by Layla Nash
Storm Chaser
Layla Nash
Contents
Copyright
1. One
2. Two
3. Three
4. Four
5. Five
6. Six
7. Seven
8. Eight
9. Nine
10. Ten
11. Eleven
12. Twelve
13. Thirteen
14. Fourteen
15. Fifteen
16. Sixteen
17. Seventeen
18. Eighteen
19. Nineteen
20. Twenty
21. Twenty-one
22. Twenty-two
23. Twenty-three
24. Epilogue
25. Available Now!
Connect with the Author
Also by Layla Nash
Copyright © 2015 by Layla Nash
All rights reserved.
No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design by Resplendent Media
One
Atticus wiped blood off his face and threw the towel aside. He paced the confines of the small prep room reserved for fighters. Two fights down and he needed a third to make sure the lion remained calm and quiet the next few days. The constant struggle for control wore him down; fighting was the only thing that helped. And lately Edgar watched him with a hint of suspicion, as if he knew that Atticus struggled.
Atticus glanced up as one of the organizers, a skinny dude from the coyote pack, slid past the door and eyed him up and down. "You looking for another?"
"Yeah." Atticus poked at his nose, hoping it set correctly as the shifter healing kicked in.
"I've got a good one." The coyote grinned and slapped him on the back. "Easy one for you, mate. A girl."
"Not a chance." He shook his head and started packing his bag. "No way in hell. I don't hit girls."
"It pays. Five grand to go one round. Take a couple of swings."
"No." A growl boiled up in his chest and Atticus loomed over the much smaller, much skinnier coyote.
The other man backed up, hands raised. "Okay, okay. That's it for tonight, though. The kid's a champion. She could probably kick your ass anyway."
Atticus just shook his head and picked up the bag. "Like I said. No fucking way."
"Is this him?" a cheerful voice piped up from the door, and a woman poked her head in to eye Atticus.
She might as well have punched him in the chest. Atticus could only stare at her. Tall and athletic but with inviting curves hidden by sweaty workout gear, the girl eyed him like a mountain to climb. The coyote, John, shrugged. "Sorry, Soph. He won't go for it."
"Come on." She eased into the room and leaned back against the door, her full lips curving into an encouraging smile. "Five grand for each of us for a couple of minutes? Come on, big guy. You can take a swing at me for that, right?"
"I don't hit women." Atticus took a deep breath and her scent coiled around his brain — more so because she'd had at least one fight earlier and smelled of perspiration and a little bit of violence. His lion grumbled and strained against his control, wanting to get much, much closer to the woman. "I don't even pretend to hit women. Or play like I hit women. Sorry."
"John, can you give us a minute?" She didn't take her eyes off Atticus, though, and he unconsciously flexed until his shoulders grew. The coyote left, still hopeful, and Atticus braced himself for some kind of proposition. Instead, she held out a hand expertly wrapped for boxing. "I'm Sophia, by the way."
"Atticus." He barely pressed her fingers in his, not wanting to leave a trace of himself on her. At least until he could rub his face in her hair.
"Atticus?" She smiled as she repeated his name, and he braced himself for the teasing. Instead, she bit her lower lip prettily. "Look, Atticus. I need the money. It's one round and it pays more than everything else I've earned tonight. Please? We get paid regardless of who wins."
He still shook his head. His stomach turned over at the thought of facing her in the makeshift ring, the crowd jeering and calling for blood. She might get hurt. He was a big clumsy dude normally, and if he slipped, if he accidentally made contact... Jesus. He could knock her skull in and kill her.
Her red hair, captured tightly in some intricate braid thing, shone as she leaned closer and into the light from a single bare bulb. "Come on. I'll let you win."
His mouth twitched. He sighed, scrubbing his hands over his face. "One round. But I'm not going to hit you."
Sophia turned on her heel and bounced toward the door. "Sure you won't."
