by Anne Marsh
“Sort of. We’ve got our own homemade range down on the bayou’s edge. We can shoot there.”
After yesterday’s near-wolf attack, teaching her how to protect herself is even more important. Exhibit A is the Breed’s fieldtrip into my territory last night.
“Okay.” She pats the bag of gear I’m carrying. “You want a hand with that?”
“I’ve got it.” She’s not carrying our guns.
The slightly grumpy look on her face is a clear reminder that Gianna likes to pull her own weight. I understand that need, so I’m not surprised when she holds out a hand in silent demand. It would serve her right if I gave her the big-ass gun case. The case looks like a sports duffel, which is good. There’s no point in advertising that you’re armed to the teeth. I’m not sticking her with its weight, however, not when I’m here to carry it for her. Instead, I pass her the smaller case that holds a pair of Glocks. Empty, it weighs in at a measly three pounds. With the guns, it leaves her toting less than ten pounds. It’s the best I can do.
“Thank you.” She hefts the case and starts striding down the path in front of us. “This way?”
Since she’s on the right path, I simply fall in behind her. Answer enough, in my opinion. I alternate between watching her and scanning our surroundings. It’s early and the sun has just come up. Although it will hit eighty by afternoon, right now the air is still nighttime cool. Her braid bounces back and forth, as sassy as her ass in those too-tight pants of hers.
“What are we shooting today?”
I like the sound of we. Together we’re a pair. “We’ve got a pair of Glocks in there. It’s light and easy to learn to use. You can drop it in the bayou, and it’s still going to fire just fine. We’ll start with that, then move you up to something that packs a bigger punch. I’ve got a Remington and a Browning shotgun in my bag.”
She shoots me a sidelong glance. “Are we planning on shooting elephants?”
No. Werewolves and skin hunters.
“You’ve seen shifters in wolf form.” I don’t need to scare the piss out of her, just make her a little cautious.
“You think I’m going to need to shoot a werewolf?” Her eyes narrow suspiciously.
“I think we need for you to be prepared,” I hedge.
“Next time you piss me off, you can shift and then I’ll plug your ass. Just for practice. How’s that?”
I grin. “Works for me.”
The homemade range out beyond the plantation house has several sets of targets that include an old swing set with metal targets suspended from it. A dirt alley had various distances marked off along the side and targets at the end. Walls of dirt surrounded the range, ready to absorb any bullets since the goal here was practice, not shooting up the local wildlife. My brothers and I have been coming out here for years.
Taking the gun case from her, I set it down on the picnic table Jace had dragged out here.
“So now what?”
I lift the gun out of its foam cradle and eject the magazine. “First, we load.”
She leans against me, watching intently. Fuck, but I love that look on her face. She makes me feel like the only man in the world… and yet I’m not.
Not yet.
“Got it,” she says. “Next step please.”
I drop bullets into the magazine until it’s full, then push the magazine into the handgrip. The magazine locks in place with an audible snick. The world isn’t a safe place, and she should have every advantage. I pass the gun to her.
“This is your Glock. It doesn’t have a conventional safety. Instead, you’ve got three safeguards to make sure you don’t shoot by accident.”
I’ve been called out to more than one accidental shooting during my tenure as sheriff. Shot in the hand, the foot and—on one really bad day—the head.
“You don’t think we should be starting with the shotgun given the size of you wolves?”
I shake my head. “The shotgun’s a better choice for taking down a charging wolf, but you can’t carry it around with you. Think of the Glock as office wear. The rifle’s your weekend date. Have you shot before?”
“You bet.” She flashes me a grin. “Just don’t ask about the legality of said weapons.”
I’d bet she was a sweet teenager. I can imagine her focusing down the barrel, lower lip caught between her teeth as she aimed. A bouncy ponytail or—better yet—two braids to keep the hair out of her face as she shot. I wish I’d known her then. Hell, I just wish I’d known her first. Or last. Last works for me too.
