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feel when he slid his cock into that parted mouth, how  Terry would moan in delight when he tightened his lips around the shaft.
    Morgan got to his feet. If he could only wait until the end of the night, then so be it. At least he would be able to get Terry cleaned up and put some more food into him, and then maybe find out a little more about where the omega came from, before that time came.
    “No, stay,” Terry begged, sitting up and grabbing Morgan’s hand.
    “I’m not going anywhere,” Morgan replied, helping Terry to his feet and moving him to the bathroom. “You need to clean up again.”
    “You’ll come in the water with me?” Terry asked, his voice suggesting just how much he still feared the idea of being in the
    water.
    “I won’t give you a bath again. You can have a shower this time.”
    Terry shivered, his arms reaching around Morgan’s waist, holding  him close. “I still want you with me. I feel safe with you.”
    He had to think about that for a few seconds. Well…
    “Okay, but I won’t be claiming you, yet.”

    Mated to the Wild Omega                      35

    Chapter Five
    Tatum threw another log onto the fire he’d built, and he stared into the bright orange flames as they crackled and burned. He laced his fingers together to rest his chin on them, and he couldn’t stop scowling.
    That old fucker who’d hired him, Tom, the previous hunter to be in command, was long since dead. He’d warned Tatum and his boys that there was a reason why hunters as of late had been avoiding this spot.
    Not enough were coming back alive.
    Hunters were a breed who searched out and destroyed their paranormal prey in small groups of three or five. Anything bigger than that made travel difficult, and anything smaller was stupid.
    Tatum had gotten enough hunters on his last planned attack that he should have been able to wipe out every werewolf they came across. He’d had at least ten men, all of whom were now dead, including Tatum’s friends, the men he’d hunted with since figuring out this shit was real when he turned sixteen.
    They’d killed enough werewolves to last for the winter, however, and with the others dead, that left fewer people for Tatum to share the profits with.
    There were people out there willing to pay huge amounts of money to get their hands on a real werewolf pelt. It was hard to tell the difference between a normal wolf and a werewolf, other than the size of the fur itself, but Tatum had sold all the furs he’d gotten from his last kill with the exception of one.
    It was his trophy to wear, to show off to other hunters that he was

    36                            Marcy Jacks
    the real fucking deal, and he could take out a number of werewolves
    and survive, even when shit went south.
    As for the rest, he’d sold them for a good price, replaced the weapons he’d lost in the battle, and was now just biding his time.
    He didn’t have nearly enough supplies for a full-blown attack once more, but he would at the end of the winter. The fact that he’d
    all but destroyed that one pack, sending its alpha into hiding, had  made it back to all the main hangouts where hunters were known to  frequent. Despite his losses, he was seen as something of a war hero.
    That one made him grin. A war hero at twenty-five. He liked that.
    The families of the dead hunters were grieving, and since winter  was a hard time for hunting, they were going to wait until the spring  before they decided to join him.
    He would have backup, and he would take out that other pack.  Tatum had hated that old man’s guts. Tom had always been bossing  him around the second Tatum and his boys had arrived on the scene,  but he was still one of them, and Tatum was going to make sure that  he was avenged.
    If Tatum happened to enjoy the hunt itself, the look in the eyes of  those wolves right as the life left them, well, that was his own benefit.
    He looked out the