The Strip by Heather Killough-Walden, Gildart Jackson

beneath him. If necessary, asleep.
    Because Claire had never had a tattoo before, she didn’t notice that Caige failed to use a stencil or to clean the area of her arm that he would be marking. Instead, she simply kept her eyes shut tight and tried to trust the strangers in the room with her.
    Malcolm took up position on Claire’s left side as Lucas dipped the hand-held machine into Malcolm’s blood and drew the thick red liquid into the tube of the gun. With one last meaningful glance at Cole, Lucas placed the tip against the inside of Claire’s wrist and, after covertly wrapping his free hand around her arm to hold her in place, he turned it on.
    He pressed hard, wanting the needles to strike true the first time around.
    Claire’s eyes flew open as Malcolm’s blood found hers and her arm instantly heated up. Caige held her fast, keeping the gun pressed tight against her skin as the powerful blood did its job. Cole was quick to grab her other arm with his right hand. Claire arched her back and opened her mouth to scream, but Cole’s left hand came over her mouth as he slid one long, well-muscled leg over both of hers in order to straddle her so that she couldn’t even move.
    Terror instantly registered in the depths of her blue eyes. She was trapped, alone, with these men and no one knew where she was. She was in pain. She was defenseless. And, worst of all, something about it was turning her on. He could smell it.
    Cole leaned in and placed his lips to her ear, the fiend in him fully enjoying the feel of her breasts pressed so hard against his chest as she arched beneath him, attempting futilely to get away.
    “Don’t fight it, luv. Let it happen and it’ll be easier on you,” he told her, allowing his accented voice to wrap around her. She shivered as the initial pain of the needles undoubtedly began to wane and gave way to a rising sense of pleasure. Of need.
    She gasped behind the silencing grip of his fingers over her mouth as the mark began to take shape. Cole turned to look when Lucas whistled low.
    He’d removed the needle and was gazing down at her arm. A fine, shimmering emerald line was twining its way across her cream-colored flesh. It was intricate and impossible. It was stunning.
    Seeing it on her had a horribly forceful effect on Malcolm. He grew painfully hard above her. His fangs exploded in his mouth and he knew that his eyes were glowing. He could feel his pupils expanding hungrily as everything in the room came into stark contrast. His skin burned where it touched hers and all he could smell was her arousal, her shampoo, the cinnamon-flavored toothpaste she’d used before leaving the hotel.
    His claws began to grow as need wracked mercilessly through him. Every bone in his body was telling him to bite her now. To rip off her clothes and thrust into her wetness as he swallowed her blood and brought her over. Tiny starlets of light began to dance before his vision as his wolf threatened to break free and flash into existence.
    It was Lucas, clearing his throat beside him, that brought his mind and body reluctantly back to reason. He glanced over at the black-haired werewolf. Caige’s dark eyes glittered with warning. He couldn’t take her now. The mage had been right.
    Claire knew what was happening to her. He could tell that although she would not understand the logistics of it, it was clear to her that he was laying some sort of claim on her body. As he straightened and gazed down into those beautiful eyes of hers, he knew that she was aware he was marking her as his own.
    And if he didn’t give her a chance to digest it in stages, she would hate him. She would despise him. She might even try to kill him. He doubted that Charlie was going to turn out to be a weakling of a made wolf.
    No. He had needed to mark her. That much, he could defend as his right. He needed to protect her from Phelan. But, claiming her and changing her was another story. He needed the chance to fully explain things