“Okay, rules first. Always treat your gun as if it’s loaded. Don’t point it if you won’t shoot it. Your finger stays off the trigger until you’re ready to fire. And be aware of what’s around and behind your target—you only want to shoot the bad guy. Pluggin’ me isn’t goin’ to make me happy.”
“You think I’m going to remember all that if there’s a werewolf charging me?”
She had a point.
“Are you right-handed or left-handed?” I ask.
I should know the answer to my own question, but when I’m around her, I spend way too much time thinking about how to get her into bed. More talking, less fantasizing. I’ll bet Luc knows if she’s right-handed or left-handed.
She waves a hand at me. The hand not holding the Glock. “Right.”
“Okay. Wrap your right hand around the grip. Your trigger finger goes down the side of the barrel. Use your left hand to support the pistol.”
She transfers the gun to her right hand, meticulously following my instructions. She likes rules, likes knowing how things are supposed to be done. The trick is getting her to deviate some. I love the way she does what I tell her to do, even if she worries about following my lead in bed. She does it though, and that’s so damned sexy I could howl.
“Nuh-uh. Make sure you’ve got both thumbs on the same side of the pistol.” Running my hands over hers, I adjust her grip on the gun. “Lock your left wrist. Keep your right hand loose. That way, your gun isn’t going to kick you into the middle of next week.”
She makes a noise of agreement. “What am I shooting?”
I gesture toward the row of cans at the end of the dirt alley. “Pretend those tomato sauce cans are the biggest, baddest werewolves you’ve ever seen. Just for you, they’re stayin’ put today, but you run into them in Baton Rouge and they’ll be movin’ fast. You wan’ to square up to them.”
She turns toward the target and I adjust her hips. Goddamn, but she looks pretty in the yoga pants clinging to her ass. Had she worn them just to drive me crazy? She shifts, her ass bumping against my dick. Probably. Gianna doesn’t like being the underdog.
“Now extend your arms in front of you. Keep your shoulders relaxed and bend those elbows just a bit.”
She brings the Glock up, nice and steady. Out in the field with two hundred pounds of pissed-off werewolf charging toward her, she may be less calm. If I do my job right, however, she’ll never have to find out.
“I’d be dead by now,” she points out cheerfully. “Unless you’re telling me werewolves charge in slo-mo.”
“Smart-ass. Sight down the pistol. You want the same amount of light on the right and left sides of the sight—even it up.”
“It’s blurry,” she complains.
“Good. Focus on the front sight. Don’t get distracted by what’s coming at you.”
“Right.” She laughs, the husky chuckle bouncing off my dick and tugging on my heartstrings. “The can is not a problem. Aim at a two-hundred-pound werewolf… and I’m betting I get distracted.”
“We’ll work on it,” I promise. Just in case I can’t be there. Or Luc. Or anyone from our packs. I’d take an assist from anyone if she were in danger, but she should be able to handle things herself too. She’d want it that way, and I’m all about the insurance. She runs through the stance a few times, getting comfortable with it and making it hers. She’s neat, methodical, and precise. Hell, I half expect her to take notes.
She looks at me.
“Do I get an A, teacher?”
Hell, yeah.
I grab the safety gear from my bag and pop a pair of safety glasses on her nose. Then, because you really can’t be too careful, not when it comes to your mate, I drop a pair of earmuffs on her.
Mate. Because that’s how I think of her. Somehow, she’s turned out to be The One for me, and that stuns me. It makes me possessive and horny as hell too, but I’m a wolf and most wolves don’t share well. I yearn to pull her into my arms and kiss her, share my news flash with her, and hope I can convince her to get on the same page as me.
“Cruz?” She nudges me gently in the ribs, pulling me out of my head and back to our shooting lesson.
“Put your index finger on the trigger and pull back slowly,” I say gruffly. She does, registering the audible click when the trigger resets. “Now you could fire again. May need to get multiple shots off real quick. It’s also going to make you more accurate.”
“Charging werewolves beware,” she says lightly.
Yeah. Along with in-love werewolves. It would be easy to get used to having Gianna in my life, but she hasn’t made any promises.
