Camp H.O.W.L. Page 5

Tate smiled, and Adrian was struck with the sudden urge to nip at the plump curve of his lower lip.

  God, where had that come from? Tate was an attractive man, sure, but Adrian was hardly in a place to fantasize about someone. He was in the middle of his Turn, for God’s sake! This wasn’t the time for his dick to go into warp drive.

  Unless—could that be affected by the Turn too? It made a weird kind of sense. Everything else was hyped up to an eleven; would that apply to his libido too?

  “You look troubled,” Tate said, his eyes narrowing. “I thought I was doing a good job calming you down. Clearly I’m falling down on the job.”

  Nothing about Tate was calming any part of Adrian down right now. The smooth, sultry slide of his voice had been comforting earlier, but now it was going straight to his groin. Adrian swallowed hard and looked away, tearing his gaze from Tate’s form-fitting T-shirt that molded to his biceps in the most delicious way.

  Adrian shifted, uncomfortably aware his borrowed sweatpants hid nothing, and Tate cleared his throat. “Ah. Do you want me to tell you our bodies have all kinds of reactions to the Turn, or should I just stop talking?”

  Damn the man for being so nice about this. And how the hell could Tate being decent be a turn-on? But somehow it was. The desire that had been coursing through Adrian’s veins only surged hotter at the offer.

  He was saved from answering by a sharp rap on the door, which swung open before he or Tate had a chance to react. Adrian scrambled back into the bed and pulled the blankets over his semihard cock.

  “Looks like you’re out of here, Mr. Rothschild,” Dr. Ramirez said as she breezed into the room with a handful of paperwork.

  Chapter Six

  “I’M just saying, I don’t think giving the man a tranquilizer was necessary,” Tate said with reproach.

  He glanced back at Adrian, who’d made himself comfortable on the bench seat behind them before conking out on the drugs Harris had offered him.

  “It was his choice,” Harris said with a negligent shrug. “Sure as hell made the drive easier, didn’t it?”

  Tate had to give him that. Adrian had been antsy and jittery the first twenty minutes of their drive before Harris pulled into a gas station and offered him a bottle of water and a sedative. It wasn’t something they’d give a teen except in the direst of circumstances, and it probably wasn’t something they should be giving an adult werewolf who was Turning, since the Turn messed with body chemistry. Harris could very well have poisoned Adrian with the dose. More likely, Tate admitted grudgingly to himself, it would have simply been ineffective. He’d told Adrian both were a possibility, but Adrian had chosen to down the pills anyway. And luckily, they’d worked.

  Tate was keeping a close eye on Adrian, monitoring his heart rate and his scent, which had changed subtly even over the course of the drive. He didn’t think there was any chance Adrian wouldn’t be fully Turning tonight. He smelled exactly like the new Turns at camp always did when they arrived. He wouldn’t be sharing that with Adrian when he woke, though. The last thing Adrian needed in this situation was misinformation. Tate wasn’t going to go out on a limb with his best guess—not when Adrian was so stressed.

  He picked up a salty tang in the air and turned, frowning when he saw Adrian’s forehead was covered with beads of sweat. He reached back and hovered his hand just over the damp skin, trying to check to see if the fever that had broken earlier had returned. That would be unusual—normally the fever signified the onset of the hormone rush, and once that started, the pain receded and didn’t return. Tate didn’t feel an abnormal amount of heat coming off Adrian now, so it must be another effect of the Turn.

  They were about twenty minutes from camp and making good time. Moonrise wasn’t until a little before seven thirty tonight, and it was just past five now. It had taken longer than he’d anticipated to get Adrian checked out of the hospital, and Harris had taken a wrong turn that had cost them a bit. Even getting on the road when they did, they’d had plenty of time. Still, Tate couldn’t help but be worried. What if they got a flat? A dozen things could happen to prevent them from making it to the safety of the facility, and then how would they handle Adrian’s Turn?

  “I can hear you thinking from over here,” Harris muttered. “He’s fine. His breathing is deep and even, and his heart rate is steady. The sedative didn’t do any damage. If anything, it saved his pride. He didn’t want us smelling his boner all the way to Bloomington.”

