by AJ Hampton
When the truck stopped, Peter pushed from the wall and stalked forward. Muscles shifted and bulged, his cotton shirt doing nothing to hide he was a well-primed male. Her suddenly damp hands itched to run up his chest and curve over his broad shoulders. No. Her hands longed to close around his throat so she could strangle him.
The truck was barely in park, the engine off, before she threw open the door and descended into the cold, dark night. No way was he getting the upper hand. She’d had days to plan her argument, to phrase and rephrase all the things she needed to say. As hard as she could, she shoved the door closed. The resounding thud did nothing to appease her wrath.
“You fucking asshole.” Not what she’d planned to say, but the words were worth it to see the crack in his composure, the falter in his cocky swagger.
She met Peter in the middle of the driveway. Standing toe to toe with him, she looked up with a glare she’d had seventy-two hours to perfect. Wind gusted, blowing strands of hair in her face she didn’t even bother to push away. He opened his mouth, but she stepped closer and spoke over him. “I told you to leave Grady alone. Did you listen? No. You broke his nose.” Her fists clenched at the memory of Grady’s handsome features marred by his red, swollen nose and the dark bruise on his right eye.
From there, her perfectly prepared speech flew straight to hell. She pushed against his chest, sent him back a half a step. “What gives you the right to come into my life, my town and beat up my friends?” Shove. Another half step. “If that wasn’t enough, you assigned me a fucking babysitter. Do I look like some defenseless teenaged girl to you? And now, here you are at my house after three days of avoiding me!”
Peter’s jaw clenched. He took a single step forward, closing the gap between them. He towered over her, his every word coming with an angry cloud of moisture. “Your life. Your town. Your friends. That’s real fucking rich, Eva. You couldn’t give a shit about any of these people! They don’t know you any better than you know them. Greg kept you isolated, his own personal treasure. And, your asshole cop is lucky I didn’t rip out his throat. The only reason I didn’t kill him was because I didn’t want to hear you complain about it.”
She lifted her chin and let the red-hot rage warm her blood. She didn’t care if his words held truth or not, or how hard they were to hear out loud. “I’ll give you something to complain about. Grady didn’t mean to hit me. He apologized. I accepted. End of story.”
“Is that so?” Murder darkened Peter’s eyes. He stepped forward, forcing her to stay on her toes and bring their bodies flush, or retreat. She stepped back. When he spoke again, it was through gritted teeth. “Did you kiss and make up?” Another step back. Damn it. A sneer twisted his mouth. “Did you let him push up your skirt and fuck you like you let me in your truck? Did you scream and beg for it?”
Her mouth dropped open. The balled hand she had ready would have connected with his cheek if he hadn’t anticipated the move. In one seamless move, he caught her wrist mid-swing, wrapped her arm behind her back, and wrenched her tight against his chest. A low grumbling noise vibrated through the night. His cock, hard and long, dug into her stomach. A shiver coursed through her, the anticipation of what he offered tightened things low in her body whether she wanted it to or not.
“I think you’re forgetting who’s in charge. Who you belong to.”
She pushed at his chest with her hand. “It sure as hell isn’t you,” she spat, shoved harder at the wall of muscle trapping her. “Let. Me. Go.”
He grabbed the back of her neck with his free hand, held her firm as if she were some unruly kitten. Paralyzed, she could do nothing but stare up at the harsh lines of his handsome face. Lust struck hard and fast, an unwanted response to his dominance. She arched against him ever so slightly, an involuntary reaction, she told herself. His mouth lowered, hovered over hers, the heat from his breath thawing her trembling lips.
“I’ll say when I go and when I stay.” He slammed his mouth to hers cruelly, its force drawing her mouth open. She tasted blood where his canines nicked her lip. Peter gave her no choice to retreat, no chance to do anything except accept his brutal kiss.
She pushed her fingers through his hair, gripped him close and slid her tongue against his, took back as much control as he’d let slip free. He tasted of whiskey and mint. He smelled like winter and man. A slight angling of their heads deepened the kiss and had Peter shoving his hand between her legs.