Not to me.
Not yet.
GIANNA
Cruz shooting is hot as hell. His T-shirt pulls taut over his muscled forearms as he lifts the shotgun and sights. A sharp crack follows the fierce look of concentration on his face, and then the can topples. He never budges or misses.
My arms, on the other hand, ache, and I have a bruise the size of North Dakota on my shoulder from my first turn with the shotgun. I fired, the gun kicked hard, and I ended up planted on my butt. Cruz was by my side in a second, lifting me up and brushing me off. It’s not his fault that I failed to control the gun, but after two more attempts proved no more successful, he’d switched me back to the Glock.
It’s shaping up to a beautiful day in the bayou. With the sun high in the sky now, the day has warmed up considerably. I shed my flannel shirt, enjoying the flare of interest in Cruz’s eyes as I shoot in just my tank top. A bird takes off from a nearby tree, pale underbelly flashing as it wings over the treetops. The frogs croak up a storm too, adding to the sweet buzz of sound. Since we’ve avoided any snake or gator sightings, I’m a happy camper. Even the Coke cans lined up for our target practice look cheerful, winking in the sunlight.
We’ve been taking turns for the past hour. When Cruz steps back, he motions me forward and then makes minute adjustments to my stance and grip. Shooting is surprisingly enjoyable, the predictable rhythm calming. Load, lift, and fire. Problem solved.
Cruz’s need to protect me amuses me, concerns me, excites me. He’s acknowledged that I can handle matters myself, but at the same time he’s made sure I have the tools I need. He’s a law-enforcement pro, a bona fide sheriff and, I suspect, a man with the heart of a warrior. He’s fought plenty to get where he is in life, and that’s something else we have in common.
So missing the target—two times in a row—in front of him sucks. I’d like to be perfect, to knock the ball out of the park on this one. Instead, my Coke cans mock me, standing defiantly untouched at the end of the range. “Shoot.”
Cruz grins. “That’s why we’re practicing with cans and not real werewolves.”
“Right.” I roll my eyes. “Like you and your brothers are volunteering for me to shoot at you.”
Third time’s the charm, right? Lifting the Glock, I sight and squeeze the trigger. This time, the Coke can flies backward, hitting the dirt. Elation sweeps through me.
“Yeah!” I fist pump, eying my target. Cruz is an excellent teacher. He’s patient, but he also cuts me no slack, which I appreciate. If I’m doing this, I’m doing it right and only partly because I’m worried about real-life werewolf encounters. Truth is, I’m a perfectionist and competitive. Once I decide to go for something, I’m in it to win it. So I need to knock down all six targets. Mission. Accomplished.
Cruz takes my hand, tugging me toward our supplies. He’s brought a picnic lunch, which means the man wins a gold star.
“Guns and food.” I can’t hold back my grin. “You came prepared.”
“Tell me you’re not hungry.”
My stomach growls right on cue. He definitely knows what I like. Me… I just like Cruz.
I think about that while he lays out the food, comfortable with the silence building between us. Cruz isn’t much for talking. He prefers action to words. Today’s actions include cold fried chicken, biscuits, a sharp cheddar, and grapes. He’s even got a thermos of iced sweet tea. We could stay out here for days and not starve.
“Where did you get the picnic from?” From what I’ve seen of his kitchen, he’s truly not much for cooking. Coffee, yes. Suitably laden picnic basket? That would be a no.
He offers me a plate and hangs back while I dive in. It’s kind of like having my own medieval knight placing the choice bits on my trencher. “I cheated. My mom hooked us up.”
“You’ll have to tell her thank you for me. I can’t cook to save my life.” I’ve never prioritized cooking.
“While I, on the other hand, can make a mean roasted trout.”
I snag a piece of crunchy chicken skin. No diet for me this week. I can make up for it later. “Okay. I can do desserts.”
“Hell, together we’ve got half a dinner.”
“Tell me about the wolf?” I ask him when I’m finally stuffed and can’t eat another bite. “Do you hunt?”
