by Anne Marsh
Her soft brown hair was pulled up into a business-like ponytail but errant curls escaped every which way and the up-do exposed the vulnerable curve of her neck. He calculated how long it would take to pop the door on the cage—because, on second glance, it didn’t look to him like the door was locked, merely latched—and cross the room to her. Draw her into his arms and drag his mouth over that sensitive, exposed flesh. Up her throat, to her ear…
Focus.
“Sheriff Jones,” she said, then waited as the man on the other end spoke up. “Okay, Cruz. Cruz, this animal was cut up from here to Sunday. Somebody did that deliberately and I don’t think you want that kind of somebody running around your bayou.”
Oui. He was in trouble.
“No,” she paused, clearly listening to something Cruz was saying, and the wolf fought back a growl. “No, I understand that you can’t drop everything and come over here right now. I’m not asking you to do that. I’m just asking you to look into this. I’ve taken pictures and I can email them to you.”
Shit. He didn’t need human law enforcement investigating this. Even if it was just the Jones brother, there would be repercussions. Luc would kill him and he preferred not to piss off the Pack leader. Sure, he did it on a regular basis, but that was on purpose.
She scribbled something down on a pad of paper. Hesitated.
“You’re up early,” she said, and this time Jackson heard a note of something else in her voice. Feminine curiosity and—desire? Merde. His wolf bit back a growl. His Eden still smelled sweet and hot, wet and needy. Was this man on the other side the reason? He didn’t want to believe that because she was his. His mate. His other half.
Even if she didn’t know it.
Yet, he told himself. She didn’t know it yet. He’d coax her, tease her. Show her and this would all work out.
A new and jarring note seeped into her scent. A note of fear—and surprise. Her head swiveled, checking out the small clinic. “Really? Here?” Her fingers tightened on the phone. “You be careful, Cruz.”
She hung up and turned toward him, plopping her sweet ass down on one of those swivel stools that seemed to be standard issue for vets and doctors alike. She crossed her legs, wrapping her bare feet around the stool's metal legs. Dirt smudged on her cheek.
“The bayou’s a dangerous place tonight, wolfie.”
She had no idea.
“Cruz is looking for a trapper who disappeared yesterday. He says there’s plenty of blood and he doesn’t think he’s finding our boy alive out there.”
Maybe she’d known the dead man, because a sad look crossed her face. Jackson, however, was in a world of hurt here. He hadn’t killed the trapper, but he had killed the vamp. The monster’s body would turn to ash in another thirty minutes, just as soon as the sun finished coming up. Cruz might find the trapper—and, Jesus, the vamp had made a mess of the man—but he wouldn’t find the original murderer.
He might very well find Jackson and, if he could, so could others.
He had a feeling he hadn’t covered his trail to the clinic anywhere near as thoroughly as he should have. Bleeding to death tended to change a man’s priorities.
She tugged on the end of the ponytail. “That wasn’t the conversation I planned on having with Cruz.”
Was she talking to herself or him? He didn’t care. Her voice was soothing, a happy melody in what had been one hell of a fucked-up night. He’d take what he could get. The wolf eased back down in the cage. Real slow. He didn’t want to draw her attention just yet.
She shook her head. “I was thinking about asking him out,” she confided. “We might have chemistry. He's a good-looking guy.”
Hell. No. The wolf’s eyes snapped open, but she didn’t notice. Nope. She just kept right on talking. Was she always this chatty?
She smiled, a mischievous tug of her lips, that made him want to pin her and kiss her. Catch that lower lip between his teeth and bite gently. “I think he’s going to ask me out before I can make a move anyhow.”
Did she really want to date that human?
“I should probably say yes.” She pulled the hair tie out of her hair, finger combing the brown strands. The look was a good one for her, like she’d just got out of bed. Her face flushed and she crossed her legs tighter. Oui, he’d have given anything to know what she was thinking.
“He’s good-looking. He’s employed. He clearly has fine moral values.” She ticked this Cruz's virtues off on her fingers. Jackson had a better use for those fingers. “What’s not to like, right? He’s a real nice guy.”
