Dedication
To my husband Gerard, who taught me what love is all about.
Prologue
Seven months ago…
Blood. There was so much blood. It coated her hands and spattered her arms, face and clothing. She stumbled back from the body sprawled on the floor, hardly believing what she’d just done.
Scrambling away, she jerked her dress over her head and scrubbed at her arms and hands. When she’d wiped away the worst of it, she went to the sink and worked the pump handle until water flowed. Grabbing the bar of soap on the edge of the sink, she went to work.
She built up a thick lather between her hands and rubbed it over her body and face. She repeated the process, not caring about the water spilling on the floor, until she was clean. There was a threadbare towel on a peg next to the sink and she used it to quickly dry herself.
She didn’t spare a glance for the large, gray-haired man as she hurried to the long, narrow closet that served as her sleeping area. She glared at the hated padlock that kept her confined within the small space each night and at the silver-plated manacles that were bolted to the floor. Those were snapped around her ankles at night to ensure she wouldn’t escape while he slept.
She didn’t have a bed. A simple pallet on the floor was where she slept. The walls were bare and there was no furniture. Her few meager bits of clothing were hung on hooks on the wall. She pulled on a clean dress and bundled her belongings together, shoving them in a paper bag. She didn’t have much.
She left the closet and glanced around the room. She didn’t want to take anything of his with her, but she wasn’t stupid either. Skirting the body, she went to his desk and opened the top drawer. He kept a small amount of cash there for emergencies. She took it all, shoving it into her bag.
A weapon. She needed something to protect herself. All the guns were locked up and the key was in his pocket. There was nothing in heaven or hell that could make her touch him in order to get at it. She’d also never used a gun in her life.
That left the knife.
She steeled herself for what she was about to do. She’d just killed a man. There was no need to get squeamish now.
Creeping over to the body, she stared at the knife hilt protruding from his chest. The handle was carved from bone and it was very old, an antique that had belonged to his father and his father before him. Or so he’d told her many times. All she cared was the blade was sharp.
It had been her salvation.
It was startling how different he looked lying there on the worn plank floor. Blood stained his clothing and the floor around him. She’d stabbed him several times before managing to strike the final blow.
His skin was unnaturally pale, his lips slightly parted. A line of drool spilled out of the left corner of his mouth. He appeared smaller somehow. Nothing at all like the demon who’d haunted her days and nights for years.
She could do this.
Taking a deep breath, she reached down, wrapped her fingers around the handle and yanked the weapon from his cold, dead heart. She wiped the blade on the arm of his shirt, removing the worst of the blood. She quickly grabbed a dishtowel and wrapped the knife in it before adding it to her bag of belongings. She’d clean it better later. She had to get out of here. Now.
A sense of urgency drove her. She had no idea how long it might be before one of his friends showed up. They came and went at all hours of the day and night with no regularity. One of them might show up in the next minute or it might not be until next week.
Either way, she wasn’t going to be here.
She scurried to the door, her bag clutched tight to her chest. The door creaked as she pulled it open.
Pausing, she turned back. She couldn’t leave things as they were.
Swearing under her breath, she went to the woodstove and grabbed a box of matches. She struck one and watched the flame flicker, then burn higher. She walked to the worn-out, stained mattress in the corner and dropped the match.
It caught immediately.
She calmly walked to the door and shut it behind her. Focusing on the top of the hill, she climbed steadily, keeping away from the rough road that led to the cabin. Once she reached her destination, she paused and turned, staring back from where she’d come. She watched while the flames slowly engulfed the wooden structure.
It was in a clearing so she wasn’t too worried about the surrounding forest. Still, she felt easier when the first drop of rain hit her face.
Turning her back on the macabre scene, she started walking. As she trudged through the thick brush, the rain started to beat down on her, quickly soaking her to the skin. She shivered and wrapped her arms around her body, silently berating herself for not stealing one of his jackets.
Chapter One
James Riley climbed out of his vehicle and pocketed his keys. Even though the air was cool and crisp, he didn’t bother with his leather jacket. Taking a deep breath, he drank in the scent of the surrounding woods and damp earth. There was a hint of spring in the air despite the fact it was March and there were still patches of snow on the ground.
He raised his arms above his head, stretching out his cramped limbs as he surveyed the truck stop. He’d been on the road for a week now and was looking forward to getting home.
He was alpha of the Wolf Creek pack in North Carolina. As such, the financial concerns of the pack were his responsibility. That was the main reason for his trip. He’d been in so many banks and investment firms over the past few days he could barely remember them all. Then there had been the visits to specialty stores and markets that carried the arts and crafts many of his people produced.
He’d only been alpha for about six months and was still sorting out the mess that had been left behind when a group of young males had killed the previous alpha and threatened the security of the pack. His brother, the former alpha, had been a good male, but he hadn’t had much of a head for business. Thankfully, two of the pack members were lawyers. That had helped things considerably.
His gut tightened. The memories of his brother’s and sister-in-law’s deaths were still fresh. He hadn’t seen his brother in more than two decades, but that hadn’t made the loss any easier to bear.