Just where she wanted him, distracted by sex. Pulling back, she scraped her teeth across his lower lip, sucked. He groaned. Then she bit down as hard she could. His blood stung her tongue, the taste almost as satisfying as the sound he made.
He let go of her immediately and stepped back. Fingers pressed against his bleeding lip, he dabbed. In the darkness, his blood looked black. She moved out from between the wall of his chest and the truck.
Her heart beat wildly, the ferocious noise too loud in the silence. One look at his face told her she’d miscalculated. She’d wanted his anger, payback for how easily he manipulated her body. Lust shone in his eyes. Roused and ready to conquer, the animal within took control.
Wary, she backed toward the front door, carefully placing one boot behind the other. If she went down, it was all over. He’d have her pants torn, her bare ass on the cold snow, and his cock driving into her before she could blink.
“That’s twice you’ve made me bleed, Eva.” There was a distinct, animalistic growl to his voice.
She lifted her chin. “Now we’re even.”
“Not even close,” he purred, stepping forward to chase, anticipation dancing in his eyes.
Three feet from the entrance, she stalled, her front door opening unexpectedly. The sound both startled and welcomed her. James. She’d forgotten she’d agreed to meet with him tonight to go over some documents he’d insisted she needed to sign. Turning, she pressed her back against the wall so she could keep both men in sight.
“Eva, you all right?” James asked, leaned a stocky shoulder against the door jamb.
Peter snarled, and for a moment, she wondered if he’d shift forms while clothed. “What the fuck is he doing inside your house?”
One more foot to go, she scooted sideways. She glanced between James and Peter. The heavy currents of testosterone stopped her in her tracks. Gripping panic knotted her stomach, the anxiety making her sweat despite the cold. Left on their own, the two leopards would tear each other apart. The expression on her uncle’s face, dark and unpleasant, matched Peter’s.
“I invited him here,” she said with only the slightest waver.
In the blink of an eye Peter was in front of her, hand pressed against the wall next to her head. He leaned in close, exposed his canines. Damn, why did he have to be so sexy?
“He has a key,” he demanded, less a question and more a statement of the obvious.
She swallowed. “The entire Pard has a key. This is, was, the Alpha’s house, a safe haven for anyone who needed it.”
Peter leaned close, wrapped his hand around the thin scarf protecting her neck, and squeezed. His silent warning, a reminder of her how fragile she was. He stared into her eyes. “Do you have any sense of self-preservation? Someone murdered Greg, is after you, and half the God damn town has a key to your house.”
“Hey,” James growled, stepped from the threshold and into the now heavily falling snow. Another blizzard. Another cold, Alaskan night.
“Stay out of this,” Peter hissed to James. “You can consider whatever ‘date’ you two had planned for this evening cancelled. Leave.”
The anger she’d nursed rekindled and snapped. “He doesn’t have to go anywhere. This is my house.”
“Actually, it’s my house. Greg was my father. I’m his rightful heir. I checked, and darlin’, he never legally adopted you. In fact, you have no birth certificate, no social security number. The only place you exist is in this shit hole of a town.”
She got into his face, words flying unbidden. “I existed to Greg.” Starin
g into his eyes, she let the second part of her sentence hang between them. She existed to Greg. Peter hadn’t.
Silence descended. Peter’s nostrils flared, and beside her head where he rested his hand, claws scraped the chunky gray stone. A cold expression darkened his eyes, cut her to the bone.
She turned to James and didn’t bother to smile. He wouldn’t have noticed anyway. Her uncle stared at Peter. Peter stared at her. She, well, she just wanted everything to stop. As if popped with a knife, her anger deflated, left her flat and empty. Suddenly exhausted, Eva doubted she’d have energy to eat let alone undress before falling face-first into bed.
“You know what, James, maybe it is better if you go home. I’ll come by Lost Isle in the morning. Peter is leaving and I’m going to sleep.”
“I’m not going anywhere,” Peter said, pushing from the wall and stopping in front of James. “Give me the key. Now that I’m Alpha, no one is welcome to just come and go as they fucking please.”