Jackson wasn’t nice. He knew that. The wolf didn’t give a shit and this time the growl rolled right out of him. She looked his way for the first time, and really saw him. Her eyes widened and she reached for something on the table.
“Hello, there,” she said, her voice low and husky. She didn't sound scared—more...intrigued. She didn't hang back, either. Nope, she stood up and prowled toward him. From his cage, he had a view of her long legs in the faded denim.
“Cruz is nice,” she repeated. Crouching beside his cage, she met his eyes. “But I’m not sure nice is what I’m looking for.”
He willed her to keep right on talking because suddenly finding out what she wanted in a man seemed like a fine idea. Whatever she needed, he'd be happy to provide, because, hell, he wasn’t nice. Bottom line? He was a big, mean bastard. He might be the youngest member of the Pack, but he hadn’t survived this long by being nice. Nope. He was just nicer than his brothers. Oui, that confused a lot of people in the bayou.
“Sometimes,” she said huskily, “I think I’d like to walk a little more on the wild side. Try something different. Be just a little bad.”
The wolf growled in agreement. Sympathy. Fucking anticipation. He could do wild, no problem.
“It hurts, huh?” Sympathy filled her voice.
And then she fucking tranqed him.
Chapter Two
Wolfie went back down—slower than Eden had expected given she’d shot him with enough tranquilizer for a small horse twice now—and she still had three hours before her assistant showed up to start the day at the more civilized hour of nine o’clock. With the kittens safely stowed, her options were paperwork—or a nap. She could use some sleep. Her eyes were gritty with exhaustion, but she was too keyed up. Parts of her also ached with need. Yeah. What the hell was wrong with her?
She flipped on the radio. The station was playing one of those country songs, all bad boy lovers and badass trucks. It fit her mood just fine.
As she turned away from the wolf's cage, she caught a glimpse of the blue moon shining over the parking lot and in the window. Weird. She’d never seen a moon like that. Since she was no astronomer, she moved it into the wonders never ceased column and flopped down on the camp bed. Jesus. Christ. The arousal heating up her body was something else again. Her folds were so swollen and sensitive that she almost came when she squeezed her thighs together and wasn’t that a trick? Just the thought of working like that all day made her want to call Sheriff Cruz and demand he get his fine ass over here.
Except he wasn’t what she really wanted. Wasn’t who she wanted.
Nope, her brain had decided to suggest Jackson Breaux as today’s fantasy fodder. Another mistake. She’d taken him out for dinner and dancing, working up her courage to take what she wanted just once, and then he’d skipped out on her halfway through the evening. As far as fuck off messages went, that one was clear. He hadn’t stuck around for even an end-of-the-night kiss.
Anything more—hell, anything—with Jackson was out of the question.
And yet she couldn’t stop remembering his dark face, the naughty half-smile teasing his mouth when he looked at them all or how his faded blue jeans hugged a truly spectacular ass as his long-legged stride ate up the ground in steel-toed boots. Despite being the youngest Breaux brother, there was nothing young about him. He was an old soul in a delicious package she’d wanted to unwrap.
He wasn’t
responsible for the desperate, aching need.
Nor was he responsible for her non-existent dating life.
The blame for that rested squarely on her own shoulders. There was no one here. Just her and her fingers. Yep. That was the story of her life. So she’d put Jackson Breaux to work. Figuratively, of course. Trying to give that man orders would be like pulling the tiger’s tail.
Snagging her backrest, she got comfortable. Pink fuzzy arms weren’t the arms she’d imagined holding her, but beggars couldn’t be choosers, right? Wiggling around, she found a comfortable spot. She was alone. No one would ever know.
Tucking her hand between her legs, she started to stroke.
Snarling silently—lesson learned—the wolf pushed away the effects of the fucking tranquilizer. The man wanted to put her over his knee and paddle her sweet ass until it blushed a pretty pink. He'd show her just who the boss was in this relationship. Maybe he'd be the first to teach just how much fun those kinds of games could be.