He followed, still shaking his head. This was a bad idea. He just knew it. But her ass was a pleasant distraction as she led the way. The lion breathed Want her in his mind and Atticus had to look away before the rest of his control fled with his good sense.
The crowd seethed around the plywood borders of the ring, but they made way as John and then Sophia headed for the bare ground. Atticus shuffled after them, looking around the abandoned warehouse, and rubbed his jaw. She smelled good, and not just because she was hot and sweaty and amped up on adrenaline. She wasn't human. Probably feline, but not a lion. The tumult of the crowd increased as he stepped past the plywood gate and one of the bouncers slapped his shoulder. "Go get her. Put her in her place, Atticus."
He bared his teeth at the shithead. Like Atticus would beat her down just because someone convinced her to get in the ring with a man. Women were to be protected, sheltered, cared for and loved. Not hurt. Not mocked. A snarl built in his chest and he had to take a moment to compose himself lest the lion decide to attack the heckler. He cracked his knuckles and paced around the perimeter of the ring. She stood in the center, watching him, as John announced the fight and a flurry of bets changed hands. When his bookie gestured for Atticus to place a wager, Atticus waved him off.
John scrambled out of the ring and Sophia held her fists up to guard her face as the bell rang. Any hint of a cheerful girl dropped from her expression and a predator faced him. Atticus's eyebrows rose, and he put his guard up as well as she flew at him. She landed a flurry of blows against his kidneys, then kicked out his knee to try to get him on the ground. Atticus blocked and dodged, distracted and mesmerized by the beauty and simplicity of her fighting technique. She was efficient and capable, faster than he'd thought. No wonder she was a champion.
The crowd roared, screaming for blood, and Atticus took a gentle swing at her. She dodged and landed a right hook to his chin that knocked him back a couple steps. She winked at him.
The lion loved her. The lion wanted her, roared and pushed to take control so they could finish the fight and take her home and protect her, somewhere the bloodthirsty assholes watching the fight would never find her. Tackle her and cover her with his scent. He dipped to avoid another vicious hook and she snapped a jab right through his guard. A flurry of kicks followed and he staggered, the crowd blurry.
She was amazing. His heart pounded and it had nothing to do with the exertion of fighting.
Her guard dropped for a split second and his instincts took over. He eased a hook toward her with his left, pulling it until only a fraction of his strength connected with her jaw, and she grunted, an Oof escaping that damn near broke his heart. He straightened from his fighting stance and lurched forward to check if she was okay.
A roar cut through the pheromone fog in his brain and Atticus's stomach dropped. Logan. The distraction had him looking up, and then back
at Sophia — well, at her fist. He didn't register what came first: the sidekick to his gut or the roundhouse to his head.
He was still staring at her in befuddled amazement as he hit the floor.
* * *
He floated and thought maybe the paramedics carried him away, but the medics didn't usually curse that much. Atticus flailed to his feet as Logan and Edgar dropped him on the floor in the back room. His brothers loomed over him, and Logan's alpha command knocked Atticus back on his ass after he tried to stand.
The alpha's voice was so low and cold it made the hair on Atticus's arms stand up. "What the fuck is wrong with you?"
Atticus winced, rubbing his jaw and wiggling a loose tooth. Holy shit, the girl could brawl. "It's not —"
"Don't. Speak." Edgar bared his suddenly too-large teeth. The normally stoic security chief hovered on the verge of an uncontrolled shift; if Atticus squinted, he could make out the fur that sprouted along his arms. "You unbelievable little shit. It was bad enough when you fought humans, but a girl? You hit a girl."
"It was her idea." Atticus spat the words out along with a chunk of tooth. "I never —"
Logan hauled him to his feet and then kept lifting until Atticus dangled a few inches off the ground. Big brother was mad. The alpha shook him, then hurled him into the table across the room. Atticus crashed through it and landed in a heap of kindling on the floor. Logan ran a hand over his hair. "I can't believe you. I can't fucking believe you."
