by Kari Cole
The male took a knee and looked down at her. Was she cursed to always be blinking up at the world? She opened her mouth to tell him to give her some room. It didn’t matter that she wanted to take off her gloves to see if his black hair was as silky as it looked or to trace the shape of his full lips. She’d about had it with people today.
What came out was, “You’re mega-hot.”
What? That wasn’t what she meant to say. Wait. Give her a second. She just—
The male with the storm-colored eyes shook his head and pressed a cloth to her side.
Hannah might have screamed, but the darkness came back, and all she could think as she passed out was, Well, at least I didn’t touch anything.
Chapter Three
Light bore into Hannah’s eyes when she finally managed to force them open. Ugh. Happy now? she asked her beast, who paced and growled in her head, demanding she wake. As irritating as a ticked off werewolf could be, she wasn’t responsible for the blood pounding in Hannah’s skull, nor the fire burning in her side.
Sweet goddess, what had she touched this time? The visions could knock her out, but she’d never had this kind of hangover from them before. Not even—
“That would be the silver,” a deep voice said.
She shrieked and nearly leapt out of her skin. “Ow! Oh, God, ohgodohgod. Owww.”
“I don’t recommend any sudden movements.”
Breathless from pain, Hannah glared in the direction the voice had come from. In the corner of a small, sand-colored room sat the big, scarred male from the pub.
The pub where she’d been found.
“Frost!”
Hannah ignored the white-hot needles drilling into her side and shoved herself upright to come nose-to-nose with the wolf. He crouched on the bed, at her side as he’d been from the moment they met. He whined and drew a warm, wet tongue over her cheek.
Burying her gloved hands in his thick fur, she pulled him close for a hug. “You’re all right. Thank the goddess.”
Hot breath washed over her face and he licked her again.
“I know. I’m okay.” The pain in her side begged to differ, but she didn’t have time to lollygag around. Somehow they’d tracked her here. Aw, hell. Did they know about Jessie? Had she put her cousin in danger? Hannah had to warn her. She—
A strong hand landed on her shoulder and stopped her from getting up. “Whoa,” the male said. “Where do you think you’re going?”
“Away from here.” Anywhere really. Anywhere that wasn’t full of shifters and people who could get hurt. She was so stupid.
“I don’t think so,” a female voice said.
Hannah’s gaze snapped up and found a woman striding across the room, long brown hair swinging from a ponytail. The squeaky-clean, medicinal scent preceding her screamed healer, and under it, werewolf.
“Are you trying to rip your stitches?” the female snapped, elbowing the male out of her way and grabbing Hannah’s wrist.
“I don’t recommend that either.” The male tipped his head at the healer. “She hates that.”
The healer scowled and pressed her fingers to Hannah’s pulse point. “I don’t know why everyone is always in such a damn hurry to ruin my fine work.” She set Hannah’s arm down and peered into her eyes. “Want to know how many times I’ll have to poke you again if you wreck those sutures?”
Hannah swallowed the colossal lump in her throat and tried to look demure. “Um...no?” she said, hoping it was the right answer.
The healer snorted. “I’m Sarah Simmons.” She pressed Hannah back onto the bed and pulled down the white sheet covering her. “How are you feeling, Cassandra?”
“Uh...”
Hannah looked to Frost, who was unnaturally quiet in light of all the people touching her, but he didn’t say anything. Of course not. That would be quite insane. She was pretty sure she hadn’t lost her mind yet. Well, not much.
The big male stepped back and turned away while the healer tugged up the pale blue hospital gown Hannah was wearing.
“Headache? General achiness? Burning around the injury?” the healer—Dr. Simmons—asked, as if speaking to herself. She peeled back the edges of a large surgical dressing covering Hannah’s side. “Mmm-hmm. Yes, silver is a bitch.”
And guaranteed to make a lycanthrope heal as slowly as a human. A soft pulse of the healer’s magic washed over her, dulling the worst of the pain. Before Hannah could look at the damage, the healer smoothed the dressing back into place.
