by Anne Marsh
“You also share.” I yank open my dresser drawer and stare at the contents, seeing nothing.
“You think I should have invited everybody else in? You’d have had yourself a logistics issue.” A half smile tugs at his lips.
“Cruz was right there.”
“So?” Luc sounds as if he doesn’t give a fuck, but his shoulders stiffen. Good. He’s not so happy with this new conversational direction. Too bad, so sad. I grab a roller bag from the back of my closet, drag it out, and toss it on the bed. Time to fill her up and get moving.
“So yesterday it was the three of us, and now, today, we’re slamming the door in his face.”
“You want another taste of him?”
I can’t tell what Luc thinks about that possibility and isn’t that par for the course? The man is a fucking emotional island. I fist a handful of lingerie from the open drawer and toss it into the case.
“I don’t want to slam the door in his face.”
“You’re my mate—not his.”
Fuck wolves. I’m tired of this. “News flash: I belong to myself. A ring on my finger doesn’t change that. It just means that I’ve agreed to share.”
Yoga pants. T-shirts. Two pairs of sneakers. I don’t need power suits or heels for a week in the bayou, but I don’t plan on staying naked either.
“You promised me this week.” Luc moves closer.
“And I promised Cruz the next one. Fine. I’ll slam the door in your face next week and see how you like it then.”
“I don’ know if I can share you.” I can’t miss the warning in his low voice. He’s never lied to me. I shove more clothes into the suitcase, feeling like a refugee, grabbing what I can as my life crumbles. My house feels strange now and unfamiliar.
“He’s out there.” Luc exhales roughly.
“Excuse me?”
“Your other wolf. Cruz. He’s waitin’ on you, shug. Just like me.”
I hear the silent demand in Luc’s voice. He wants me to choose him, and he wants me to do it soon. I’m not trying to jerk either man around, but choosing between them has never seemed so hard. I stare at the wadded-up clothes in my suitcase, but the pile of fabric doesn’t come with bonus answers. Somehow, even though I have no clue how, I need to work out my feelings for Luc. And for Cruz.
God, I have no idea how I’m going to that.
The only plan in the hopper at the moment is drawing out the Breed. At least it’s something. Maybe infiltrating a biker gang of werewolves will make everything clearer and simpler.
LUC
I pull up in my truck behind Gianna’s office. I don’t like the setup. The place is all brick and glass, the kind of space deliberately designed to encourage confidence. The traffic in and out of the front door alternates between suits and a wide cross-section of other people who share one thing in common. They stink of nerves and fears.
Gianna reaches for the door handle and then pauses, tapping her briefcase against her leg. The plan is for her to slip in the back, make like she’s come to collect a few briefs to work on from home, and then exit via the front door to where she’s made arrangements to have a friend drop off her car. The Breed will be on her solitary departure like white on rice.
“They won’t kill me.”
“You can’ make that promise.”
She stares at me impatiently. “If they wanted me dead, all it would take would be one sniper rifle. Based on what they’re running, they have access to that kind of fire power. If they haven’t used it, they want to do some talking.”
Yeah. We both hear the unspoken first.
Dre and Landry are tailing her from the south. Cruz and I have the north. There’s no way she disappears off our radar. But, shit. This is not a plan I can like. Ten minutes later, she pops out the front door, right on schedule, as she usually does on a work night. Her heels beat out a brisk tap-tap-tap as she eats up the sidewalk, keys out. The shoes lose out to her nylons and the wicked little seam that runs up the back of her calf and thigh.
Cruz crouches beside me, his gaze following Gianna. It’s impossible to tell what the bastard is thinking.
He heard the boop-bip-boop of Gianna’s car lock. “You don’ think this is crazy?”
“The Breed is crazy.” Cruz keeps his eyes trained on Gianna. He’s passed on the uniform, opting instead for khaki cargo pants, shitkickers and a T-shirt. When he moves, the shirt rides up, revealing the handle of a gun tucked in his waistband. “They won’ stop comin’ for her. They’ve got to get what they wan’, or this will never be over.”
