Last Wolf Standing

by Rhyannon Byrd

  Bloodrunners were a potent hit on a woman’s system—and now she was looking at four of them. Sometime during the hours she’d been keeping to herself in the bedroom, two more Runners had arrived.

  Taking a deep breath, Torrance rubbed her damp palms against the tops of her thighs and walked into the sunlit kitchen. The intense splash of sunshine pouring in through the window had her lifting one hand to shield her eyes, while the Italian tiles warmed the soles of her feet. The low conversation that had filled the sunny room trailed off, four sets of eyes immediately zeroing in on her. Feeling like a shy, geeky child caught beneath the glaring flood of a spotlight at the annual Christmas pageant, Torrance shifted from foot to foot, managing to murmur a quiet, “Um, hi.”

  Jeremy flashed her his million-watt smile. “Hey, doll face.”

  “Torrance,” Mason murmured, his tone cautious…and yet, somehow intimate. The connection between them burned electric and tangible on the air, so thick you could taste it—and she knew the others noticed. “I’d like to introduce you to Brody Carter and Cian Hennessey. They work with me and Jeremy, and they both live here in the Alley.”

  She gave a little wave at the Runners, feeling awkward and self-conscious at being the center of attention.

  The one named Brody was…intimidating, to say the least. He stood on the far side of the kitchen, leaning his broad shoulders against the wall, thumbs hooked in the front pockets of his blue jeans. A few inches taller than Mason, she knew she’d have to crane her neck at an impossible angle just to stare up at him, not that she was getting that close. His hair was a deep, dark auburn that fell softly to his shoulders, his almond-shaped eyes a beautiful shade of green, shades darker than her own, so that they probably looked black when the lighting was dark. Chiseled features formed a unique face, with a sharp nose and arrogant jawline. But his most distinguishing feature was his scar…or scars. Slashing from his left eyebrow, across the sharp bridge of his nose, down to the corner of his opposite jaw, three thin ridges marred the golden hue of his skin.

  He looked…untouchable; and yet there was something about him that drew your eye again and again, a faint thread of vulnerability in those dark green eyes that told her he wasn’t as scary as he looked.

  His partner, in contrast, was a complete opposite. Lean and dark, with ink-black hair and piercing gray eyes, it was far too easy to believe Cian Hennessey had more than earned his reputation as a womanizing ladies’ man. Even sitting in an arrogant slouch at the table, she could tell he was over six feet, like the others. But his body was rangier, roped with long, lean muscles, his cheekbones aristocratically crisp beneath skin a few shades paler than his friends, as if he didn’t get out in the sun as often as his fellow Bloodrunners. He wore jeans and black boots, along with a dark gray T-shirt and an expensive-looking black leather jacket.

  “Well isn’t this a tasty little morsel,” he drawled, and you could hear a trace of the Irish in his voice, his gray eyes turning smoky as he moved them slowly down her body from head to toe, then right back up again. “You’ve been holding out on us, boyo. For that sweet smile and innocent blush, I think I’d be willing to ignore the fact that she’s your woman.” He paused, eyeing her carefully as he drew in a deep breath, then softly added, “Though it seems you still haven’t taken the final step. Interesting.”

  “What final step?” she asked, directing her question to Mason, who stood standing with his back against the counter, watching her through dark eyes that had so much going on behind them.

  “Ignore him,” he rasped, before turning a warning glare on his grinning friend. “Leave it alone, Hennessey.”

  “Touchy today, eh, Mase?” Cian murmured, arching one dark brow. “I know a bonded lass when I see one…and I know when one isn’t.”

  Bonded? Torrance searched her brain for why that term sounded familiar, then remembered that Jeremy had used it when telling her about Mason’s brother, referring to Dean and his wife Lori as a bonded couple. “What does that mean?” she asked again, noticing the curt shake of Mason’s head; a wordless warning to his friends to remain quiet.

  “Why don’t you—”

  “I’ll explain it later, Torrance,” Mason grunted, clearly wanting the topic dropped. “It isn’t a conversation you want to be having right now, trust me.”