For some reason, Hannah looked at the male. “I am okay, aren’t I?”
A tight nod accompanied a stern expression. “You will be.”
Jeez, would it hurt the guy to smile?
“Looks good,” Dr. Simmons said. “For now. Unless you want to be an idiot and screw up those sutures?”
Hannah blinked at her. “Uh...no?”
The healer snorted again. “Good answer. I’ll be back in a bit with some protein. Then I want you to shift if you’re able.”
Hannah nodded. As Dr. Simmons pulled the covers back over Hannah, she inclined her head toward Frost. “That service dog of yours has refused to leave your side. Even when the Alpha ordered him to.”
“Alpha?” Hannah asked, looking at the tall male standing in the corner, muscled arms crossed over his broad chest. He shook his head once.
“He’s outside waiting to talk to you,” Dr. Simmons said.
Great.
The healer continued. “Jessie wouldn’t let me remove your gloves. She said you had ‘a thing’ about it. So what’s that about?”
“Um... I have a phobia.”
“Germs?”
Hannah shrugged, unable to come up with a good story. She hated lying—had never seen the point. Until the last few months, at least.
Dr. Simmons turned to look at the male. “Don’t be too long. She needs to rest.”
Without waiting for a response, she strode out the door. It swung shut with a light click, leaving Hannah alone with the big, gorgeous male.
The big, gorge—
“Oh, God,” she groaned. Maybe the whole telling him he was “mega-hot” thing was just a delusion? Something her mind conjured in her pain and terror? The way he looked at her now, unsmiling, with one brow cocked reminded her of how he’d stared down at her and Frost in the pub. No sirree. Shot and bleeding on the floor, she’d told the first person she saw how attractive he was. For the love of—
“My name is Sheriff—”
“Of course it is.”
“—Vaughn Ellis. And you are?”
Hannah resisted the urge to roll her eyes—just—and squirmed up higher in the bed. It was awkward and her side hurt like a...well, something that would have gotten her mouth washed out with soap back home.
Pretty is as pretty does, her mother used to say. Cursing is beneath a lady’s dignity.
Frost nudged her, thankfully derailing that train of thought. It led nowhere good. The scent of antiseptic also helped center her to the here and now, where she had more than plenty to contend with.
Buying time, she looked around the room. Sparsely furnished with a bed, nightstand, hospital-issue rolling table, and two chairs, it still managed to offer a calm, cozy atmosphere. Or it would have, if her battered, secondhand backpack wasn’t lying open on the floor next to the chair the sheriff had been sitting in. All her things were laid out neatly on the table: wallet; a pathetically small pile of folded clothes; a clear, plastic baggy with five months’ worth of birth control pills; and a laptop computer. Fear flashed through her again. If the sheriff had looked through her files—No. No. He can’t get in. Even if he had touched her finger to the built-in scanner, he’d have to know two different passwords. She was safe from that at least.
“Are you all right?” he asked.
“Mmm-hmm,” she said. Did h
e have to be so darn big and block the exit?
“That’s a fancy computer you got there.”
“I didn’t steal it if that’s what—”
“Didn’t say you did.”
Hannah drew in a slow breath. Frost’s familiar earthy smell slowed her pulse, but strangely, it was the sheriff’s wilder were scent that comforted her. She shook her head. She was definitely losing it.
The sheriff cleared his throat. “And your name is...?”
Silently, she said a few of those words that were beneath her dignity. Which ID was she carrying?
What had the healer called her?
Cassandra. Right. That was the name she’d given at the pub, too. Please let it also be the name on the license in her pathetically empty drugstore wallet.
Crap on toast, her head hurt. Had she changed out the registration in her van to match, like she was supposed to? She couldn’t remember. The guy who sent her all the papers was adamant that she always have matching documentation. Discovery is less about the skill of the tracker, and more about the stupidity of the runner.
Had they gone through her van, too? A human might not have connected the beat-up, ancient, sort-of-white van behind the pub with her yet, but a werewolf would have had no trouble sniffing out which vehicle belonged to her.