Atticus remained where he fell, feeling about as low as possible. "It wasn't —"
A knock on the door interrupted and he froze. Edgar snarled. "Not now."
The door opened anyway and Sophia slid in, glancing at his brothers before she caught sight of Atticus. "Damn." She smiled at the two furious men and then edged past them to hand a fat roll of bills to Atticus. Her fingers brushed his and lightning arced straight to his heart. "Thanks, big guy. I made another four betting on myself."
Her laugh twinkled through him. Atticus tried to form words but his thoughts remained fuzzy from Logan's rage and her expert right hook. Sophia kissed the tips of her fingers and pressed them to the egg-sized knot on his jaw. "Sorry about that one. I think you leaned into it. But hey — good work with those two." She nodded at Logan and Edgar as if they couldn't hear. "Running up the drama always helps, but their cut comes outta yours. I didn't sign up for a four-way split."
She straightened. "See you, stud." Sophia smiled at his brothers and then practically skipped out the door. Atticus watched her go, the thin yoga pants she wore stretched invitingly across her ass and hips. God help him. He reached out, as if to catch her and drag that luscious ass back, but the door shut and she was gone. He blinked and looked up to find Logan still scowling but Edgar fighting a grin.
Atticus winced as he sat up. His guts felt like tapioca from the girl's sledgehammer kicks. Even with the supernatural healing, he'd be black and blue for days. He tossed the cash toward his bag, not worried about counting it. It didn't matter anyway. "She asked me to. Said she needed the money."
"Have you ever done this before?" Logan's liquid gold eyes bored into him, removed any possibility of lying as their shared pack magic billowed up and overwhelmed his free will.
Atticus waited for his shifter healing to take over and ease the pain and disorientation in his head, but the ringing in his ears only echoed louder. "Never. Never against a girl."
Edgar folded his arms over his chest. "How's your head?"
"Depends." Atticus blinked. "Are there supposed to be three of you, Ed?"
"This isn't funny." Logan bristled, and his nails grew dark. More like claws. "You just hit a girl."
"Yeah, but I beat the shit out of two dudes before that." Atticus heaved to his feet and limped to his bag so he could pull out his street shoes. He needed food. And liquor. The lion remained excited by the girl's scent as it hung on the air, and only a couple bottles of booze would quiet it enough for him to sleep. No amount of fighting or running or crunches in the world would calm the beast with the memory of that girl running through his head. "And it wasn't enough. I didn't want to hit her. She asked me to. Said please."
Edgar's grin spread. "Did she now."
Atticus and Logan both gave him sharp looks but Atticus knew it was probably for very different reasons. Atticus grumbled and pulled on a sweatshirt. "Fuck off, Ed."
Logan grabbed Atticus and shoved him up against the wall until they were nose to nose. His brother growled and Atticus's lion started paying attention. The alpha's threat sent shivers down his spine and Atticus tilted his head to offer his throat.
Logan's hand tightened around Atticus's windpipe, cutting off air until his vision darkened around the edges. "Listen to me, and listen well, little brother. If you ever, ever raise your hand to a woman again — and I don't give a shit about the reason — I will fucking end you. Understood?"
There was only one acceptable answer. "Understood."
Logan shoved back, breathing through his nose, and his posture betrayed a desire to hit something. Or someone. Atticus braced for a punch that could break his neck but a chirping sound rang from Logan's pocket. The alpha's eyes narrowed but he checked the phone. His teeth ground as he jabbed his finger into Atticus's chest. "This conversation isn't over." Then he answered the phone with a calm, "Hey babe, I'm kind of in the middle of something. What's up?"
Natalia. Atticus exhaled and sagged back against the wall. He glanced over as Edgar put away his own phone and winked, and Atticus mouthed "Thank you" to his brother. Only Natalia could break Logan out of a rage that bad. Atticus stuffed away his jealousy. No woman would be able to put up with his lion. Nothing calmed him but fighting, violence, and blood.