The sweet, creamy scent of aroused female grew stronger, a wakey-wakey call neither man nor wolf would ignore. Eden Roy was his blue moon bride. The moon’s rays would light her up, set her body on fire with heated desire. Maybe that was nature’s way of making sure the Pack’s chosen females were ready for the males hunting them.
He was a lucky bastard because he didn’t deserve so much as an inch of Eden Roy.
Her needy scent grew stronger, as if she'd read his mind and set her seal of approval on the thousand and one wicked thoughts running through his mind. A breathy feminine gasp followed. The wolf cracked an eye and the man took over. Jesus. Christ, his mate had a naughty side she'd been hiding from him and the rest of the world.
He was a lucky, lucky man.
He shifted, because he wasn’t doing this as a wolf. Transforming hurt like hell, but he was healing. Another day and he’d be one hundred percent. A minute later and he was crouched inside the cage, naked as the day he was born, a slow grin stretching his face. Oui, that smile was all his mate’s fault.
Injuries aside, that had been the easiest shift he’d ever made—because of Eden. Without a mate, shifting back got harder and harder until at some point the man got lost in the wolf and ran like for the rest of his life. He definitely needed a mate—question was, did he want one?
He craned his head and, Jesus Christ, his blood pressure shot right through the roof, his dick going zero to sixty. Propped up on an old camp bed, her back and shoulders supported by some pink fuzzy monstrosity, his Eden was rubbing one out right there in the office. Her fingers glided over her denim-clad crotch in soft, slow strokes.
He wanted to reach over and press a hand over hers harder, deeper until she arched her back and howled his name. If she remembered it.
Yeah. That was a problem right there.
So he’d fix it.
Somehow.
He reached outside the cage and fingered the latch, easy-peasy. The door popped open and he made his move, shoving to his feet with swift, lethal grace. Looking for clothes probably would have been the gentlemanly thing to do, given the way his dick was leading the way, but he doubted she'd have anything here that would fit. Or that the lab coat look would be a good one for him.
Thirty feet between him and her. Thirty feet he could close in seconds.
She was driving him crazy.
He leaned against the counter. He didn't want to scare the shit out of her but, Christ, keeping his hands off her? Wasn’t happening. Her sweet, teasing scent wrapped around him and he knew he could give her exactly what she needed.
He wasn’t perfect, but he was perfect for her right now.
“You wan’ a hand, shug?”
Eden screamed. She never screamed. That thought ran through her head, followed by a chaser of How stupid is that? A big male shape loomed out of the shadowy backroom. She'd killed the lights for her little one-on-one session, but it was past six o'clock now. No longer pitch black, the light had that fuzzy gray quality of right before sunrise.
She shot to her feet, shoving off the camp bed and turning toward the front door. Which she'd locked. Her feet slapped against the floor, her heart pounding as she closed the distance between herself and the safety of outside. She was cold, cold, cold, fingers and knees shaking with the shock. Jesus.
“Hey—”
Behind her, his voice got closer. Nope. No way she stuck around for that. She didn't know who he was or what he wanted, but anyone who showed up uninvited in the wee hours wasn't someone she cared to meet. Slapping her hands against the closed door, she fumbled for the latch. Her cell phone was in her purse, but the bag was on the counter and that was too far. She'd get out. Then she'd figure something out, because staying put wasn't an option.
Then he came up behind her. Not in a hard rush, but with a slow, careful pad, like he wanted her to know he was coming.
“Hey,” he said again. Two arms came down on either side of her.
The latch clicked and she reached for the safety chain.
Big, scarred fingers closed carefully around hers. “Give me jus' a second here, Eden.”
He knew her name. God, was this personal.
“Five minutes,” he said roughly against her ear. “If you still wan' to leave after that, I won' be stoppin' you, shug. You give me that much time, oui?”