  Tate grimaced. Adrian’s arousal had been patently clear to even those without super senses, thanks to the way his erection had tented his borrowed sweatpants. It was a mental image that made Tate’s own jeans grow tight, so he steered away from it. Besides, Adrian hadn’t been reacting to him, not really. Tate had been an attractive warm body who’d been nearby while Adrian’s hormones were out of control. Frankly, he could have done without knowing Adrian was attracted to men—and him in particular. It would make working together in a therapeutic relationship impossible, both because of Adrian’s reaction and Tate’s own attraction to him.

  He’d never had this problem before. But then again, he usually treated teenagers. He’d never had to deal with a patient who was a gorgeous twenty-seven-year-old man.

  “Think he’ll do better with Kenya or Liam?” Tate asked, trying to keep his mind from wandering to places it shouldn’t go.

  Harris grunted. “That won’t be our call. Anne Marie will assign him. But I’m guessing she’ll give him to Kenya. She’s the oldest therapist, which should help. We rely on the age gap too much, maybe.”

  It set them up to be an older sibling kind of mentor, which worked well for a lot of these kids. But aside from Kenya, they didn’t have any therapists older than forty. Tate came in a distant second at thirty-two to her fifty-four.

  “I can see that,” Tate said. “His mother is his Alpha, so he should respond well to a strong female figure.”

  “Anne Marie will definitely give him to Kenya, then,” Harris said. He pulled off onto an unmarked gravel road that took them into the Hoosier National Forest.

  The camp was on private property, bordered on all sides by federal land. It was a neat trick that helped them practically disappear from maps. Tate had heard stories about a werewolf high up in the U.S. Forest Service who had negotiated similar arrangements for camps all across the country in the 1920s. Hiding the camps in plain sight was an ingenious idea.

  Tate took out his cell phone and called the director to let her know they’d be there in less than ten minutes. He also updated her on Adrian’s choice to take a sedative, which had led to some creative cursing on her end and a promise to have the camp doctor meet the van in the parking lot with a gurney.

  “At least we won’t have to carry him,” Harris quipped after Tate had taken his browbeating and hung up.

  “It wasn’t even my idea,” Tate muttered.

  “You could have told him you didn’t want him to do it,” Harris said. “You seem to have a lot of influence with him. He’s probably bonded with you.”

  The Turn was stressful, and like any stressful situation it tended to create a fierce trust and affection between wolflings who went through it together. Turn bonds involved an intense connection that spanned a few days and then usually receded to a normal friendship after the endorphin rush of the Turn faded. A smaller number of Turn bonds were sexual, and those tended to stick, especially if they were consummated. The staff didn’t discourage either type of bond—the wolflings who came to Camp H.O.W.L. were adults, after all. But they’d never had a wolfling who’d formed a Turn bond with a counselor. And hopefully they never would, Tate thought grimly. It wouldn’t be good for his own state of mind to spend too much time in close proximity to Adrian.

  “As long as I’m not with him when his Turn hits full blast at moonrise, I think we’ll be okay.”

  Harris looked over at him, his brows knitted together. “You know, having a Turn bond with you might actually help him. He’s not going to bond with any of
these kids, and it’s hard to go it alone. There can be psychological impact from not having a Turn bondmate.”

  Tate was intimately acquainted with that. He’d gone through the Turn completely alone, as was the tradition with his former Pack. To say that it had been traumatic would be a huge understatement.

  And if he could guarantee his Turn bond with Adrian would be platonic, that would be okay. But Tate wasn’t stupid. The spike of lust in his belly when he thought about Adrian, paired with Adrian’s visceral reaction to him earlier, made a platonic bond extremely unlikely. Even if they were both primed for the bond—and he was pretty sure they were—it would be inappropriate for a staffer to be involved with a camper. They had ironclad rules in place for that, and with good reason. It would be a gross misuse of power and a terrible breach of trust to take advantage of a wolfling who was fresh off their Turn, roiling with hormones and seized by their new senses and appetites.

