Bitter Beauty: An ADR Short (Fallen Cross Pack Book 5)

by Aliya DalRae

  She was so young, twenty if he was lucky. And Butch? God, how old was he now? Being a born wolf, he would live a very long life, barring anything unforeseen. As it was, he’d been around for the better part of a century. Much too old for a fresh young thing like Marcela, and too much of a loner to even consider what his wolf was suggesting.

  And yet…

  With his belly full, and his bloodlust sated, Butch’s wolf was content to curl up under a stone overhang and take a nap, which suited Butch just fine. Anything to get his mind off of the girl.

  And that kiss.

  ~~~~~

  T he sun had climbed well into the sky by the time Butch woke up, and he was surprised to find he was still in his wolf form. Generally, he shifted back to human at some point while sleeping, but that wasn’t what had awakened him.

  He wasn’t alone.

  Wrapped around him was a smaller wolf, with dark brindle fur and an arousing scent that enveloped him with a sense of totality, a feeling of completion he’d never known. She stirred in her sleep as he touched his nose to the fur at her neck, her legs twitching as she dreamed of chasing rabbits or deer, or some other wolfish pleasure.

  He’d run to keep her safe, from him, from his wolf, and yet she’d followed him.

  She could have run in the complete opposite direction, been free of him and the beastly desires he was finding it harder and harder to control. She could have gone off to find whatever it was she was searching for, but she hadn’t.

  Instead, she’d come looking for him.

  With a sigh, Butch triggered the change, not trusting his wolf alone with hers. When his human form was his again, he reached for her, and drew his hand through the soft fur along her back.

  She woke with a start, and Butch withdrew his hand, prepared for anything but what happened next.

  She triggered her own change, her body shifting and contorting until her human form lay before him. She sat up and stretched her skinny arms above her head, but when she caught him watching her, she drew up her knees and wrapped her arms around them in modesty. Lovely as she was, that wasn’t what had Butch so intrigued.

  “Didn’t that hurt?” he asked. “The change?” He had been lost in his own crisis the first time she’d shifted, and so hadn’t seen how smoothly it had gone for her.

  “Not really,” she said, shrugging her narrow shoulders. “The first time it hurt something awful, but I didn’t know what was happening, so I was fighting it. Once I learned not to fight it, to just give over to it, it’s not so bad.”

  She was a Wolf of the Blood.

  “Marcela, who are your parents?”

  “Does it matter?” she shrugged again. With her eyes glued to the forest floor, she picked up a stick and drew circles in the dirt.

  “I think it’s important,” he urged. “Can you tell me who you are? How you came to be here?”

  “I could,” she said, still doodling shapes in the earth. “But it would be easier if I knew your name.”

  Chapter Sixteen

  M arcela turned her gaze up to see the man-wolf scrubbing his beard with his hands as he mumbled.

  “All of this time, and I never bothered to introduce myself. I’m such an asshole,” he muttered, along with some other indiscernible nonsense.

  “Excuse me?”

  “Butch,” he said. “Butch Montgomery. And I apologize for my rudeness. I’m not used to having company.”

  “That’s fairly obvious,” she said, even though her experience with “company” was limited to what she learned in books or on Sesame Street. “But that’s okay. It’s nice to meet you, Butch Montgomery.”

  “And you, Marcela? Who are your parents?”

  Why on earth would that matter? But she didn’t see the harm in answering. “My mother’s name was Lucita. She died when I was young, and I was raised by my father.”

  “And they were Werewolves?”

  “My mother was, but she failed to mention it to my human father before she died.”

  “Oh. That explains a lot. So it was your father? Who hurt you?”

  “Why would you say that?” Marcela dropped the stick as her heart began to thud in her chest. Had she said something? She had, hadn’t she?

  Butch reached over and placed a hand on her knees, which stopped them from trembling by the sheer weight of it. “What you said about wounds healing. And it’s obvious you’ve not been eating properly.”