Large hands closed on her shoulders, turned her around, putting her back to the door. She looked down—Jesus, he was naked and hung like a bear, which she didn't need or want to know—and then she was looking up, up, up...into familiar Cajun eyes. Anger followed swift on the heels of stomach-melting, knee-weakening relief. Oh, yeah. She knew him all right.
“You remember me?” His thighs pinned hers in place and he had no pants on. Naked was a good look for him—she snuck another peak south because he sure lived up to all those late night fantasies she'd entertained five years ago—but he had no business standing here buck-ass naked and she'd never taken him for a perv.
She slugged him in the stomach. Hard. Her knuckles stung, because of course he still had washboard abs with a side of steel, and he just grinned at her. He gently captured her fist in his fingers and brought them to his lips, brushing his mouth against the sore skin.
“Oui.” Dark caramel-colored eyes laughed at her. “You remember Jackson.”
Jackson Breaux.
Eden was a bayou girl, born and bred. There had always been Breauxs in this part of the bayou—elusive, big, rough men who came and went on the edges of Port Leon. They radiated don't fuck with me and most of the town's inhabitants were happy to respect the message. She didn’t know when she’d first spotted Jackson Breaux in particular. It seemed like she'd always been aware of him, aware of the way her breathing hitched when he got close and how he got her panties wet imagining what the two of them could get up to.
Fantasies.
That was all she had.
The truth was, he'd had no idea she existed other than as a casual hi-how-are-ya acquaintance. And that was okay, or so she'd told herself. She'd had an opportunity to remind herself of that at least once a week, because the man had a sweet tooth and they both liked the pie at Port Leon's Sugarheart Bakery. He also liked the baker—she’d stumbled on the two of them kissing once, Mia’s leg hitched around Jackson’s waist while his hand delved into the dark crease at the top of her thighs. Eden had been shocked—and angry. He was hers. He just didn’t know it yet.
After that, she'd actively plotted ways to draw his attention.
Eventually, she'd gotten her way. They went out on a date. She’d asked him, a huge step out of her comfort zone. She was boring, bland, vanilla. Pick any one of the three adjectives. Most of the time, she was okay with that. She didn’t need exciting. Jackson Breaux…he’d been her one walk on the wild side.
They’d been working on a bayou cleanup day together. He was like that. Most days, he disappeared deep inside the bayou, doing whatever it was he did there. Fishing. Hunting. Once in a
while, though, he’d come out. Not quite civilized. That afternoon, though, she'd worked next to him, mesmerized by his strong, tanned hands. The words had come out of her mouth before she thought them through.
“You want to go out with me on Friday night?”
His dark, feral eyes slew her way and he eyed her thoughtfully. It was like being pinned by a predator, except that the kind of eating he probably had in mind wasn’t one she’d mind at all.
“Oysters,” she clarified when he didn’t say anything. “A pitcher of beer. We can do some dancing. I’m heading back to Louisiana State in a week.”
We can do me.
His slow smile, when it came, lit her right up. He'd never been much for talking and that was fine with her. If she’d wanted pretty words, she’d have propositioned his brother Landry.
“I’ve got a truck. I’ll pick you up.”
And so they'd gone out. A night of beer and oysters. Of watching the shellfish slide down his powerful throat. God. He was beautiful. She was pathetic. Other women—and a few men—eyed them from the bar’s booths.
Eventually, they'd danced, hips bumping, on the oyster bar's makeshift dirt dance floor. She didn't need fancy, just fun, and it didn't matter that she wasn’t particularly skilled in the dancing department because he was fantastic. The erection barely concealed behind the buttons of his blue jeans was equally fantastic. Each hard, uncompromising brush of his dick drove her higher until she was almost coming on the dance floor. It was delicious, decadent, and absolutely, one hundred percent out of character for her. She loved it.
Was ready to fall head over heels for him.
Then his cell buzzed, breaking the spell, and he pulled the phone out, frowning. “I got to go, shug.”
He dropped a kiss on the end of her nose, tossed a handful of bills on their table and strolled out the door. Jackson Breaux left her standing high, dry and needing in the middle of the bar without so much as a backward glance or an I'll call you tomorrow.