  Tate squirmed in his seat. Under no circumstances could he be Adrian’s Turn bondmate.

  “IT’S already set,” Diann said with an apologetic shrug. “He’s clearly tuned to you. Having you near calms his heart rate, and the sound of your voice lowers his blood pressure.”

  A mosquito whined near Tate’s ear and he swatted at it, annoyed. There was a reason no one wandered out after dark much this time of year without fur on. His human skin was no match for the tiny menaces. He guided Diann away from the pool of light near the door, hoping the mosquitoes might not be as bad in the dark. He understood why they needed to have this conversation out of Adrian’s earshot, but that didn’t mean he wanted to get eaten alive while they had it.

  “He was in great shape when you brought him in,” Diann continued, “but his vitals have gone downhill since you dropped him off at the clinic.”

  Tate pursed his lips. “He was unconscious when we dropped him off, Diann. Of course his vitals were stable.”

  “He was awake within a minute of you leaving,” she said gently. “I don’t think the sedative actually had that much effect on him. With the way his metabolism is running right now, it should have burned off within half an hour. My theory is it helped him get to sleep, but then your presence kept him calm and relaxed enough to stay asleep. Hearing a Turn bondmate’s heartbeat will do that. It’s why it’s important to have one.”

  Horror washed over Tate as he thought back to Adrian focusing on his heartbeat in the hospital room. “Could I have caused the bond if I had him zero in on my heart earlier?”

  Diann chuckled. “No. It’s purely chemical. Bonds only form between werewolves who are compatible—you know that. It’s like biology’s way of ensuring a werewolf will be safe and supported.”

  They were vulnerable the first time they shifted, but Turn bonds based purely on safety had stopped being commonplace after the camps had been formed. Wolflings instinctually gravitated toward older Weres who could protect them during their Turn, which was why so many families sent their wolflings to facilities like Camp H.O.W.L. Once safety was taken care of, the wolflings were free to bond for support and care—and that almost always happened with wolflings their age. Turn bonds had become about friendship instead of safety—and, in some instances, a way for Weres to find compatible mates. This was definitely not that.

  “Can it be transferred?”

  Diann looked at him sharply. “No. And even if it could, who would you transfer it to? One of the other wolflings? They’re eight years younger than him.” She shook her head. “He’s already comfortable with you. Besides, would you condemn him to Turning alone?”

  Only two people knew the details of his own disastrous Turn and the months that followed it before he’d been able to emancipate himself from his Pack—Diann and Kenya. And as far as Tate was concerned, it was a story he was happy never to have to tell again. It was one of the many reasons he avoided getting tangled up with other werewolves.

  “I’m not comfortable bonding with him,” Tate said stiffly. He couldn’t believe a member of the staff was suggesting he form a Turn bond with a camper. It was against so many rules—and common decency too.

  Diann leaned against the brick retaining wall that ran around the perimeter of the medical building’s courtyard. “Break it down for me,” she said.

  “He’s a camper.”

  “True. But he won’t be assigned to you in any official capacity aside from a few of the larger lecture classes. You won’t actually have any control over him. Next.”

  Tate ran a hand over his jaw, frustrated. “He’s younger than me.”

  “By five years. Hardly a big deal given that you’re both adults. My husband is ten years older than me. Next.”

  He clenched his jaw and took a deep breath in through his nose. “Turn bonds can become sexual.”

  She leveled him with an unimpressed look. “You poor dear. Imagine, having a consensual sexual relationship with a good-looking man.”

  Tate whirled on his heel and started pacing the small space. His body buzzed with caged energy—probably a direct effect of the Turn bond he and Adrian had already shared. He was feeling some of the frenzied energy that Adrian was dealing with as moonrise approached. It blended with the energy Tate already felt, unleashing something wild in him. He forced it down, his only concession his fisted hands and the pacing.

  “Tate,” Diann said, all teasing erased from her voice. “You’re both adults. A Turn bond will only become sexual if there’s mutual attraction, you know that. And if it does, well, as Doris Day sang, ‘Que sera, sera.’”