  She glanced down at her emaciated body, no longer able to meet his eyes. What had she been thinking? That kiss notwithstanding, there was no way he would want her. She was a horrible mess, and he was obviously not a people person. “I have to go.”

  “So you keep saying,” Butch said as he stopped her from rising with that hand on her knees. Kneeling in front of her, he lifted her chin and studied her face.

  “Do you know anything about us? About the wolves?” he asked.

  “No,” she said. “Nothing. All I know is that once a month, when the moon is full, I change into a snarling beast with a mad desire to run through the woods and kill anything I think I can eat. It took years, but I managed to teach myself to control the change when the moon wasn’t full, to shift when I wanted to, but my father didn’t know. That’s how I escaped.” A hot tear slid down her cheek, and he lifted a finger to brush it away.

  Before she knew it, Marcela was babbling the whole story, the years she spent as her father’s captive, his slave, and the abuse she’d been subjected to, year after year. By the end of it, Butch had his arm around her, and she was sniffling away the last of the unwanted tears. This was a story she never wanted to tell again.

  Butch said nothing throughout her entire tale, but when the silence stretched before them, he finally spoke.

  “Your father did this to you,” he snarled, and Marcela flinched. “Who is he?”

  “Please, I don’t want any trouble.”

  “What. Is. Your. Father’s. Name.” Yellow wolf eyes flashed in Butch’s human face as his canines grew, giving his features a grotesque amalgamation of man and wolf. Marcela pulled away from him, her eyes widening, her heart in her throat as she scrambled through the leaves to a nearby tree. This beast growing before her was more terrifying than the man or the wolf had ever been.

  “C-Cowan,” she stammered, frightened into answering. “Russell Cowan.”

  Butch stood abruptly and stormed away from her through the forest. His neck had elongated, his limbs as well, and it wasn’t but a moment before he was tearing through the trees again in his full wolf form.

  Alone in the woods, Marcela knew what she had to do. She’d followed him out here because of that kiss, but seeing him now? The man had serious anger issues, and really, did she want to swap one abusive relationship for another? Not that any of his anger was taken out on her, but still.

  Butch Montgomery was a beast, much more so than she’d ever been, and Werewolf or not, she couldn’t stay. She had to protect herself, beyond all else. Though it pained her to turn away from the first and only chance she had at learning about who and what she was, she knew she had to leave.

  Resolved in her decision, Marcela triggered the change, and when her wolf had emerged fully, she shook out her coat and ran through the trees—away from the little cabin with the lovely library, and the man who had awakened her heart.

  Chapter Seventeen

  W hen Butch reached his house, he shifted quickly and ran inside, determined to begin his search for the human who had tortured Marcela. He would find the man, and he would show him what it meant to be frightened and alone. Killing was much too good for a creature like Russell Cowan.

  Locating the man turned out to be easier than he’d imagined. All it took was a quick perusal through the phone book, and bam! Right there in black and white, and right here in Fallen Cross. The human lived a mere ten miles from Pack property, over on Rocky Bottom Road. There wasn’t much out there, Butch knew, so it wasn’t surprising the bastard was able to keep a little Werewolf locked up with no one
ever suspecting.

  Certain that Marcela would return to the cabin in her own time, Butch grabbed his keys and headed for the truck.

  In short order he found himself parked at the end of a long driveway. A two-story saltbox house, it’s siding grey with weather, and a dilapidated old barn waited for him at the other end.

  Determined to put an end to this beast of a man, Butch turned down the drive and parked in a patch of dirt near the barn. He had barely exited his vehicle, when he heard a screen door slam. He looked up to see a man standing in front of the house with a rifle at his side.

  The man was in his late-forties, early-fifties, with salt-and-pepper hair that hadn’t had a proper cut in ages. He was tall and imposing, or he would be to someone of Marcela’s stature, but he would be no match for Butch.

  The Werewolf smiled at that thought, as he made his move to approach the man. Time to get this ball rolling.