  She frowned at him, then realized that he was probably right. If it was personal, she didn’t want to hear the explanation when in the company of three other men.

  Tucking her hair behind her ear, she moved closer to Mason, aware that Cian continued to watch her with a heavy-lidded look in his pale gray eyes. They should have looked cold with such an icy color, but they burned instead with a raw, smoldering heat as he studied her features one by one, lingering on her mouth until she nervously chewed on the corner of her lip. Flashing her a seductive smile that had probably never failed to get him exactly what he wanted, he said, “You know, if you’re not Dillinger’s yet, sweetheart, then maybe you should be mine.”

  She should have told him to stuff his cocky arrogance up his backside, but found herself laughing softly instead, unable to hold back a wry smile at his outrageous behavior. “You really do live up to your reputation, don’t you, Hennessey?”

  He inclined his head with a slight, arrogant nod that should have looked old-fashioned, but somehow fit him perfectly. “Call me Cian, mo ghrá.”

  Mason growled under his breath. “She is not your love, you Irish ass.”

  “She could be if she wanted.”

  “I’m afraid I’m swearing off men for the moment,” she drawled over her shoulder, reaching up to grab a mug from one of the cabinets. When she had her coffee, she settled beside Mason, just in time to see Cian send him a deliberate scowl. He nodded his dark head in understanding, a lock of ink-black hair falling across the smooth perfection of his brow. “Yes, Dillinger does seem to have that effect upon the opposite sex more often than not,” he remarked dryly.

  Jeremy snorted softly under his breath, Mason made another low growling noise that vibrated in his chest like thunder, and, sensing that things were about to get off track, Brody spoke up for the first time since she’d entered the room. “So what did your houseguest have to say?” he asked, his low voice a little scratchy, but warm and soothing, like a fine French brandy.

  Taking a seat on the countertop beside the stainless steel sink, Jeremy said, “Well, according to the boy wonder downstairs, Simmons has been a busy little bee, recruiting more than his fair share of the brokenhearted, the downtrodden, the hopelessly—”

  “Christ, just give us an answer,” the Irishman grunted from his seat at the table, growing impatient.

  Jeremy snickered, obviously enjoying the buttons he’d deliberately pushed. “It seems our pal Simmons has decided to start his own little gang of friendly neighborhood psychopaths, this one bent on human destruction.”

  “More like consumption,” Torrance murmured, shivering at the thought.

  “That, too,” Mason added grimly.

  “Yeah,” Jeremy drawled. “You know what rogues say about humans being the ‘other white meat.’”

  “You’re sick and wrong, you know that?” Hennessey muttered with a rough laugh, smiling as he hurled the insult.

  “I prefer twisted myself,” Jeremy said lightly, his head tilted at an arrogant angle, the corner of his mouth raised in an endearingly crooked grin.

  “More like screwed,” Mason grumbled, sounding irritated as hell.

  “I wish,” the blond snorted, waggling his tawny brows. “Too much damn hunting lately, and not enough time to bless the ladies with my charming presence.”

  “So many ladies, so little time.” Cian’s straight teeth flashed brilliant and white as his mouth curved in a provocative smile. Beneath his breath, he began humming a familiar tune.

  “I swear to God, Hennessey, if you start singing Julio Iglesias again,” Brody grated, his scowl downright frightening, “I won’t be responsible for what I do.”

  “
Looks like I’m getting on Broody Brody’s nerves again,” Cian chuckled, clucking his tongue while his gray eyes glittered with humor.

  Shaking her head at their crazy banter, Torrance turned a questioning look toward Jeremy. “Are they always like this?”

  “This is a good day. Normally they just don’t get along,” he told her, his tone dry.

  “He sang that damn song for hours last night while we dealt with your mess,” Brody grumbled, a menacing look on his face as he shoved one huge hand back through his hair. “I swear I thought I was going to snap.”

  Cian shrugged his broad shoulders in a “What are you going to do?” gesture. “You know Brody. I’m good for his blood pressure. Keeps him from brooding too much, focusing on the negative.”

  “Yeah,” Mason remarked with a sharp snort of laughter, “you just keep him focusing on ways to kill you.”

