by Michele Hauf
“I’m not a preacher by any measure of the word.” Ridge lifted his fists in defense. He liked a good fistfight. No high kicks or martial arts moves for him. Keep it simple. Nothing fancy. A well-delivered fist trumped a kick to the jaw any day. Pummel your opponent’s weak spots and organs until he puked. “You know the blood sport has been outlawed.”
“Yeah, yeah. Every decade or so the Council sends out a new list of stupid rules. We’re wolves, man. Don’t you want to live like one?”
“We don’t need to kill to survive. And we certainly don’t need to celebrate the deaths of others. That kind of gang mentality makes all the rest of us look bad. Why don’t you think for yourself?”
“I do, and I take great joy watching vampires tear out each other’s veins to get to the blood they crave.”
Another swing of a fist whooshed the icy air an inch from Ridge’s nose. He dodged the move easily, grabbed the man’s forearm and swung him around against the side of a black SUV. “You got a vampire in there named Mac York?”
Out of the corner of his eye he saw Abigail’s hair reflect the moonlight with her movement. Not now. He had them where he wanted them. No magic, please.
“I don’t learn their names,” Ski Cap growled. “I want to watch them tear each other apart. Like I’m going to do to you. There’s a bounty on your head, you know that?”
Ridge took a gut punch, because he needed to feel the fury build. He retaliated with a hard fist to the wolf’s jaw, which sent blood spattering across the packed snow and at the other’s feet. “That’s a lie.”
“There will be if you don’t get off the property right now. Martin, go get the others!”
Martin saluted them with his empty beer cup and turned, staggering yet managing to trundle along quickly toward the barn.
Slamming the wolf against the car, Ridge pounded a fist against his neck, his shoulder, and then delivered the kidney shot that doubled him and lowered him to his knees.
“You got anger issues,” Ski Cap spat out in a spray of blood. “Maybe you need to go against a bloody longtooth!”
“Ridge, watch out!”
At Abigail’s shout, he turned to her—saw her gesture a hand in a manner he knew meant business—and he reactively ducked.
The wolf at his feet flew through the air and slammed into the three werewolves who charged, toppling them down like bowling pins.
“Abigail!” He growled at the witch. “That wasn’t the right time for that!”
“I just saved your ass!”
“My ass didn’t need saving.” He glanced toward the barn, where other wolves exited in a rage. “Hell, here they come. Get safe!” He shoved her toward the dark line of pine trees and turned in time to catch a wolf still in were shape barreling into him.
“It’s the Northern principal,” the wounded wolf called to his cohorts.
“What the hell do you want?” one of them called.
“I just want to talk.” Ridge shoved off the wolf and flexed his shoulders, feeling his muscles tighten and his werewolf struggle for freedom. “You know the blood sport is prohibited.”
The lead wolf with curly dark hair, whom he recognized but couldn’t put a name to, spat on the ground before Ridge. “We don’t bother your pitiful pack—you stay away from ours. Not like he has a pack anymore, eh, guys?”
The wolves behind him chuckled tightly. One had already begun to shift, talons springing out from hands that quickly shaped into paws.
“Who is with you?” the dark one asked. “There was another. Russell, go look for the other.”
“There is no other,” Ridge called as the shifting wolf began to stalk off. If one of them laid a single paw on Abigail, he would be forced to retaliate. Hard.
And then he growled deep from within his chest, and lowered his head, bracing for the imminent charge.
The dark wolf collided with him, and Ridge judged the challenge would be great but not overwhelming. He could take him easily while in were form, but he knew this wouldn’t end well if he did allow the shift. Anger and his werewolf never mixed.
Fortunately, his opponent didn’t shift, either. Instead, they beat each other with fists and slammed faces against the cold, steel bodies of the parked cars. Windows were smashed out by stray fists, and safety glass flaked through the air like ice in a storm. Ridge managed to put the wolf’s face through a windshield.
