Persephone Alcmedi 00 - Wicked Circle

guilty over lashing out either. The vamp was being a wuss and he deserved it.
    Presently, that vamp was alone with his girlfriend.
    Johnny thrust the thought away. He trusted Persephone. She was Menessos’s master. She’d even eliminated the in signum amoris he had put on them.
    He had to admit he was disappointed by the loss of the connection to Seph the spell had given him. And she’d undone it without asking if he’d wanted it gone.
    He understood her reasons, but both she and the vamp had acted on something that affected him just as much as them, and neither had asked his permission. With the vamp it was inexcusable but expected; Persephone, however, should have known better.
    When was he going to get a say in all this magic shit? Or was Persephone thinking she was his master, too?
    Stop it.
    His fingers raked through his hair. He was just being a dick.
    She embodied the grounding sense of the future for him. The sense of family he’d yearned for, he felt with her. Living at the farmhouse with her, Nana, and the kiddo, he’d felt more complete than he ever had before.
    And you called the vamp a wuss.
    Johnny shoved his fists into his jeans pockets. As he neared he could see the upper floor of the bar. The windows of the apartment were darkened. Ig had lived there.
    He’d killed Ig there.
    At the thought, unwanted images of the scene flashed into his mind, and he could remember the taste of Ig’s blood. His mouth watered.
    Damn it.
    You didn’t tell me it would be like this, old man.
    For over eight years, all he’d wanted was to know his past. Where had he lived? Who had he been before? But Ig, after learning that Johnny could transform his hands at will, had ended his search into Johnny’s past and focused intensely on Johnny’s future. He’d justified it by explaining that this ability was rare, and a full transformation would mean Johnny was the Domn Lup.
    Ig had insisted on privately tutoring him in the responsibilities of a leader. Having so much attention from the dirija meant Johnny became known as Ig’s “pet.” Some picked on him; others toadied to him to gain the dirija ’s favor.
    Johnny understood now that Ig had been trying to do the right thing, but at the time the exposure to politics and phony friendships had left him disaffected. He’d distanced himself from the pack, and Ig’s efforts to bring him back had been drowned under the music from his band’s cranked amplifiers.
    He’d tried so damn hard to forget the destiny Ig had said was before him. He’d been worse than a prodigal son to Ig. He’d captured the man’s kindness and hope and run away, returning only when his desire to protect Persephone had offered him no other options. He’d taken Ig’s life and claimed command of the pack only to help her, not because Ig had wanted him to.
    For Persephone, he’d willingly accepted his fate, but the one thing he really, truly, desperately wanted—the truth of his past—she’d failed to give him. Not even her magic had been able to retrieve his memories after the phoenix had clawed him . . . a phoenix he’d attacked to protect her.
    Approaching the bar, Johnny could hear the thump of the bass and drums from the jukebox. The wæres on door duty bowed their heads as he passed. Inside, the smoky bar was a feast for the senses. The smell of wolf and sweat, of beer and tobacco and liquor tickled his nostrils. Disturbed’s “Ten Thousand Fists” filled his ears. He pushed into the crowd.
    His pack greeted him with howls.
    Warm bodies danced against him. The scent of “female” overpowered everything else as the women converged on their unattended sovereign. He lifted his arms to avoid touching them, but they touched him. Hands ran over him. Hips pressed against him. His cock grew hard. For an ego-swelling moment he was immobile, fully aware of the curves they flaunted, of the heat they created, of the bare skin they displayed and how much he wanted sex again.
    Clenching his jaw he maneuvered through them, touching a shoulder here and an arm there. His fingertips did more than tingle when he brushed the bare skin of a pack mate. It was like electricity crackling through him, a magnetic stirring of lust and territorial rights.
    He could claim Ig’s apartment and make use of his bed. God, how his whole body might react, invigorated by the potent touch of one or two or three pack bitches with their bare skin against his. . . .
    As he neared the end of the bar, someone