the massage again, working his way down the muscles, over her knuckles. “No,” he assured her. “This place was your grandmother’s. Now, it’s yours. Why wouldn’t you want to keep it?” Wolves were territorial. He understood why she wouldn’t want to let go of a place she’d claimed as hers. Which only made his job harder.
    She smiled, and it was as if the sun had come out from behind the clouds. “Yes,” she said. “That’s it exactly. I can’t just give up. The bank’s scheduled the farm for auction in three days.  Even if there’s nothing I can do to stop it, I can’t stop trying.”
    “Good.” He gave in to temptation and buried his face against her neck. When he inhaled, he got lemon verbena and rosemary, all earthy and sweet. Soft, with a side of tart and bright that reminded him his mate was strong. Strong enough to stand on her own without him, if she wanted.
    “That’s not helping.” This time, a hint of laughter brightened her voice.
    He wanted to offer her money, but then she would have even stronger roots to this place, and taking her away to live with the Pack would be harder. She had to come.
    He couldn’t lose her.
    And he couldn’t let her lose her dream. Her lair. Her place full of her grandmother’s memories and the life she’d built for herself. Fuck . He knew what he had to do, knew he had to put the Pack’s welfare first, but he didn’t want her to pay the price for those needs and wants.
    But what else could he do?