Well, belonged to was a rather strong term. Her parents had been appalled at some of her boyfriends in the past. But none of the boys from their circle of acquaintances could ride a Harley or hotwire a car. That had been one skill her anonymous helper hadn’t needed to instruct her on. Who would have thought she’d be so good at grand theft auto?
Still, she’d hate to lose the van. It came in handy on rainy nights.
“Miss?” the sheriff prompted.
Hannah blinked up at him and flashed a smile, the one that came with dimples. “I’m sorry. What did you say your name was?” Big eyes. Blink, blink.
Cold gray ones stared back at her. It was a wonder ice chips didn’t form in them.
“Vaughn Ellis,” he said after what felt like an eternity. Then he cocked that brow at her again.
“Oh, right!” She tried a giggle. It sounded a bit deranged. “Ahem, Cassandra Shipton. That’s what it says on my license.” See? Go ahead and sniff me, Mr. Sheriff. No lying here. Omissions didn’t count. Or so the fae nobleman she’d once danced with at a pack party had told her. They were experts at deceiving with the truth.
The way the male’s intense gray eyes watched her was starting to freak her out.
“Cassandra,” he said, drawing out the name.
Hannah almost rolled her eyes. Her helper was a little too on the nose with that name. At first, she hadn’t realized that all her false identities had been named after famous oracles and seers. Anna, Miriam, Deborah, Sibyl. But Cassandra Shipton? After the English soothsayer Mother Shipton and the poor Greek woman no one believed? The guy was just making fun of her with that one. If only she’d been able to see the future.
“What’s your relationship with Jeff Foy?” Sheriff Ellis said.
“Who?”
“The male who shot you.”
Her chest cavity seemed to shrink, heart pounding against her ribs. Frost growled, echoing her own wolf’s anger.
“Wh-who?” She leaned into Frost’s vibrating body, wrapping an arm around him. When she could draw air into her lungs, she said, “Never heard of him.”
Which, thankfully, was the God’s honest truth, because the sheriff’s nostrils flared, taking in her scent.
“So you have no idea why he would want to harm you?”
Now that was trickier. “There are lots of crazy people in this world.”
Sheriff Ellis held up her hideous nylon wallet, flashing her Florida driver’s license. “Tampa? There’s no pack in Tampa, or anywhere near there for more than a hundred miles.”
“Uh. No. No, there’s not. And that’s just how I like it,” she said, again using the truth to lie. Wasn’t she just turning into a regular little fae?
“Most packs won’t allow a female to go it alone like that.”
“It’s the twenty-first century, Sheriff.”
He just stared at her, and she fought the urge to squirm under the chill of his stormy gaze. What could she say? If he’d asked her a few months ago, she would have scoffed at the idea of any wolf, let alone a female, living without an established pack—or at the very least, a family unit. Werewolves, like their animal brethren, were social creatures. They needed a community to thrive. Now, just the thought made her fists clench and her feet itch to run. A pack meant society. Society meant busybodies who wanted to know who your people were.
All that spelled death for her.
She never should have come here.
“I prefer to live where there aren’t any packs to sweep everything under the rug,” she said finally. A new truth for her, but a truth nonetheless.
A dark look crossed the sheriff’s face and his eyes flashed gold. He blinked and pinned her once more with a human’s shrewd gaze. “Why?”
She sighed. “That’s my business.”
“Not if your business followed you here.”
Chills raced through her. “I don’t know this—Foy?—I don’t know him. Never met him.” Before he could ask anything else, she blurted, “Was anyone else hurt? In the pub?” If her voice shook, no one—not even Sheriff Stern-and-Serious—could blame her.
He shook his head. “Just a few bumps and bruises. How do you know Jessie Mills?”
Lordy, his verbal volleys were giving her whiplash. She shrugged, which was stupid, because it pulled at her side. She sucked air in between her teeth as the pain flared. “I’m an admirer of her work.”