  “That’ll be far enough.” The man pointed the rifle at Butch now, not that it mattered. It would take more than a lead slug to bring down a Werewolf. Still, to be polite, Butch stopped. No harm in making sure he was attacking the right coward.

  “You Russell Cowan?” he asked, folding his arms across his chest as he glanced around the property to get his bearings.

  “Who wants to know?”

  “I’m looking for a woman. Lucita Cowan? Heard she might have lived here.”

  “Lucita was my wife.” Cowan still had that gun leveled at Butch’s chest, his hands remarkably steady.

  “Was?” Butch asked.

  “She died. What do you want?”

  “I heard she had a daughter. Was just checking up on her, to see if she’s okay.” Butch took another step toward the man, prepared to dodge bullets if he had to, take one if he couldn’t.

  “There was a girl, but she run off. I suggest you do the same.” Cowan waved the barrel of his rifle toward Butch’s truck.

  “Yeah, see, that’s where I think we’ll have a problem,” Butch said. “I’ve met Marcela, and I don’t think you’ve been treating her very nicely.”

  The rifle wavered ever so slightly, the first sign of fear Cowan had shown at the sight of a six foot five inch mountain of a man in his driveway.

  “You need to get off my property, sir, or I’m going to have to shoot you.”

  “Seriously?” Butch said, taking another step forward. “You’re giving me a warning? Did you warn Marcela before you beat her? Before you locked her in a cage? Did you warn her before you tormented and tortured her? Before you practically starved her to death?” His voice grew louder with each step he took, and Cowan was visibly shaking now.

  “You-you’re one of them,” the coward screamed. “I know it! You’re one of them filthy beasts!”

  Butch was nearly on him now, his claws and fangs emerging as his wolf prepared to exact its revenge.

  He heard the gunshots, but thought nothing of them. Unless he took one to the head, it wouldn’t be enough to keep him from his task.

  The pain, however, came as a shock.

  By the time the second and third bullets hit him, Butch was on the ground, fire burning through his shoulder, his leg, and worst of all, his abdomen. What the hell?

  Cowan was dancing around like a lunatic extra from that movie, “Deliverance.”

  “I got him! I got him! I shot me a Werewolf!”

  Butch’s vision blurred as the fire spread from the wounds, licking its way through his bloodstream until it reached every inch of his body.

  “What the hell did you shoot me with?” he moaned through clenched teeth, unable to keep himself from writhing on the ground as the fire continued to sear his insides.

  “Silver bullets!” Cowan cackled and Butch moaned. It never occurred to him the old bastard would know about silver.

  “Saw it on one of them there Werewolf movies. Thought I ought to be prepared in case any of you monsters showed up here. I didn’t know if it would work, but it does! It does! I shot me a Werewolf! Woohoo!”

  Cowan was so busy celebrating, dancing, and patting himself on the back, that the iron skillet to the back of his head took him completely by surprise.

  Chapter Eighteen

  M arcela stepped back as her father staggered and fell to the ground. She had a tight grip on the heavy, black handle, prepared to whack him again if necessary, but he just lay where he landed, looking up at her like he was seeing a ghost.

  “Where the hell did you come from, you little fucker?” His speech was garbled, but she’d heard it all before and so understood him perfectly. She also ignored him.

  “Are you okay?” she asked Butch, but he was in no shape to answer. Note to self: Silver is bad.

  What was she going to do?

  Her father rolled over onto his side, and then raised himself to all fours as he mumbled, “What the hell did you hit me for?”

  Marcela kicked him in the stomach as hard as she could, forcing him back to the ground. He landed on his ass and looked up at her in bewilderment.

  “I’m a filthy beast,” she reminded him. “It’s what we do.”

  She raised the iron skillet above her head and brought it down with a solid thunk, cracking her father’s skull like a melon. His eyes rolled back and his mouth formed a surprised “O” as he slumped over dead. That picture was one she would happily carry with her for eternity.