  “What are friends for?” The Runner sighed, that sinful mouth curving in a wicked expression that could have given Lucifer a run for his money. “So, tell me, boyo. Now that you’ve met your mate, will you keep hunting?”

  “Damn right, I will,” he replied, shoving one hand into his front pocket, his coffee held in the other, ankles crossed as he rested his weight against the counter. “You guys wouldn’t be able to find your asses without me. But Jeremy and I will be sticking close to home from now on.”

  Cian arched one raven brow. “Leaving us with the wanderers, eh? So that you can stay at home with the little woman. How endearing.”

  Mason sent him a hard grin. “Just think of it as an opportunity to broaden your bounty of women.”

  “There is that,” the Irishman murmured, saluting Mason as he rocked the chair back on its hind legs, balancing at a precarious angle.

  “Did anything new come up in Delaine?” Mason asked, brushing her arm as he reached around her to grab a cookie from the pack sitting on the counter, that simple touch leaving chills in its wake. Torrance was so wrapped up in the idea of him wanting to stay close to home now, because of her, that she almost lost the thread of conversation.

  “Nothing,” Cian replied, drumming the long fingers of his right hand atop the deep luster of the kitchen table. “Not a damn thing. Whatever is going on with the killer’s scent, it’s impossible to track.”

  Brody shrugged. “We’ve both got a bad feeling about it. And after what you told me on the phone about that strange odor Simmons was giving off, we don’t know what to think. But there’s no trace of rogue musk anywhere at either of our scenes to identify him. Just that noxious vinegar smell.”

  “It’s all connected somehow,” Mason said, his dark brows pulled together in a worried frown. “Simmons’s scent was muted, almost covered by that acidic odor. But we could still tell it was him when we got close enough. Maybe he’s only just learning how to master it.”

  “And maybe someone else already has,” Brody murmured, carrying on with his line of reasoning.

  “Yeah,” Cian rasped. “And whoever it is, they’re our killer.”

  “If this thing gets too deep, I can always call in another team from one of the neighboring packs to help you out until Jeremy and I are free. There’s more than a few who owe us the favor.”

  “Not yet,” Cian told him, shaking his head, his long hair brushing the leather-covered width of his shoulders, the raven strands looking almost blue beneath the bright glare of sunshine pouring over him. “If it gets to the point we need backup, I’ll let you know. But the fewer who know about this, I think, the better. And speaking of hunts, what has Simmons had to say?” he asked. “You were telling us about his call when this redheaded little beauty walked in.”

  “My name is Torrance,” she drawled, rolling her eyes when he winked at her. The guy obviously got a kick out of pushing his friends’ buttons, but you couldn’t help but like him.

  “Simmons hasn’t spouted anything but bullshit,” Mason muttered, shifting closer until his arm pressed against hers. “All he’s done is ramble on about becoming some kind of god. His usual narcissistic crap.”

  “What about his number?” Brody asked. “I suppose he wasn’t kind enough to give us something we could use to locate him.”

  Jeremy shook his head. “It came up as a private listing. He’s too smart to make this easy. He’s gonna make us work for it.”

  “What we need is a computer whiz,” the redheaded Runner murmured. “You know, one of those pasty fellows who lives in his basement and only comes up for air when he needs a new hard drive.”

  Cian turned his head toward his partner. “And we need one of those why?”

  Brody lifted one shoulder. “If we had a computer genius, maybe we could have traced the call.”

  “If we’re going to start collecting people,” Jeremy snorted, “I’d vote for a priest to save Hennessey’s immortal soul.”

  Sharp barks of laughter filled the sunny kitchen, and Torrance couldn’t help but get the feeling that she’d missed an inside joke. Still, she felt…at home. It seemed amazing that she felt so comfortable standing there drinking coffee in a roomful of werewolves, but she did. Only two days ago she’d been worrying about whether or not she should start writing the short story she’d been playing around with in her head…or focus on going back to school instead. And now those old worries seemed so insignificant, paling in comparison to this new, vivid, breathtaking reality that had wrapped around her, pulling her in, altering the way she viewed…everything. Life. Love. Friendship.