“That’s not an answer. How long have you known her? When—”
The door banged open and the healer stomped in carrying a tray. The aroma of sizzling beef made Hannah’s mouth water. Frost’s too, judging by the noisy way he licked his chops.
“Interrogation is over,” Dr. Simmons said, once again nudging Sheriff Ellis away from the side of the bed. “My patient needs to rest. You can rake her over the coals later, Vaughn.”
He glowered at her, but after a second, his expression cleared. Twisting a copper cuff on his right arm, the sheriff took a deep breath. “I’m sure Ms. Shipton will feel more cooperative after a nap.”
Hannah didn’t miss the pale gold gleam in his eyes—the predator sighting his prey. Her hand wound in Frost’s ruff as he silently bared his teeth.
Oh, goddess, they were in so much trouble.
* * *
“She’s hiding something,” Luke said as soon as the door to Sarah Simmons’s office closed.
Vaughn didn’t need his Alpha to tell him that Cassandra Shipton’s secrets went way beyond her real hair color. Every time he asked a direct question, she’d evaded or given him an answer that could be taken several ways.
The weight of Luke’s expectant stare added to the discomfort, and Vaughn gritted his teeth. Luke may be Alpha, but he wasn’t a cop. He wasn’t trained in investigation or interrogation methods. Didn’t he have backs to slap and hands to hold elsewhere?
“Agreed,” Vaughn said finally.
“About Foy?” Dean Simmons, Vaughn’s deputy and Sarah’s mate, folded massive arms across his chest.
Sarah’s office had a glass wall and door that faced out into the clinic ward. Four beds and equipment lined one wall of the main room. Across the way were three doors that led to private rooms. Vaughn glared at Cassandra Shipton’s. If that even was her real name. Her Florida driver’s license had come back clean, but...
Both his beasts snapped in his head. No predator liked being called off the hunt, especially with their prey in sight. Their annoyance grated against his flesh like sandpaper.
“She definitely didn’t know his name. Anything else I can’t say sin
ce I didn’t have much time to question her before Sarah threw me out.”
When he tossed a hard look at Dean, the other male glared right back. “I don’t get between my mate and her patients. Not unless I want to lose a piece of my hide. Even if she had the shooter in there”—he jerked a thumb toward Ms. Shipton’s room—“she’d place his care before any legalities. But since she’s got the victim? Well, we’re just going to have to wait until tomorrow.”
Vaughn’s eagle sent him an image of snapping its beak at Dean, until the male made his mate get out of the way. But his wolf didn’t like that idea one bit and growled. Outside work, Dean was the pack Beta, second only to Luke in the hierarchy. Vaughn’s wolf respected that to a certain extent. As sheriff, he could order Dean around. If he wanted to destroy the tenuous balance between them, that is. Not to mention that it would set his beasts off on one of their many arguments.
Vaughn twisted his grandfather’s copper cuff higher up his arm and reined in his temper and his beasts. “Tomorrow, then.” He didn’t care if Sarah—or her mate—didn’t like it.
“Anything more on Foy?” Luke asked.
Dean shrugged. “Other than he smells like week-old garbage and...”
“What?” Vaughn asked, his wolf snarling in his head at the mere mention of the male who’d attacked in his pack’s territory. In his mother’s pub.
Dean’s brow furrowed. “If I didn’t know better, I’d say he was a junkie.”
Vaughn had been thinking the same thing. The guy bore all the telltale hallmarks of an addict: glassy eyes; waxy, gray skin; bad hygiene; and that hard, worn-down-to-the-nub look.
“But he was a coyote shifter,” Luke said. “Drugs barely affect us shapeshifters, let alone turn us into junkies.”
Maybe, but if Vaughn’s time as a cop in Seattle had taught him anything, it was there was always something new on the street, always something stronger, more potent, more addictive and deadly. It was possible someone had concocted a drug that could affect them.
“Sarah should look at the body,” Vaughn said. “Run tests.”
The county coroner knew about the pack, but Vaughn wouldn’t trust this sort of thing to a human.