Two
I took a handful of aspirin to take the edge off the soreness from the fights as I hauled myself up two flights of stairs to my apartment over a Chinese restaurant. Everything smelled a little like ginger and garlic, but I'd gotten used to it. I massaged the ache in my jaw from where the bruiser tapped me, even though I knew he'd pulled his punch. If he'd used his full strength, I'd probably still be on the floor in the warehouse. He'd been sweet in a practical kind of way.
For a moment the memory of him, Atticus, had me fumbling my key in the lock. Tall and broad as a fucking semi, a nose crooked from being broken at least a couple of times, and dark eyes that held more sadness than the typical cocky bastards at the fights. I frowned at the keys in my hand. Something about him struck a chord in my memory, but the connection didn't immediately reveal itself. He felt familiar, kindred. Like family.
Weird. I shoved open the door and stepped over the envelopes someone slid under the door. A stabbing pain flared in my back as I picked them up, and I took a beer from the fridge to help the aspirin along. The first envelope, stuffed near to bursting, held more promise than the other two, so I tore it open.
A report from the private investigator in Chicago detailed the steps he'd taken to trace my past — with no results. I took a deep breath and staggered over to the couch, rubbing my forehead as I flipped on an extra lamp to read the cramped type. Another dead end.
The investigator even visited the orphanage where I'd come from, or at least where the paperwork claimed I came from. No other records indicated I'd ever been at the Chicago orphanage. A couple of nuns there said they remembered a little girl covered in mottled birthmarks, but they couldn't identify any pictures. No files, no birth certificate, nothing.
I winced and tried to stretch my back as I tossed the paperwork onto the couch and retrieved another beer. The investigator searched the records of local hospitals but couldn't connect anything to the tattered paperwork from whoever dropped me off. He'd been so damn confident he would find something, would at least connect me to a hospital or a baby smuggling scheme or something, that I'd allowed myself to hope, and yet... Nothing. A bigger disappointment because I'd believed him.
I concentrated on breathing as I opened the next envelope. My hands shook and nearly tore th
e paper — the bill for that particular investigator. Mr. No Help cost me a couple of grand more than expected. Travel expenses, of course. I repeated my mantra a couple of times to deter the panic welling in my stomach. No new leads, no other places to look. The closest I got to discovering my family, my past, my heritage — it all ended at that orphanage in Chicago.
Working through a series of kung fu forms in the living room stretched my muscles and joints before trying to sleep, and it gave me some calm back. I closed my eyes and focused on breathing, the thump of my heart, the gritty carpet under my bare feet, the rustle of my clothing as loud as tearing fabric in the still room. Apparently they sent me from Chicago to the orphanage I remembered outside of DC. I never belonged there, either — between the birthmarks that covered me in red-brown patches and the seizures that stole time and memory from me, I was too odd for an institution that valued blending in. And no one wanted a kid who had seizures, sleepwalked, and blacked out.
My phone rang, interrupting the peace that physical movement always brought me. When I answered, the fight organizer, John, congratulated me on the win and added, "If you're up for it, we've got another dude you can take a shot at. Pays the same - five large to get in the ring with him, three more if you can stay on your feet for the first round, and another five if you knock him out."
From his tone, John didn't think I'd get the extra five. I smiled as I paced into the bedroom and drew the curtains to block out the watery sunlight creeping through the grimy windows. "When?"
"Day after tomorrow. Starts at ten."
"Good." I hung up and flopped onto the bed, tossing the phone aside. Bigger bonuses meant paying off that investigator, maybe getting a referral to someone with better connections. If I saved up enough, I might be able to return to Chicago myself to sniff around the orphanage. There had to be medical records from treating the seizures, or school records to document what I'd done or thought or said. I couldn't have just materialized in DC at twelve, knowing how to read and write but with no other memory. With everything blank before then, any scrap of information was worth its weight in gold.
