Heat 0f The Night (Werewolf Shifter Romance)

by Gaja J. Kos

  I glanced at Hans. He’d positioned the rifle to shoot, his body still relaxed, but calm. The kind of calm only natural predators had the luxury to sink into.

  With one eye on the scope, he whispered, “As soon Yuriy is clear, I’ll take them out.”

  We’d already agreed on that, but Hans must have known I needed a little extra assurance. I trusted Demyan. Trusted he could more than take care of himself. But that didn’t mean I liked having him down there alone. My very soul seemed disturbed that I wasn’t by his side.

  “Yuriy,” Demyan commanded. “Release him and do what you fucking came here to do. He isn’t part of this.”

  “Were you this impatient when you slaughtered my cousin?” Tolya Nikolaev fired back as his enforcer brought Yuriy from the car. Though Demyan’s brother was smaller, leaner, the similarities were undeniably there. Tolya grabbed him none too gently. “Were you this impatient? Or did you take your time, paying him back for every soul you reaped so willingly?”

  If I hadn’t been paying such close attention, I would have probably missed the split-second tension coiled through Demyan’s frame before he slipped behind his rough facade once more.

  A primal part had enjoyed the death.

  But what mattered was the conscience that had won over in the end.

  “As much time as it took for him to die after I spilled his guts all over the floor.” Demyan delivered the statement without emotion, without anything hinting that his past—or the situation he was in now—had any effect on him at all. “You seem to have done all right for yourself, so I really don’t see why you—”

  “Shut up.” A flash of teeth—regular, human ones. Something in me loosened. Not a Black were, then. No partial shifts from Tolya. Oh, he was still lethal as fuck, but not quite as much as us. “You have no idea what it cost us to lose the pack. And for what? So that you can work for the very same people who wouldn’t have lifted a damn finger before the War, had they known the shit circumstances we were forced to live in?”

  Yuriy, while remaining still to draw as little attention to himself as possible, kept glancing between Demyan and the alpha. Demyan had told me his brother wasn’t a fighter. Sure, he’d been exposed to violence as much as any werewolf is, but he didn’t have it in him, the drive like us Freundenbergers did. The brutality that was second nature to Demyan.

  I had to give it to Yuriy—he was holding his shit together well.

  Far better than me, if the wheels didn’t start turning soon.

  Probably realizing speaking wouldn’t get him the desired result, Demyan didn’t reply. He merely motioned to his brother again.

  “Let him go. I’ve held up my end of the deal.” He took a step forward. “I’m yours to kill, Nikolaev.”

  The alpha’s lips parted in a cruel smile. “You are, Diak Pavlov. Demyan Morozov.” His gaze flickered over to Yuriy. “But I think I’ll take this one, too. After all, what are two lives compared to the dozens you’ve slaughtered?”

  Chapter Twenty-One

  Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

  Demyan, the asshole, had put entirely too much faith in the morals of other weres.

  Even killers have honor, he’d said when we’d lain in bed last night. We were brutal, even among us, but our words were bonds.

  Once upon a time, maybe, but this was a new world. With new rules and new dickheads making them.

  My mind flashed red as a whole fucking crowd of werewolves spilled from the surrounding streets and warehouses. Some even climbed out of the godsdamned sewer. They had maxed out those blind spots we’d been unable to scout earlier. Nikolaev was a dick, but shit, the level of organization that took…

  I made a habit out of never underestimating my opponents.

  In Nikolaev’s case, I’d failed.

  I sprang from my hiding spot and launched myself towards the mapped-out path that would take me down to the fight. Hans didn’t say anything as I bolted, though I had spotted him easing into that utter, blank calm he always did right before that rifle fired. I just needed to get down there in time. Hans might be able to take out most of them, but not before they’d had a chance to harm Yuriy or Demyan.

  And that just wasn’t acceptable.