James swiveled his head in a one-hundred-and-eighty-degree arc, surveying the area around him. He wished he could shift into his wolf form and run through the woods, free and unfettered. Soon, he promised himself. For now, he needed to be on his guard.
He was always aware, always watching for danger. Paranormal bounty hunters were the bane of his kind. They killed indiscriminately—women, children and the elderly. It didn’t matter to them. Their motto was the only good werewolf was a dead one.
There were plenty of trucks in the parking lot, which boded well for the food served inside. But at the moment there was no one in the lot but him. Everyone else was inside.
He took one more look around as he yanked his cell phone out of his pocket and dialed a familiar number. It rang twice before being answered.
“Hello.”
The knot in his gut relaxed slightly. “Hey, honey.”
“Dad. Where are you?” As always, the love and concern in his daughter’s voice made him smile. He was so proud of her. Alexandra hadn’t even known she’d had wolf blood in her until a few months ago. Since then, she’d embraced her heritage and mated with a strong male. He was glad to have Joshua Striker looking out for his daughter.
“I’m at a roadside diner in Kentucky. I’m going to get something to eat and get back on the road. I’ve got two more stops to make, but I should make it home late tonight.”
“Don’t push it. Stop somewhere for the night if you need to. Everything here is fine.”
James di
dn’t commit one way or another. “Let me talk to Joshua.”
“Okay. Love you.”
“Love you too, Alex,” he answered gruffly.
A second later a male voice came over the line. “Striker.”
Striker was more than just the family name for Joshua and his brothers. It was a calling. Traditionally, the men of his family were the pack enforcers. They were judge, jury and, when necessary, executioner. Joshua had already proven he was more than capable of doing the job.
James didn’t waste words. “How are things?”
“Fairly quiet. Some rumblings from the Carlos and Jensen clans.”
James wanted to howl with frustration. They had enough trouble as a species without infighting. But that had never stopped werewolves. Their aggressive nature would be their downfall if they weren’t careful. “Serious?”
“Nothing I can’t handle.”
James trusted Joshua, but they were shorthanded now that Isaiah Striker had moved permanently to Chicago. “I’ll be back late tonight. I’ll call if something comes up.”
“Drive safe.”
James disconnected the call and slipped his phone back into his pocket. He’d destroy the phone as soon as he was home. Bounty hunters might be anti-government and anti-social, but they weren’t stupid. They used whatever technology might aid them in destroying all werewolves and that included using the services of hackers. Every member of the pack used disposable phones, changing them frequently.
His stomach rumbled, reminding him why he’d stopped at this roadside diner in the first place. All his senses were on alert as he crossed the paved lot and pulled open the door. The smell of coffee, ham and eggs tickled his nose.
He paused in the open doorway and removed his sunglasses, tucking them in his shirt pocket as he looked around. The place was crowded, mostly with men, but there were a few women as well. Almost all the tables were filled. The sound of chatter was punctuated with the noise of utensils clanking as they all ate. The coffeepot hissed and the grill sizzled in the kitchen.
Something else permeated the air, but James couldn’t quite place it. Grease, sweat and food all mixed together to dull his preternatural sense of smell. Shrugging it off, he stepped inside and let the door swing shut behind him.
Several men glanced up from their meals and stared, but most ignored him, too intent on finishing their food and getting back on the road. To a trucker, time was money.
James scanned the room and sauntered over to a vacant booth in the far corner. He slid onto the vinyl bench seat and leaned back, trying to fit his large body comfortably into the space.
From his position, he had an unobstructed view of the room and the front door. There was also a window right beside him, which would allow for a quick escape if necessary.
The diner was surprisingly clean but dull. The paint on the walls was chipped, the linoleum on the floor scarred. And the seat cushions had seen better days. But the table gleamed and the condiment bottles were full. He plucked the menu from behind the shiny napkin dispenser and scanned it.
At the far end of the room, which James assumed led to the kitchen, a swinging door popped open. A woman backed into the room carrying a tray laden with plates. She looked like any waitress anywhere—harried and overworked. He went back to studying the menu, but his gaze was drawn again and again to the woman.
Giving up on the menu, he tossed it down on the table and studied her. She appeared to be in her early thirties, but it was hard to tell. She had the look of someone who’d had a hard life. Her hair had been pulled back into a tight bun, giving her face a pinched appearance.
As he watched, she competently served up the food from her tray, distributing plates to various tables, while nimbly sidestepping the roving hands of one of the truckers. His eyes narrowed as a burly driver patted her butt as she passed by. She jerked, but didn’t stop. Head ducked down, she kept going.
Anger began to burn low in his gut. It was none of his business, he told himself. He couldn’t afford to get involved. Not with paranormal bounty hunters searching for him and his daughter. The last thing he wanted to do was bring attention to himself and, through him, to his pack.
Still, he couldn’t take his eyes off her.