  “So why Simmons?” Brody asked, pulling her out of her thoughts. “Why now?”

  Jeremy took a sip of his coffee, cradling the dark blue mug in his palms as he said, “If you’re going to declare a war, start at the top—and Mason has been a Bloodrunner longer than any of us. Simmons knew if he went rogue, that Mason would be the one to come after him.”

  Brody nodded his agreement. “They mean to cut off the head of the snake.”

  “The head of the snake?” she repeated, unfamiliar with the analogy.

  “Military strategy,” Jeremy explained. “You want to take a unit down, start at the top and destroy it from there. Mason has been a Bloodrunner the longest, which means he’s probably one of the most powerful—”

  “Key word there being probably,” Cian cut in, winking at her again.

  “And anyone who’s Silvercrest knows that Mase is the one who would be assigned to take him down,” Brody added. “They have a…history.”

  Yeah, she knew all about their history.

  “So the idea, then, is to draw Mase into a hunt and eliminate him, weakening our strength, while letting Simmons get his revenge for his brother at the same time. Like killing two birds with one stone. But where exactly does Simmons fit into the grand scheme?” Jeremy mused, scratching the side of his nose. “Is he heading it…or is he just a bottom-feeder?”

  Brody rubbed his chin. “I think he’s a recruiter. Who better to lure kids like this Elliot than someone who is willing to get them what they want? Women. Drugs. Name your vice, and Simmons can supply it.”

  “So you think he’s just one arm of a bigger monster?” Mason grunted.

  “Yeah. But then the question becomes how many arms are we looking at?”

  Mason nodded, a deadly look of intent in his dark eyes. “And who’s at the head?”

  “Who knows?” Jeremy muttered. “The walls holding the pack together are crumbling down around us, and here we are, left in the goddamn dark.”

  “Maybe the boy can shed some more light on things,” Cian murmured, linking his muscular arms behind his head.

  “We’ve tried to get him to talk.” Jeremy sighed. “He’s definitely hiding something, but we can’t get any more out of him.”

  “I bet Cian could,” Brody suggested, but Jeremy shook his head.

  “Scaring him shitless isn’t going to help,” the blond snorted.

  Torrance didn’t know what he meant by that, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to. The irreverent Irishman was giving her another smoldering
stare, and putting Mason in a royal snit, if the look on his face was anything to go by.

  “That’s enough, Hennessey,” he growled in the next moment, obviously losing his patience.

  “Not nearly,” the other man drawled lightly, earning a low, sinister snarl for his taunting response.

  “No fighting until we get this solved,” Brody warned, glaring at both men.

  Hating feeling useless and wanting to be able to help, Torrance cleared her throat and spoke up. “Why don’t you let me talk to Elliot?”

  “What?” The word blasted from Mason’s grim mouth, as harsh as the cracking sound of his coffee mug slamming onto the kitchen counter.

  “No offense,” she told him, gesturing toward the others, “but you’re all a pretty intimidating lot. He might feel more comfortable spilling something personal to me than he would to one of you.”

  Cian nodded thoughtfully, studying her with a piercing gaze. “She has a point. He’d probably find it easier to talk to a woman, and whatever he’s hiding has likely been bottled up for so long, it’s just waiting to bust out.”

  “No way,” Mason growled.

  “Why not?” she asked, her instincts telling her it was the right thing to do, even though she was nervous at the prospect. After all, the kid was a werewolf—but then so were all these men, and she felt perfectly safe with them. Torrance couldn’t explain it, but she wasn’t going to bother denying it either. She did feel safe with them. And Elliot had saved her life.

  “Why?” Mason repeated, running one hand through his hair in a blatant act of frustration. “Because I don’t want you anywhere near him!”

  “He already helped save my life,” she argued gently. “What do you think he’s going to do?”

  He remained silent, glaring, but she didn’t back down. “Please, Mason. Just let me talk to him. I’d like to be able to help.”

  “No way in hell,” he muttered, shaking his head…but now that she’d set her mind to it, Torrance wasn’t about to give up.