  With one eye on the happenings below me, I alternated between running in a crouch and leaping short distances until my feet landed on solid ground. None of the werewolves had spotted me, but now that I was among them, my scent spread far too quickly for my liking. There was no time for finesse.

  I barreled through the warm bodies separating me from Demyan. Snarls and grunts echoed as I clawed and bit my way through the living barrier. I wasn’t stopping for anything. Blood coated my lips, my fingers. My claws slashed and ripped, growl after growl bursting from the back of my throat. The brisk slaughter caused enough of a commotion to have others running my way.

  My heart sped up even as relief slammed into me.

  With their attention on our little fight, there were fewer assholes for Demyan to tackle.

  I couldn’t even see him past the throng of werewolves—a throng that was decidedly thinning as my brother kept firing round after deathly precise round.

  Hans never missed his mark.

  But the marks were still too fucking many.

  And with no way of knowing what was happening with Demyan, I did what I did best. I unchained myself.

  Though I kept moving in the general direction of where Demyan should be, I concealed my path as much as I could, making it seem as if the fighting itself was carrying me that way. With the nearly overwhelming number of candidates in for a pounding, it wasn’t even that hard, although I was certain at least a few of them had caught on to my tactic.

  Thankfully, they thought they had a better chance at stopping me out here than falling back to protect their alpha and secure a twisted sick prize.

  Good for me. Bad for them.

  Skin and flesh tore, bodily fluids spilling onto the progressively more stained concrete. I became nothing but death. A tool for my most basic, primal self. The self that had almost led the Black werewolves into extinction once upon a time, when we had been deemed too dangerous for this world.

  Seeing the carnage I left behind, the thought might not have been entirely unjustified.

  The first thing I saw when I broke past most of the bodies meant to keep me away from the core of it all was the blood. The ground was slick with it, more than a few corpses contributing to the overpowering coppery scent riding the night air. And at the very heart of it was Demyan.

  He was fighting off four werewolves at once, his body the epitome of efficiency and grace as he snapped necks and broke bones.

  He was divine.

  But also outnumbered.

  As a fifth asshole wanted to join the party, I made my move. I intercepted his advance, then swiped my claws across his torso. He hesitated just for a second as the pain registered.

  And that was all I needed to finish him off.

  He dropped down, lifeless and gushing blood from the deep wound adorning his neck.

  Another came at me. I ducked, then lashed out with a foot before maneuvering myself into a position that would give me the best advantage. He’d read me wrong, just as I wanted him to, and screamed like a fucking banshee when I ripped out his godsdamn spine before the sound cut off as abruptly as his life. I smashed the damn column of muscle and bone into another’s face, then threw myself into the mess of blood and violence surrounding Demyan.

  I tried to take some of the load off his hands, but Demyan pushed me aside, his voice unnervingly even despite the way he wielded his claws as if they were the most balanced of knives. “Get Yuriy. Get him out, Greta. Now.”

  My soul screamed in protest, but my mind and body alike reacted to the command. I traced my gaze in the direction Demyan had looked at, finally noting his brother crab-walking on the ground. Three werewolves circled him like fucking vultures. They were enjoying themselves, the sick fucks. Feeding on the fear that was so evident on Yuriy’s face even
my own instincts responded.

  But right when I thought they’d corner him for good, Yuriy snarled. His teeth elongated into canines, and he snarled again, letting them see the glory of our species.

  A Black were.

  I should have known Demyan’s blood ran pure. Which meant his brother was precisely like him in all the ways that counted.

  The display bought him a few more seconds.

  I slipped in and took care of two of the werewolves while Yuriy finished off the third. He looked a little green around the edges when he raised his gaze to mine, blood dripping down his chin.

  “What have I done?” he muttered and stared at the evidence of his stand.

  An excellent stand in my opinion. Which was all the more reason why his whining needed to cool it down a couple of notches.

  I really didn’t have the fucking time to reassure a grown-up werewolf about something he should have been initiated into from the very start. So I yanked him by the hand away from the corpse.