The snatch is quick and surprisingly professional. Two bikers move in, killing their motors to pin her between her car and their metal. The growl rises in my throat before I can entirely suppress it. Beside me, Cruz stiffens. The biker closest to her leans in, landing a quick, hard cuff to the head, and she crumples. Anger roars to life in me, my wolf fighting for release even as I mentally mark both of the males. They hurt her. They die.
It’s that simple.
The biker pulls Gianna onto the bike in front of him and jams a helmet down over her head. Face covered, she looks like a biker’s old lady. Her skirt rides up, flashing white thigh. Yeah. That’s definitely my growl I hear.
Dre and Landry signal from their hiding spots as the bikers roar off.
Time to hunt.
CRUZ
I follow Luc to the dive bar in one of Baton Rouge’s seediest neighborhoods. Arriving before the two bikers pull in with their precious cargo is key. We’d also agreed to split up and enter separately in order to draw less attention. The seedy hole-in-the-wall stinks of urine and worse. The bathrooms are bacteria breeding grounds covered with gang graffiti. In addition to three ancient pool tables, the bar comes with the obligatory neon signs and a scarred counter where drinkers belly up for refills and cold longnecks. A human female in a red thong desultorily slides up and down a pole on a small platform in the corner. The blank look in her eyes announces she is a million miles away and tweaking.
No sign of the two wolves who snatched Gianna—or of the Breed leadership. They’ll show. I know it. It’s just going to be a fucking long wait. But responding sooner would net me the two kidnappers only—small potatoes in the Breed hierarchy.
The bar is the current favorite of the Breed. Color me shocked. The biker gang gets up to pretty much the same shit as their human counterparts, except that these riders turn furry at will. I also suspect they make deals on the side with the vampires and traffic in werewolf skins. Sworn enemies for centuries, vampires followed the werewolves to the New World when my pack joined the mass paranormal exodus from Europe. Vampires and werewolves have hunted each other for centuries, and we have only one advantage. Hit them with a floodlight or stake them outdoors for the sun—the end result is the same. The vamp fries. In a misguided spirit of fair play, nature has handed the vampires a bitch of a work-around. The vamps skin the werewolves and wear their skins. Problem solved.
The bar is still mostly empty, which means I don’t have to fight for a table. I park my ass at a corner table. An army of empty Budweisers march across the sticky tabletop. The surface appears to have not been bussed since sometime in the previous century, but the empties are useful window dressing.
When Luc strides in, the other Alpha’s aura of dark menace blends fine. He drops into the empty chair next to mine, eyes scanning the room. “Nice spot.”
One night down. Six left before it’s my turn. One hundred forty-four hours and far too many minutes. Holding out, not going to her when everything in me demands now now now is a bitch.
Fuck me, but I’m not in the mood for jokes. Gianna’s scent mingles with Luc’s, marking the other male’s skin. An almost invisible tension relaxes about the guy, as if he’s spent an unforgettable night loving an even more unforgettable woman. So yeah… small talk isn’t high on my priority list. Not when I’d rather be punching the ever-living fuck out of Luc.
I rapidly sketch out what I know about the biker gang while we wait f
or show time.
Luc shakes his head. “Nothing but problems I don’ need. Someone else can keep it once we clean it up.”
The dancer shimmies and shakes while I mull things over. Reports reached me years ago of skin hunters buying up real estate because those boys like their fancy. The biker gang is a newer development that surfaced two years ago. Their underground community thrives on lawlessness, and there’s always some lone wolf somewhere who tires of his pack and decides to branch out on his own or find new friends.
The Breed runs arms and drugs with—I eye the dancer—a side of prostitution. As long as they stay out of the bayou, I’ve overlooked their claims to the city. With my brothers behind me, I have the muscle to hold my territory, but making full-scale war on the Breed carries the kind of price tag I can’t afford. A price tag that includes both publicity—and a body count. I’m not sacrificing my brothers on that altar, and Luc Breaux undoubtedly feels the same way.
Unfortunately the war appears to be coming to us anyway. The minute those crazy bastards laid hands on Gianna, my neutrality vanished.
Luc looks at me. “You know what their numbers are?”