Gripped from behind, he was swung around, only to get clotheslined by one of the others. Quickly, three men were on him, one punching him in the ribs, another choking him from behind and the last waiting for a turn to kick him in the jaw.
Feeling his skin growing tight over his muscles, he growled and managed a few defensive punches. His werewolf clamored for release, and the shift of another of his opponents scented the air with so much bloody aggression that he couldn’t see clearly for the strain to hold back his beast.
A flash of pale clothing moved beyond the parked cars. A flutter of white fur alerted him. She was heading toward the barn.
“Abigail, no!”
The wolves surrounding him turned to spy the witch. Two took off after her, one in shifted werewolf form. Not good, in too many ways to count.
Ridge charged through the half circle of wolves, feeling his beast demand release. The others were shifting, coming to werewolf form with raging howls that echoed across the countryside.
As he relented to his animal nature, his talons popped out first, which he slashed across his open coat and tore away as it was ripped beneath his growing muscles. His shirt also tore, hanging on his arms in shreds.
Behind him he heard the growls of others shifting. This was not what he’d wanted. A bloodbath wasn’t necessary.
But if he wanted to protect Abigail it would be.
The witch flung a hand gesture toward the shifted wolf, who pounced, landing before her in a crouch. Magic hit the werewolf in the chest and sent his flailing body flying across the parking grounds and crashing into a pine tree.
Good play, Ridge thought, and then his mortal thoughts segued with his wolf. Fully shifted, he was more animal in mind than man. The blood scent stirred another howl. The female fear scent bewildered his beast. It was an alien scent to him, in this situation. But it drew him like no other scent did.
His paws dug into the snowy drive, sinking into the icy gravel, but as he pushed up to leap and land before the woman, he felt a slash of talons across his back.
Ridge swung about to face five werewolves, their talons flexed and teeth snarling. He could take down the one on the left who was shortest with but a smash of his paw and a slice of his razored talon. Not a smart move, though, because the others would be on him like a starving pack to a fresh kill.
A blast of magic whizzed past his shoulder. He felt it as tangible heat, an energy so strong—and familiar—that his werewolf flinched and growled snappingly at the witch.
The werewolves scattered, stunned by the bolt of magic that crackled like lightning in the air over their heads.
The witch gripped the door to the building, and when Ridge wanted to yell for her to stop, he could not because he had no mortal voice in this form.
She swung out an arm toward another approaching wolf, but this time it appeared her magic failed her. The wolf landed before her, towering two heads above the petite witch.
Ridge twisted and dug in his paws, taking a leap and landing on the back of the wolf. His talons dug into the chest, scraping ribs, and he pierced heart muscle. The wolf shook at him furiously and slammed him against the building to dislodge him.
The door flung wide and the eyes of a wolf in man shape widened.
No time to introduce themselves now. Ridge swept an arm about the female’s shoulders and flung her over his shoulder. He dodged another werewolf and raced away from the parking area. Behind him, the pack howled madly and set into pursuit.
He tracked through the foot-deep snow with little difficulty because the hard, icy crust allowed him to traverse without sinking in d
eeply. Ice beads clung to his fur. His wolf fled the danger, yet it was distracted by the soft, scented female he carried over his shoulder.
Mine.
While instinct wanted to surrender to aggression and turn and face the challenge, he sensed he needed to get her to safety. To make her his. Gripping her tightly, he flinched when she cried out. Blood scent disturbed him, erasing the rising instinct to mate.
Arriving at the car, he set the female down on the driver’s side. She clutched her thigh. From the red stain on her slacks, he reasoned a talon had dug into her there.
“I’m fine,” she said.
He huffed and growled, revealing his teeth to her. She was something he recognized. His werewolf remembered her from some other time. He wanted this female.
“They’re getting close!” She rushed around to the opposite side of the vehicle. “Get in!”
The door opened from the inside, and he could understand her command but kept his head up, studying the horizon. The pack was close. They wanted his blood.