Eva held her breath as the two men stared at each other, the air vibrating with otherworldly energy.
James finally submitted, casting his eyes toward the ground. “You’re going to push someone too far one of these days, boy,” he said, as he methodically twisted a silver key from a ring. Her uncle placed the metal in Peter’s outstretched hand and walked forward, passing both of them without another word.
She watched him go, almost wished he’d come back.
“Get inside. You’re starting to shiver,” Peter said, shoving the key into his pocket and entering her house uninvited.
Resigned, she followed with a sigh and shut the door behind her. She took off her coat, unthreaded the thick red scarf from around her neck. Hanging them both by the door, she said, “Is there something you actually wanted?”
Peter passed the staircase leading to the bedrooms. Okay, not sex then. As he walked down the short hallway, he looked left, and then right as if he hadn’t really looked around the last time he’d been here. She wondered if it was strange for him to see the changes in his childhood home. She shouldn’t care. Didn’t want to.
The unspoken words from earlier echoed inside her head. Regret built, layer after layer, each one growing heavier. The phrase “He started it” wasn’t a good enough excuse for what she’d almost said. What she should correct now.
“Listen, Peter, what I said earlier about Greg—”
He cut her off. “I need to see the note you found on the body.”
A foot from the living room, he turned and threw open the double doors to Greg’s office without an ounce of hesitation. Reluctantly, she followed him inside the study. His face a handsome mask of detachment, he looked around what had been Greg’s sanctuary. Handcrafted mahogany bookshelves lined the walls and overflowed with books she’d spent a good portion of her life reading in front of the stone fireplace. This room, with Greg in it, had been her existence. Pathetic.
Peter moved behind the desk, stroking his finger over the oak as he passed. Greg’s leather chair groaned under his weight, the familiar creak when he leaned back calling up a wave of grief. He looked up, spearing her with his gaze. Her breath caught.
Dark, disheveled hair swept across his broad forehead and invited the eye to consume the rest of his face. Although Peter’s square, muscular jaw bore a likeness to his father, it was the expression in his eyes, the air of authority, that got her.
How had she not connected the son with the father that first night? Grief? Lack of sleep? Shock? Perhaps it was the image of Greg’s dead body forever burned into her memory? Closing her eyes, she pictured her father’s ashen face marred by the bullet hole in his forehead and the black rivulet of blood. Tears burned her eyes, emotion clogged her throat. She swallowed.
“Why do you want the note?”
“I want to smell it, compare it to the one I found.” He stared at the cluttered desk, and then shuffled papers around until he picked up a thin red folder. Opening it, he flipped through documents she’d read over a million times in the last two days.
Playing into the memory of times past, she went to the fireplace. With practiced ease, she started a fire, something Greg had always let her do even though he’d said it was a man’s job. She never looked away from the small orange flames licking outward from the kindling and engulfing the wood. “You’re a detective now?”
“Apparently so are you,” he said.
She rose from her crouch and reached for the decanter of Greg’s favored whiskey he kept on the mantel. Pouring two glasses, she faced Peter.
He held up the folder. “Do I want to know what you did to get a copy of the police file on Greg’s murder investigation?” An edge crept into his voice, one she planned to ignore.
With a causal lift of her shoulder, she said, “As you can see, they haven’t ruled it as a murder. The coroner thinks it was a suicide. You know how the long, dark winters affect people.”
Peter dropped the folder to the desk, sat back and steepled his fingers under his chin. He might look relaxed, confident, but the tightening lines around his eyes told the truth. “How’d you get the file, Eva?”
She set his liquor on the table, backed away to the far side of the room. The more distance between them, the better. Settling in front of the fireplace, she sat and pulled her legs to her chest. Heat washed over her skin, loosening the tension holding her body stiff. The burning log popped, sent embers dancing. She sipped her firewater, appreciated the burn.
“Answer me,” Peter demanded.
“Grady wanted to give me flowers. I told him to give me a copy of the file instead.”