  “Stay beside me,” I commanded. “Demyan’s orders are to take you to safety, but if you’ll act difficult, just remember I have no qualms knocking you out and slinging you over my shoulders like a sack of potatoes.”

  With our agreement in place, we retraced my steps back up towards Hans. I only needed to take care of two weres before we were in the clear, climbing up as fast as we could on the precarious terrain. As soon as we emerged on the rooftop, I sat Yuriy down—perhaps using a bit more force than necessary—then turned to throw myself back into the fray.

  “Where the fuck do you think you’re going?”

  Hans.

  He hadn’t removed his gaze from the scope, but there was no mistaking who his question was aimed at. He might as well have been glaring at me.

  “I know you can’t get a clean shot,” I parried, climbing farther away. “And Demyan can’t handle them on his own.”

  The admission stung, but I needed to put it out there.

  Hans couldn’t risk shooting Demyan to thin out his attackers.

  But without any aid, I knew there was only one outcome for the werewolf I loved.

  “It’s a death trap down there,” Hans said at last.

  Yuriy muttered something, but I shut his voice out, focusing only on my brother. “I’d rather die alongside him than not fight at all.”

  Hans lifted his gaze from the scope. I wanted to yell at him to keep looking for an opening, but the starkness of his gaze shut me up.

  “He’s your mate.”

  “He is.”

  An almost imperceptible dip of Hans’s chin, and then he was watching through the scope again, ready to clear the way as much as he could.

  Or prevent anyone from coming after him and Yuriy if Demyan and I failed.

  Chapter Twenty-Two

  I focused on the scent of blood and death dominating the air, let it ground me. Kick my instincts into overdrive as my mind slipped into the quiet, lethal state I allowed to enter the light of day only under special circumstances.

  Seeing the man I loved fighting for his life definitely fit the bill.

  Demyan was engaged with Nikolaev in what should have been a one-on-one fight between two adversaries like in the days of old, but the pack didn’t particularly care about playing dirty. They swarmed him, using every opening to slice at him with knives—or, those who had shifted, teeth and claws. Several of them held guns in their hands, though, thankfully, they encountered the same problem as Hans had up on the rooftop.

  In the blur of teeth, claws, and limbs, it was impossible to fire without the risk of hitting one of their own.

  A sting grazed my shoulder.

  Of course, they had no such issues shooting at me.

  I threw myself behind a weathered, rusty container as blood trickled down my arm. The harsh rhythm of the fight continued on the other side, and I knew I had to move. Not just to stand by Demyan, but get out of this death trap. I already made out the distinct thud of footsteps hurrying to box me in.

  Bracing myself against the container, I rose from my crouched position and glanced around. Just two feet of space separated me from the building, with the two visible ways out leading right back into the fray. Right towards the werewolves closing in from both sides.

  I tipped my head up. The edge of the container loomed high above, though it wasn’t an impossible jump. Of course, it wasn’t the wisest of options, either.

  The seconds seemed to slow and speed up all at once. I was acutely aware that with every heartbeat I wavered, my chances of doing something that would put me at an advantage were dwindling down. I flexed my clawed fingers, then looked over my shoulder.

  There.

  Without thinking any further, I launched myself up the container, then kicked back and smashed right through the narrow slit of a window on the third floor. Glass ripped my clothes and skin, sinking into my flesh when I landed atop the shards, but the sudden bout of shouting in Russian brought a smile to my face.

  I plucked the shards free from my skin so my body could heal the cuts, then quickly scanned my surroundings. A stairwell dominated the northeastern corner, so I moved in the opposite direction, my mind churning ideas at breakneck speed. Would they come up here after me? Or would they finish off Demyan first?

  I was hoping for the former but knew it in my bones that it would be the latter.

  Hans’s shots rang outside.

  I rushed over to one of the windows.

  Third option it was.