Because of the female?
He could toss her to them and run off. But the remembrance that pricked his instincts nudged him in the other direction. He couldn’t fit in the truck and wouldn’t try. He had to lure the pack away.
Taking off across the field, he ran north, at an angle to the road.
The witch turned the vehicle around and peeled down the gravel road. Wolves in man-beast form and wolf form tracked the vehicle for half a mile or so, until the female turned onto the main road and slammed on the accelerator.
They’d given up on the truck, and though Ridge could let out a howl that would alert them to his position, he watched and waited beneath stripped birch trees. Soon the pack turned to head to the barn. They’d given up.
He trotted toward the main road, tracking the small red glow he knew would lead him to the female.
When he reached the truck, the werewolf howled and slammed a paw against the roof of the vehicle, leaving a dent, as the shift came upon him. Bones realigned and reformed, muscles snapped like thick rubber straps and his organs crushed against one another as his veins roped them into alignment.
He howled again, suffering the brunt of the uncomfortable shift.
He was naked now, but the darkness concealed him, bent over beside the back tire. Cold swept over his sweaty flesh, icing it painfully. The plan, which hadn’t really been a plan, had been fucked. And the River pack was holding blood sport. He hadn’t discovered if the vampire they sought was inside, but it could still be a possibility.
Damn it all! He’d stepped into a nasty hive and stirred up the drones.
“You okay?” Abigail called out from the driver’s side.
He rubbed an arm to draw heat to his skin. “Give me a minute. I’ve got a change of clothes in the back. Toss them out, will you?”
Chapter 5
So frenzied was the adrenaline that rushed through her system, after tossing Ridge’s clothes to him, Abigail waited but a minute before sliding out of the truck cab.
He’d pulled up his jeans, put on laced-up hiking boots and sorted the sleeves of a pullover shirt, which he’d yet to put on. She could actually see steam rise from his skin as his body heat reacted to the brisk chilled air. Bet he’d be a steaming-hot lover.
Oh, Abigail! Not now with the distracting thoughts.
“I’m sorry, but I didn’t know what to do,” she said. “It’s what I do. React. They were coming after you. But I did manage to take out a few wolves.”
“Yes, you did,” he said tightly.
He was angry with her. And he had every right to be. She’d screwed up their chances of learning what vampires, if any, were being kept inside the barn. But it was a good thing she had used her magic, or Ridge would have been taken down by the half dozen wolves who’d shifted and come after him. Go, witch!
He had been stunning in werewolf form. Two heads taller than her, all muscle and sinew, and regally pelted in dark brown fur that swept from his head, down his neck and shoulders and across his back and hips. A fully shifted werewolf was nothing to sneer at, and in fact, if you did sneer, you might walk away with talon scars somewhere on your body.
But she couldn’t forget his reaction when he’d first turned to find her standing near the barn.
“Your werewolf flinched when I threw magic. Why are you so afraid of me? I don’t have any reason to harm you.”
“Seriously?” He tossed the shirt over a shoulder and tugged down one side of the unbuttoned jeans, exposing his torso to the thigh. Moonlight glinted on his steaming flesh. “Take a look at this, and then you tell me why I flinched.”
A bright white scar cut from his abdomen down to his thigh, and so close to— “Oh.”
“Oh? You nearly gelded me, witch! I’d call that a very good reason to flinch around you and your trigger-happy finger.”
“Looks like an electrical burn,” she noted from experience. “Electricity and I don’t get along, especially if there’s a leyline in the area. Pretty sure Las Vegas is situated on a healthy leyline. There’s probably a major vortice stretching out from the Grand Canyon area, for sure. My earth magic reacts to the magnetic pull and…sometimes I conduct electricity through my magic.”
“Is that so? This was earth magic? Sounds too tame, when it felt like a million volts, let me tell you. You came this close to putting me out of commission with the ladies!”