Two days ago, a plan to get Peter out of town formed in her mind. An epiphany during an endless night without sleep. Peter was here, and wouldn’t leave because of the murder. If she found out who’d killed Greg, then Peter would go home, to Montana. Simple. Until she’d gotten the damn file. The lack of evidence was appalling. No leads. No evidence. The only papers were her statement and a few gruesome photos she’d rather not see ever again.
“Where is the rest of it?” he asked.
She turned her head to him. “That is all they have. Pathetic, huh?”
Silence fell between them, and she was almost glad he didn’t respond. Looking away from him, she rested her head on her knees and let her lids droop. The crackling fire in front of her soothed her like a lullaby. It had been so long since she’d slept. Too long.
“The motherfucker,” Peter growled, his sharp words snapping her awake.
“What’s the matter?” she asked with a yawn big enough to crack her jaw. She rose, stretching the lethargy from her muscles, wondering how long she’d dozed.
Long enough for Peter to empty the crystal glass at his elbow and push his sleeves up his well-built forearms. Partially hiding a scowl, he held the folder near his face, so close she wondered how he could even focus on the words.
“In your statement you mention a blood trail.”
“Okay,” she said, tried not to visualize the sprinkling drops so vivid against the white snow. “What’s your point?”
He threw the folder down, flipped through photos, each grainy snapshot coaxing the vomit into her throat. “My point is that there isn’t a picture of it. The blood would have been vital to the investigation. It should have been documented, especially where it led. Suicide my ass. Greg couldn’t have shot himself in the head, walked across the parking lot, settled himself in his truck, and then died.”
Eva blinked, and then blinked again. Why hadn’t she come to that conclusion? She picked up the file, frantically searched her statement, remembering Grady writing it down word for word. She paused on the photos. Dull, glazed eyes. Blue skin. The puckered hole with its dark stream of blood. There were a few other photos of the inside of her truck, the bloodstains, and a smeared handprint on the steering wheel, but she didn’t find pictures of the blood on the ground.
“Did you notice anything else that isn’t in here? Footprints, tire tracks? Greg isn’t a small man, someone would
have either had to drop him off via vehicle or carry him.”
She bit her lip, tried to think. “No, I can’t remember seeing anything like that. Not a lot of cars come in and out of the parking lot, so the treads stay until more snow falls. I should call James, he might remember.”
Peter’s head shot up so quickly, he almost cracked her in the jaw. “You didn’t mention James was with you.”
“He was the first person I called. I figured he’d know what to do. There was the note to think about. I didn’t want to expose the Pard.”
“The police never took his statement.”
“He was gone before they got there, went out through the woods to see if he could catch a scent.” She shrugged. “He said he couldn’t pick anything up.”
Peter shook his head. Rage simmered in his eyes. “Either the good detective purposely withheld evidence, the blood trail, footprints, and tire treads, or he’s a piss-poor detective.”
“He didn’t do it, Peter.” She rose, paced back and forth in front of the fire. Thoughts whirled in her head, too quick to grab. Then, it hit her. She stopped abruptly, looked at Peter. Raising her hand and shaping it into a gun, she pointed her imaginary weapon at his head.
“Shifters are quick, and Greg, despite his age, was in excellent physical condition.”
Peter frowned, but sat up a little straighter as if he understood what she was trying to say. She met his gaze, slowly compressed her index finger on the make-believe trigger. Peter moved with lightning speed. He was across the room, hand over hers, before she could have ejected a bullet from the barrel of the gun and shot him.
He looked into her eyes, slid his fingers over her skin. Her outstretched hand trembled, his slow caress tightening her stomach. He gripped her wrist, tugged her close.
Licking her suddenly dry lips, she said, “The bullet hit him from the front, right between the eyes. He wouldn’t have let himself get shot in the head. Not by Grady or anyone else.”
Peter loosened his grip and slid his palm up her arm, over her shoulder, and down her back. Cupping her waist, he pulled until the fronts of their bodies touched. She sucked in a small breath. No longer protected by a bulky coat, her thin slacks and even thinner blouse absorbed his heat.