  With her father dispatched, Marcella dropped the skillet and ran to Butch’s side. She knelt on the hard ground beside him, panic setting in as the urgency of the situation hit her.

  “Marcela,” he whispered, and she grabbed his hand.

  “I’m here,” she cried. “I’m here, but I don’t know what to do?”

  “Call Dane,” he moaned, as a new wave of pain sent him twisting into himself.

  “But I don’t…”

  “In the truck…”

  Marcela ran to the vehicle, and after a brief search, she found Butch’s wallet in the glove compartment. Sure enough, there was a piece of paper inside with the name “Patrick Dane” written on it, along with a phone number.

  Marcela dashed from the truck, not bothering to close the door, and into the house she had vowed never to enter again. The only phone was in her father’s room, which had previously been restricted space. Not anymore. She dashed to the nightstand, grabbed the handset and dialed the number on the paper. After a brief conversation, she hung up and took a breath. Now they just had to wait for help to arrive.

  She rushed back to the driveway where she found Butch barely conscious.

  “They’re coming,” she assured him, but his only response was more painful thrashing.

  “Can’t you change?” she asked. It had always helped her heal.

  Butch shook his head in answer. At least she assumed the movement was in response to her question, because his wolf was nowhere to be found.

  “You came for me.”

  “Quiet,” she whispered. “Save your strength.”

  “How did you…?”

  “Shh…”

  The sound of tires kicking up gravel gave her heart a lift, and Marcela was thrilled to see the two men from the big cabin rush out of an SUV and toward her and Butch. She backed away, leaving them to take care of their friend.

  She stood by and watched as the two lifted Butch carefully, and carried him off to their vehicle. Suddenly, the hair on the back of her neck stood up and a shiver ran down her spine. She looked up to see a man watching her. He was tall, but not Butch-tall, with light brown hair and piercing ice-blue eyes. Power was rolling off of him in tsunami-sized waves that nearly knocked Marcela from her feet.

  And for the first time that day, she was aware of the fact that she was naked.

  Chapter Nineteen

  W hen Butch opened his eyes, he was convinced it was all a dream. He was lying in his bed with the covers pulled up to his neck, and everything was in its place.

  There had been no little wolf to frustrate him with her skinny legs and her intrusive presence i
nto his private world. The crazy man with the rifle and the silver bullets were a figment of his imagination, and…

  “Oh, my God. You’re awake!”

  The smell of roses and earth assaulted him a brief second later, and then there she was.

  She looked beautiful in a pair of well-fitting jeans and a green and blue flannel shirt that was cut to her size. Her hair was clean and pulled back into a tidy tail, and her caramel eyes shone brightly despite the dark shadows that circled them.

  “Not a dream, then,” he croaked, and was surprised at the relief he felt.

  “No,” she said, as she sat gingerly on the edge of his bed. “But it was touch and go for a bit there. Patrick was able to find a doctor to remove the silver, but you were still too weak to initiate the change. Obviously, it would have been much better if…”

  “How long?”

  “What?”

  “How long have I been out?”

  “Oh, well, it’s going on two weeks now. The doctor had to excise a lot of tissue around the wounds, to make sure he got all of the silver out, and…”

  “Two weeks?” Butch sat bolt upright, instantly regretting the movement as the wounds she spoke of pulled painfully, but there were more important issues at hand.

  Marcela was already in action, trying to force him back, but he wasn’t having it. He pushed her unceremoniously off the bed and swung his legs to the floor. He hesitated only a moment to let his head stop spinning before he stumbled into the living room.

  “Butch,” Marcela was calling after him. “You need to rest. The doctor said…”

  But Butch didn’t give two shits what the doctor said. He staggered from room to room, sniffing, searching, and sure enough, her scent was everywhere.

  “Have you been staying here?” he asked. He pulled himself down the hallway and back into the living room where she stood wringing her hands.

  “I…”