“I’m sorry.” She bent to study the scar again, but he snapped up his jeans and zipped them with a furious tug. She hadn’t seen what she’d been looking for. “Is your…well, is it all right?”
“What? My penis? Yes, no thanks to you. This scar cuts an inch away from the poor guy.”
“Ouch.”
“This close, Abigail.” He pinched his fingers before her. “A guy’s manhood is his pride, I’ll have you know.”
“I’m really sorry.”
“Enough of your insincere apologies. Just sign the damn divorce papers and let me out of your life.”
She should do just that. He deserved an easy release now that she’d seen the result of her misdirected magic. Poor guy. Men really were touchy about damage to their manhood. For good reason, too, because a pack leader’s status depended on his ability to father a pack.
But she had not damaged him beyond the emotional pain he apparently suffered. And who would be her warrior if she signed the papers? She couldn’t rescue Ryan on her own. After facing the wolves at the barn she realized the big bad witch was in over her head.
Those damned witches who had her son! Who were they? And how dare they drag an innocent into the fray. When she finally met the mysterious caller, she would unleash her fire magic without regret, and this time she’d make dead sure her aim gelded.
Ridge finally tugged the shirt over his head. “Give me the damn keys.”
She tossed him the keys but remained by the truck bed, her arms crossed and her head up to prevent tears from tracing her cheeks. She didn’t want him to see her like this, soft and weak. Stupid tears! Stupid emotions!
Abigail Rowan was neither soft nor weak. She was a known troublemaker, and had been called the baddest of the bad by Ridge. Which she was, thank you very much.
Had been. You’re not that witch anymore. You’re a mother, first and foremost.
Life had overwhelmed her of late. She was beginning to crumble, and she wasn’t sure how to stand tall without some support.
“Oh, what is it?” The disgust in Ridge’s voice prodded the tears pooling in the corner of her eyes and they spilled over. “Are you crying? Tough little witch like you?”
“Just stop it! So I’m not so tough. And I’m sorry for something that was an accident. And I can’t make your life better right now because I’m only focused on one thing. And…” She hated him seeing her in such a state. But she couldn’t stop, and the words sped out on trembling tones. “I need your help, Ridge. I can’t do this myself.”
She stood in his embrace before she saw him move. His ar
ms wrapped about her like steel yet held her gently, with the reassurance that something stronger and bigger than she was close and would help. The tears didn’t stop, and she didn’t care because she needed to get them out.
Was this her punishment for living a wild and wicked life for centuries? Now, when she truly had someone in her life she loved—her son—would he be ripped from her arms in repayment for the cruelties she had served others?
If she could turn back time, she would erase it all. Take back all the evil, vindictive magic, the obsessive love affairs, even the wicked thoughts and actions against all breeds other than her own.
Ridge didn’t say anything or offer the requisite reassurances. And she loved him for the quiet strength she could feel flowing from his body into her pores, as if he possessed a magic of his own. Clutching his shirt, she turned into him and clung to the only salvation she could find at the moment.
When he bracketed her head and lifted her face to look into her eyes, she sniffed back a tear. “You can rely on me, Abigail. I’ll get your son back. No matter what is required. I promise I will do it.” The conviction in his tone chimed like a clear bell.
“Why? Why do you care? A signature on a piece of paper is no reason to risk your life. We both know it doesn’t matter.”
He pressed her head against his neck. “I’ve thought of you almost every day since Vegas.”
“What?” She searched his shadowed gaze, but felt his presence beam through her skin as if liquid sunshine was lighting this, her darkest moment. “What are you saying?”
“I know I was drunker than I’ve ever been—hell, I rarely drink—but I do remember some things. Like your giggling laughter.”
“I was wasted, Ridge. That was the vodka laughing.”
“I know. And your eyes. Your eyes have haunted me, Abigail. They’re bluer than any sky I’ve ever looked at. So bright. I bought a pillow…it’s the same color as your eyes. Sounds funny, but it reminds me of you every time I look at it. And your body.”