“Pack of forty, with another fifty or sixty hangers-on and a dozen prospects.”
“And you know this how?”
“Inside wolf.” The walls have ears in places like this and admitting the truth out loud is a calculated risk. Luc doesn’t push further, clearly satisfied.
“And there’s one of our boys. Bear Dog. ”
The wolf swaggering inside wears faded blue jeans and an oversized belt buckle. Bingo. His denim vest is patched with the gang’s colors and tattooed snakes curl around his biceps. Based on his human bulk, he’ll be a son-of-a-bitch as a wolf.
Two males accompany Bear Dog, one human and one wolf based on the scents. And the wolf’s old lady. She’s a little blonde bit with dead eyes and a nervous twitch. She sports a black leather collar and a white minidress, but the finger-sized bruises mottling her arms are not the accessories I’d choose for her.
“He’s the second lieutenant. Word on the street is that he requested the hit on Gianna.”
GIANNA
I crack my eyes and realize immediately that’ s a mistake. My head hurts, and the largest man I’ve ever seen cradles me in his arms, pressed against a downright pornographic T-shirt advertising some kind of adult sex toy. A tribal tattoo of a Celtic hunting hound curls around his throat. The walls swim around me, and the blur does nothing for them.
The place stinks.
I’ve never worked undercover. Volunteering might, just possibly, be outside my comfort zone. Focus on the fact that this will soon be over. Large bodies surround me, jostle me as they leer, and rough voices detail what waits for me. Yeah, wearing a wire is helpful—but my life only restarts when I exit the bar.
Mr. Big, Bad, and Tattooed looks down at me. “Almost over, sweetheart.”
For a brief moment, he actually seems concerned. Maybe he’s Cruz’s undercover man. Or maybe he simply isn’t rotten to the core like the other members of the Breed. Most bikers are decent men. The same has to hold true for the wolves. At any rate, he changes course, locking in on the bar.
“You wan’ a shot of Patrón? While we wait for Z-Pain, because he’s the one in charge of this show and the rest of us are playin’ follow-the-leader.”
“Put me down.” Being carted around like a bag of groceries only underscores my physical disadvantage. My eyes dart around the bar, cataloging possible exit points. Looking for Luc and Cruz. The place specializes in shadows and out-of-the-line-of-sight booths, so I have no luck on that front. I can sense that they're there though.
“No can do,” my bearer says. He cops a spot on a barstool and drops me onto his lap. “Pick your poison.”
When the other wolves jostling around us jeer, he shrugs. “I’m a gentleman. Lady gets a last drink.”
“You got a name?” Please say it and go on my tape. Not that he’s done anything actionably illegal—other than holding me here against my will—but insurance sounds wise. He also scares the piss out of me. He sucks a draft of beer from his longneck, his scarred thumb rubbing back and forth over my pulse. When two wolves tackle the dancer on the pole, bearing her down to the floor, he has to know how much it bothers me. My heart kicks into overdrive, my pulse banging wildly. Sweet. Jesus. They’re…
“She’s a pass-around,” he rasps in my ear. Guess he can talk after all.
“She signed up for that?”
With a flash of white thighs, the dancer disappears beneath the two males. A belt buckle clinks, followed by the slap of flesh on flesh as the guy rams hips and balls forward. Two pale arms appear from the pile up, linking loosely around the man’s back.
My human barstool sighs. “She wants drugs. Someone here will give them to her.”
LUC
The night’s plan is simple. Determine which motherfucker is in charge because the Breed’s organizational structure is slippery as hell. Get Gianna to safety—and then take down the males who ordered her hit.
The new wolf heads to the bar and orders a bottle of tequila. Patrón. The bartender ponies it right up, along with a row of shot glasses and lime. No money exchanges hands. I lay in a line for Gianna’s wolf, who greets the big bastard like a long-lost friend. Z-Pain. Target acquired.
Taking the wolf pack apart one wolf at a time remains a possibility, but public show-and-tell is more efficient. Z-Pain went after my mate—whether he realized it or not—so we’ll make the first example of him. Z-Pain bends closer to Gianna, his nose brushing her throat. As he straightens up, cursing, I’m already moving. No way the other wolf doesn’t scent both me and Cruz on Gianna’s skin.