  With their brains leaking all over the ground, they really couldn’t do either. But as my gaze traveled deeper into the courtyard, the momentary amusement iced over.

  Shit.

  The pack was wearing Demyan down.

  It took everything I had to keep my mind calm. To focus on my task instead of blindly rushing for him as he let out a wounded howl. But for all the seconds I’d lost, standing in the dark, I stumbled onto a reward.

  Breaking into a run towards the left-hand corner, I tossed aside the mounds of useless equipment until my fingers curled around the blowtorch. I turned it on, praying to all the damn gods that it worked.

  Heat licked the night air.

  Turning off the flame, I sprinted right back to the window I’d crashed through. With the flamethrower in my hands, the fit was tight, but I managed to squeeze through and turn mid-fall.

  My lacking velocity, however, didn’t carry me far enough.

  I landed hard on the edge of the container, a snap cutting through the air as the force cracked open my ankle. Pain lanced through me, and I tumbled backward, hitting the ground hard enough to get the wind knocked out of me. I groaned, then pushed up.

  Out of the corner of my eyes, I caught pieces of torn sinew and bone peeking out between my shoes and pants. Fuck it. I gritted my teeth and dragged the damn leg behind me. Every move was torture, but with my goal set firmly in my mind, I made it around the corner.

  It didn’t take long for the werewolves to notice me.

  But it didn’t matter.

  I lifted the flamethrower and let the fire loose.

  Screams and the stench of charred flesh filled the air. I roasted every one of the motherfuckers who were at a safe distance from Demyan. Burned them until not even a werewolf’s healing abilities could repair the brutal damage. Sweat dripped down my skin as heat overtook the venue, but a chill slithered down my spine as I heard another howl.

  Weaker.

  Filled with anguish and fury.

  The kind of sound a wolf made right before they died.

  This time, the restraints I had on my mind snapped. I threw the flamethrower into a were at the edge of the group surrounding Demyan, knocking him out of the way, then speared for the opening, useless, wasted ankle and all. I didn’t have time to think, to read the movements of the weres who spotted my approach.

  Another bullet slammed into me and threw my already injured arm back.

  But I was still running, still ripping through skin and flesh as I pushed clo
ser to the bloody heart of it all.

  Shots fired in the background.

  Hans.

  But not just him.

  A bullet lodged in my shoulder blade.

  Another slammed in my thigh.

  I let loose a menacing snarl, killed the werewolf blocking me from the main fight, and nearly staggered when the sight hit me.

  Tolya Nikolaev, one hand pressing down on Demyan’s windpipe as he straddled him, the other brandishing a knife.

  And Demyan…

  He wasn’t fighting.

  He wasn’t doing anything except battling the unconsciousness dragging his mind under.

  I rammed into the fucker with all the strength I had left.

  Nikolaev’s knife slid deep into my abdomen as my wolfish teeth sank into his neck.

  Blood sprayed me with its coppery warmth as I tore out chunks of flesh, then let him fall down. A series of howls rose in the background. Clutching one hand against the stomach wound to staunch the bleeding, I lashed out with my free, still mostly uninjured, arm.

  My claws snagged skin, but with the edges of my vision turning black, I couldn’t even see the damage I was causing. Couldn’t fucking turn around and fight with the damn weakness plaguing my knees.

  Another shot rang out.

  And the darkness took me.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  If someone gave me the option of deciding between getting shot again—multiple times, at that—and standing in the office of a very pissed off Superintendent General of the Interspecies Crimes and Relations Agency, I’d opt for the bullets.

  As it was, after the medics had pulled out all the damn lead and patched me up, I had no choice but to head in for a face-to-face with the big guns. Metaphorical ones, sadly.

  “You can consider yourself lucky, Agent Freundenberger”—Gabler leveled his hard, gray eyes at me—“that we didn’t arrest your brother for the shit you pulled.”

  I swallowed. Didn’t give a crap about how audible it was.