“It’s what the wolf does.” He winked at her. “Animals. People. Sometimes, there isn’t all that much difference. We’re territorial, too. We hold onto what’s our own, so fighting’s inevitable when one wolf decides to make a move on another wolf’s territory.”
Oh, God.
See? Cruz and Luc have more in common than just me, and it’s these shared traits that point out a problem. They’re wolves at heart—not men. And like their animal kindred, they exhibit an unabashed territorialness. Sometimes it’s sexy, but other times…
Other times, the possessiveness is a problem. The longer I spend with Cruz, the less convinced I am that my two guys can make a share-and-share-alike relationship work. They’re going to force me to choose between them, and I can’t do that.
Won’t do that.
CRUZ
My throat feels as if I tried to insert a dinosaur-sized frog in there. “Do I need to apologize for last night? Not for tossing Luc out—” because that was downright inevitable—“but was I too rough afterward?”
I’d carried her upstairs and made love to her. I didn’t think I’d been too rough, but I hadn’t been gentle, either. Not that apologies are something I’m good at. Okay. In all truth, I’m really, really bad at apologizing. Generally speaking, I’m always in the right. Sheriff, Alpha, blah fucking blah. If I do get things wrong, the offended parties generally don’t make a point of telling me. Which, now that I think about it, isn’t actually doing me any favors.
Gianna sets down her chicken and stares at me. Maybe the question didn’t come out right. She makes a small, choking sound, but I don’t think her distress has anything to do with the chicken. Or, I narrow my eyes, with distress at all, because now that I look more closely, I’m fairly certain she’s laughing at me. When her eyes meet mine, humor gleams in them.
“Are you asking me about your performance in bed?”
I lean forward and steal the chicken from her. She’s done with it, and I’m still hungry. “I know you enjoy what we do together.”
Her body enjoys it. The sweet clench of her pussy on my dick is all yes, please. But I’m not an idiot, and I know that Gianna’s body doesn’t get the deciding vote. If I can’t convince Gianna’s head and her heart, I’m out of the game. No matter how hard she comes or how much she enjoys playing sex games with me, I need to hear how she feels or she’ll be riding off into the sunset with Luc Breaux in a handful of nights and I’ll be… alone.
Alone sucks, and it’s a condition I’m tired of. I’m ready to settle down, and I have no idea how I w
as so goddamned lucky to have Gianna drop into my life the way she has, but I’m not questioning fate or Lady Luck or whatever fantastic, unearned turn of fortune brought the two of us together, however temporarily. I simply plan on making our connection permanent.
“But I want to know if you’re okay with enjoying what we do.” I have no idea where those words come from, but they hang in the air between us and there’s no taking them back. Fuck.
Gianna sighs, the good humor gone from her face. “It’s not what we do that I’ve got the problem with. It’s you and Luc.”
“What about us?” I know where this is leading, and sure enough she heads there.
“I need the two of you to like each other. To get along. To…”
She trails off, clearly at a loss for words herself.
I could connect those dots for her. Maybe. “You wan’ us to be lovers? Luc and I?”
She shrugs. “Friends, yes. Lovers? If that was what the two of you wanted, then yes to that too. But I don’t want you to be enemies, and hostility’s the only thing I’m seeing happen.”
Except when we’re holding Gianna sandwiched between the two of us. Except for then. There’s a long silence while I think about that. Once was interesting. Twice I could handle too. But forever is a long time, and there would have to be more between Luc and I than Gianna. We’d have to find common ground and I’d damned certain need him to respect me and to have my back.
Which means I’d need to find a way to feel those things for him too.
Fuck.
She rummages in the picnic basket, oblivious to my thoughts or the bombshell she’s just dropped. For her, our relationship just is. When she emerges with a Tupperware of chocolate mousse, her eyes light up.
“Your mom’s a genius.”
Glad to move on to simpler topics, I pop the lid for her. “She’s raised four wolves and kept an Alpha in line for over three decades. Genius is a given.”