Z-Pain’s enforcers step out to block my forward momentum, but I hip check the wolf on the left, slamming him into the bar. Cruz is all over the second guy by the time the fight breaks out.
None of my brothers want me losing my blue moon mate. Gianna’s current captor is Cruz’s inside guy; he’ll beat a strategic retreat, take a few well-placed hits, and hand Gianna off.
I kept her safe for ten years from myself. No fucking way I lose her to a bastard wolf pack now. Losing her to Cruz would hurt like hell, but that would be her choice. The gang members don’t stand a chance. My wolf is a runaway truck with no brakes, and my human half is on board with that plan.
Five minutes to take apart the wolves that don’t run for the doors. Five more to get Z-Pain on the floor, and start taking the male apart inch by inch. Methodically I hammer blows. First into Z-Pain’s ribs and then into his arms and legs. I’ll save the face for last. Make the male wait for it.
“Hit the pause button for a minute.” Cruz yanks on my arm.
No can do. Pounding Z-Pain into extinction is my only mission.
Cruz tightens his grip. Oui, I might go a little crazy.
I resurface slowly from the haze of red. Fuck. I’ve made one hell of a mess. I’m not worried about the bar—the place was trash long before I stepped foot inside—but I do need to have a conversation with Z-Pain before wrapping things up.
I scan the bar, looking for trouble. Dre and Landry will be covering the exits and cleaning up any four-legged loose ends. A few bikers groan on the floor, limbs bent at unfortunate angles. There is also a fair amount of blood. At least I’m not the one doing cleanup.
“You ready to talk?” Cruz doesn’t let go of my arm until I nod.
What I’m ready to do is to get back to Gianna. Since it’s now well past midnight, I’m burning my hours with her. I don’t have to get inside her every night, but I’m damned sure sleeping wrapped around her. I look down at the wolf pressed beneath my booted foot. He’s an obstacle I intend to remove.
Cruz follows my gaze, checking out the damage to Z-Pain. “Yeah, we should definitely talk.”
“Talkin’ is overrated.” I press down harder, and something cracks.
“Hey, you give him an opportunity to spill.” The wolf’s face twists, like the man is tor
n between sticking around in human dick form versus going wolf and taking a chance on clawing his way free. “Maybe he knows something helpful about this hit that was ordered on Gianna Lynn. Shit that we should know too.”
“Don’ be such a fuckin’ sheriff.”
Z-Pain tries to break free, but I’m not allowing that. I renew my beatdown.
“I am what I am.” Cruz doesn’t sound concerned—or as if he minds overly much that I’m assaulting another Alpha. As long as the threat to Gianna is removed, good job. “Gianna Lynn don’ mind.”
And… fuel for the fire. I bare my teeth. Tonight is no night for fucking subtle.
“She’s my blue moon mate.”
“Well, that’s the thing.” Cruz crouches beside Z-Pain. “You should ease up some. The guy’s gotta breathe sometime.”
Killing the wolf would be satisfying, but the aftermath could be messy, particularly if the death happens in Baton Rouge territory where it will be interpreted more like an act of war or a fuck-you. Break the wolf’s neck, and the entire biker gang will come knocking, first on Cruz’s door and then on mine. Sometimes, being the Alpha sucks.
Cruz nods when I ease up some but keeps right on talking. “My pack, we don’ hold with that blue moon stuff.”
“Your sister married because of it.”
“Yeah, but I’m thinkin’ she’d have fallen for your brother anyhow.”
There’s no accounting for taste as I know. Cruz might not like to think about his sister spending the rest of her life as a member of my pack, but he also knows better than to disrespect her choice. It’s her life, her choice. Plus she’d gut him if he tried to stomp all over her. Riley has plenty of courage.
Cruz plows on. “Gianna’s goin’ to choose the male she wants. That was your deal anyhow. She gives you a shot and you let her walk, no fuss, no muss, if she decides she doesn’t want to stick around any.”
Fuck me if the other male doesn’t look too happy about it. Right. Because we both need to win. We both need Gianna.