She was dressed in a tacky pink polyester uniform that hung on her slender frame. It was hard to tell her shape. It was mostly hidden by the bulky dress, which was zipped up tight to her neck and fell all the way to her knees. Her legs were bare from her knees to her ankles and she wore white socks inside her battered canvas sneakers.
The woman was continually in motion, pouring coffee and serving food. Even though she worked without stopping, there was almost a fragile air about her, as if she’d been ill recently.
He wasn’t sure she’d even seen him, but as soon as her tray was empty, she tucked it under her arm and hurried over to his table. “What can I get you?” She pulled an order pad and pen out of her pocket.
James froze in place. All his senses went on full alert. Her scent was ever so faint, almost as if she were masking it somehow. But it was there. “You’re a werewolf,” he whispered. He was so shocked he spoke before he could check his words.
The woman paled and swayed. His hand shot out to steady her, but she quickly pulled away, taking a step backward. “What? What did you say?” Her voice grew steadier with each word she spoke.
The soft tones of her voice skimmed over James like a caress. He was struck with the urge to draw her close to him, lay his head against her stomach and just listen to her talk. But fright still lingered in her dark chocolate-brown eyes in spite of her bravado. Her fingers clenched around the pen she was holding and she took another half-step backward.
“Nothing.” He kept his voice low and as unthreatening as possible. “I didn’t say anything important.”
She relaxed immediately, offering him a tiny smile that brightened her entire face. Up close, he could see that beneath her weariness, there was a beautiful woman. The skin on her heart-shaped face was as fine as a baby’s and appeared to be incredibly smooth. Her chin was slightly pointed, her cheekbones high. And her small nose turned up at the tip. Her eyebrows curved slightly and were the same light brown color as her hair.
He sat up straighter, every muscle in his body pulling tight. Deep within him, he could feel his wolf pacing restlessly.
“If you’re not ready to order, I can come back.” She glanced around the room, keeping an eye on her other customers.
James grabbed the small menu and scanned it quickly. “I’ll have the number three special. I like my bacon crispy and my hash browns not greasy.”
“Scrambled or fried eggs?” She scribbled away on her small order pad.
“Scrambled.”
“Okay.” Several of the men at another table got up and headed toward the cash register. “Coffee?”
James nodded. “Please.”
“I’ll be back with your coffee in a sec.” He watched as she hurried behind the counter and rang up their bills. The men talked and laughed, one of them a bit too loudly as he leaned toward the woman. She moved out of his reach and the man tensed.
James didn’t realize he was half out of his seat when one of the man’s companions slapped the trucker on the shoulder. Whatever the man said had them all laughing as they left the diner. James settled back down on the bench seat. What the hell was wrong with him?
She passed his order into the kitchen through an opening behind the counter, grabbed the coffee pot and hurried back to his table. On her way, she paused long enough to top off the cups of several other men. She turned over one of the clean mugs that rested on the table and began to fill it.
“What’s your name?”
The coffee pot jerked in her hand and some of the hot liquid sloshed over the rim. Just in time, James jerked his hand out of the way.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry. I’m such a klutz.” She’d grabbed some napkins from the dispenser and began to wipe up the spilled coffee.
James di
dn’t like the fear that edged her voice or the way she kept apologizing. “No harm done. I didn’t mean to startle you.”
She stared at him, her huge eyes blinking slowly as if she couldn’t quite figure out what to make of him. “It was my fault,” she began tentatively.
“No,” he corrected. “It was my fault for startling you.” He shifted in his seat, surprised by just how tight his jeans were becoming. He hadn’t had a spontaneous erection in too many years to count. He prided himself on having total control of his body and this was more than a little disconcerting. “I shouldn’t have asked you your name. After all, I’m a stranger to you. Forgive me if I made you uncomfortable.”
“Shelley,” she blurted out. “You can call me Shelley.”
He nodded, instantly intrigued by the way she’d phrased it. She hadn’t said, “my name is Shelley”, but rather, “you can call me Shelley”. Maybe it meant something, maybe not.
He held out his hand. “James. James Riley.”
She glanced at his hand and wiped her own on the front of her uniform before shaking his. James noted the way the material pulled tight against her chest, briefly outlining her full breasts.
He gave her hand a quick squeeze, but was careful not to hold it for more than a second. She was as skittish as any wild creature around an unfamiliar beast.
“Order’s up!” a deep male voice bellowed from the bowels of the kitchen.
Shelley jumped and laughed, a deep red creeping up over her cheeks. “I’ve got to get back to work.” She all but ran from his table to the kitchen.
James sat back, picked up his mug and sipped his coffee. His nose hadn’t lied at all. The lady was definitely one of his kind—a werewolf. And he was certainly attracted to her.
She obviously didn’t want anyone to know what she was. He could understand her trying to hide her true identity from humans, but why was she afraid of other werewolves finding her? And why was she working in such a public place if that was a problem? Where was her pack?
And furthermore, why didn’t she recognize him as a werewolf?
Legacy Found: Legacy, Book 3 Page 1