  He couldn’t believe Diann could be so blasé when talking about a counselor entering into a sexual relationship with a camper. Even if he transferred Adrian to another psychologist, that doctor-patient relationship still existed.

  “You know it’s not that simple,” he said. “Even if I’m not treating him here, he met me as a psychologist. His psychologist. I was responsible for getting him out of the hospital, something he will attach no small amount of gratitude to.”

  “He didn’t believe you were actually a psychologist, so I wouldn’t worry on that front,” Diann said dryly. “Kenya did his psychological intake exam, and she agreed he’d formed no professional relationship with you. He thinks of you as the hot guy who came to drive him to camp, not as Dr. Lewis.”

  Tate’s lips thinned. “I need to hear that from him.”

  Diann’s laugh echoed off the brick. “Need your ego fed?”

  “No, I need to know he felt attracted to me before the Turn bond started to form,” he said flatly.

  Her humor evaporated. “I’ve talked to him, and so has Kenya. We are medical professionals, Tate, just like you. We wouldn’t let him be coerced into something. I don’t think this is his hormones talking.” She sighed and reached out to take his arm as he moved past her midpace. “This could be something special, Tate. Don’t shut that out.”

  That probably scared Tate more than anything. He’d grown comfortable here, even though the moments he hated his job were growing more frequent. He didn’t have to worry about forming attachments because most of the campers left after a month, and staffers tended not to stay much more than six months to a year. It was an in-between job. Something a werewolf at the beginning of their career would do. The exceptions were few, and all of the long-timers had a good reason not to move on. Diann had been here the longest at fifteen years. She’d lost her only son in a Turn gone wrong and dedicated her life to sparing others the same fate. Kenya only worked at the camp part-time, spending several days a week teaching classes at nearby Indiana University. She’d been there a year before she brought Tate on board. He was coming up on almost ten years himself, though a scarce few knew why he’d chosen to settle in. The next person in line was the Pilates and Soul Cycle teacher, who’d been there two. But most staffers didn’t find it the kind of place where you could put down roots, which made it ideal for Tate. Roots scared him.

  “I see you thinking,” Diann said. “And I’m glad for it. Moonrise will be here soon. Wh
y don’t you go over to the mess hall and grab something cold to drink and a quick bite to eat? Take some time to think.”

  She let go of his arm and gave him a sad smile. “If you decide you don’t want to do it, we’ll manage. Don’t come back to the infirmary if you don’t intend to stay. It will be easier for Adrian not to have you there at all if you aren’t going to honor the Turn bond.”

  That stung, but it was fair. Tate hadn’t been aware they were forming the bond, but there must have been something in the kind of signals he was putting out that made Adrian’s subconscious latch on. It wasn’t either of their faults—it just was. And now he was going to have to figure out whether or not he could handle it.

  Chapter Seven

  ADRIAN had always considered himself to be an articulate person, so he was surprised to find himself at a loss for words to describe how he was feeling. His senses were in overdrive, and he was so hyperaware of everything around him he felt like he might burst. He couldn’t concentrate on anything Kenya was saying because he kept getting distracted by things happening in other parts of the infirmary.

  “Your body knows what to do,” Kenya said, and Adrian’s attention snapped back to her. “Trust your instincts.”

  His instincts were telling him to tear out of the building and go after his Turn bondmate, but Adrian knew that would be a mistake. He’d heard every word of Tate and Diann’s conversation in the courtyard, and he had to wonder if that had been intentional. She’d said his hearing was abnormally acute, which made him think most of the wolflings wouldn’t have been able to hear them. But nothing about Adrian’s Turn was going to be normal, it seemed. When Diann had come back in to check his vitals after Tate left, she’d given him a very odd, appraising look. Had she been silently judging his reaction? What did they expect him to do? Chase after Tate like an animal?

  As much as he’d like to do just that, Adrian wasn’t going to debase himself—or Tate—that way. He’d read about Turn bonds years ago. He’d even hoped for one, naively sizing up his fellow campers as the hours crept closer to the full moon, wondering which one of them might be the one to bond with him so they could help each other through the Turn.