Praise for
Dire Needs
“Fast-paced, dark, and wickedly edgy, Dire Needs is a paranormal shot in the arm for the genre! No one writes a bad boy hero like Tyler.”
—Larissa Ione, New York Times bestselling
author of Immortal Rider
“Stephanie Tyler puts a unique, fresh spin on shape-shifter romance. In Dire Needs, she creates a raw, sexy world where werewolves make and break all the rules.”
—Maya Banks, New York Times bestselling
author of Whispers in the Dark
“Stephanie Tyler has created a story that kept me on the edge of my seat. With breathtaking danger, sizzling romance, and unexpected twists, these Dire Wolves are going to rock the paranormal world.”
—Alexandra Ivy, New York Times bestselling
author of Bound by Darkness
“Riveting! Dire Needs hooked me from the very first page.”
—Shiloh Walker, author of If You Hear Her
Praise for the Novels
of Stephanie Tyler
“Unforgettable.”
—Cherry Adair, New York Times bestselling
author of Riptide
“Red-hot romance. White-knuckle suspense.”
—Lara Adrian, New York Times bestselling
author of Deeper Than Midnight
“Sexy and witty.”
—Fresh Fiction
“Stephanie Tyler is a master.”
—Romance Junkies
DIRE
NEEDS
A NOVEL OF THE ETERNAL WOLF CLAN
STEPHANIE TYLER
A SIGNET ECLIPSE BOOK
SIGNET ECLIPSE
Published by New American Library, a division of
Penguin Group (USA) Inc., 375 Hudson Street,
New York, New York 10014, USA
Penguin Group (Canada), 90 Eglinton Avenue East, Suite 700, Toronto,
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Penguin Books Ltd., Registered Offices:
80 Strand, London WC2R 0RL, England
First published by Signet Eclipse, an imprint of New American Library,
a division of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
First Printing, March 2012
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
Copyright © Stephanie Tyler, 2012
All rights reserved
ISBN: 978-1-101-57686-1
SIGNET ECLIPSE and logo are trademarks of Penguin Group (USA) Inc.
Printed in the United States of America
PUBLISHER’S NOTE
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, business establishments, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.
The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party Web sites or their content.
If you purchased this book without a cover you should be aware that this book is stolen property. It was reported as “unsold and destroyed” to the publisher and neither the author nor the publisher has received any payment for this “stripped book.”
ALWAYS LEARNING
PEARSON
For Lily, because this story could never have existed
without you
Horatio: O day and night, but this is wondrous strange!
Hamlet: And therefore as a stranger give it welcome.
There are more things in heaven and earth, Horatio,
Than are dreamt of in your philosophy.
—William Shakespeare, Hamlet
For the strength of the Pack is the Wolf, and the strength of the Wolf is the Pack.
—Rudyard Kipling, The Jungle Book
Table of Contents
Chapter 1
Chapter 2
Chapter 3
Chapter 4
Chapter 5
Chapter 6
Chapter 7
Chapter 8
Chapter 9
Chapter 10
Chapter 11
Chapter 12
Chapter 13
Chapter 14
Chapter 15
Chapter 16
Chapter 17
Chapter 18
Chapter 19
Chapter 20
Chapter 21
Chapter 22
Chapter 23
Chapter 24
Chapter 25
Chapter 26
Chapter 27
Chapter 28
Chapter 29
Chapter 30
Chapter 31
Chapter 32
Chapter 33
Chapter 34
Chapter 35
Chapter 36
Chapter 37
Chapter 38
Chapter 39
Chapter 40
Chapter 41
Chapter 42
Chapter 43
Chapter 44
Chapter 45
Chapter 46
Chapter 47
Chapter 48
Chapter 49
Chapter 50
Chapter 51
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
Chapter 1
Rifter needed a woman, Brother Wolf needed to run wild, and their appetites for sex and destruction mingled, rose with a hot howl as Rifter’s Harley roared through the winter night.
Both knew which appetite would have to be sated first—the fucking, then the running. Rifter and his wolf were usually on the same page in that regard. Tonight was no different, and he slammed his Harley to a stop in front of Bite, one of the many bars along the strip, because he smelled danger. He stomped inside, ignoring the way the room stilled and everyone turned to watch him. After hundreds of years, that shit got old, and he was well aware of what he looked like.
He was also well aware that no one in this room would want to be him, if given the chance. He could only pray no one ever would be put in that position again.
No, he was already part of a pack of the last six living Dire wolves, who cursed their immortality and wore their ferocity on their sleeves because they literally had nothing to lose.
Created by Hati, son of a Norse god, and watched over by a mystical clan of Elders, Rifter was six feet eight inches of raw muscle and more than seven feet, three hundred pounds when he was Brother Wolf, which explained the pain of the transition.
Brother Wolf was part of him—when he was driving the ship, Rifter could request things, and vice versa, but they were both equal in power. It was the only way they could inhabit one body. He had a great deal of respect for his wolf, knew what Brother needed and when he needed it. Brother did the same for him.
If one of them died, the other would too.
We should be that lucky, he thought, and Brother howled in response inside his head, reminding him of why they’d come here in the first place.
Brother Wolf’s biggest goal—beyond chasing moons—was to become Father Wolf. That coul
d happen only by mating, and that shit was not happening anytime soon.
Rifter’s main goal was to die, but again, he’d be waiting on that one forever.
One of the female Weres, laced into a black bustier, caught up to him when he was halfway to the bar and rubbed her body against his. “Where’ve you been, Rift?” she purred.
“Prison,” he said as he pushed past her, semidisgusted that his response seemed to turn her on. Prison couldn’t hold Rifter and Brother Wolf, and God knew humans had tried more than once over the last centuries.
He took in the human motorcycle gang and the pack of wolves who’d started their own version of Hells Angels, only far more deadly, and then his nose led him to the young woman sitting alone at the bar. She was doing shots and swaying to the music, and she’d caught the bikers’ attention—human and wolf—neither of which was a good thing.
He knew immediately from the rumblings that she’d been here too long.
Typically, the wolves stayed among their own, but lately, they’d been mixing it up with the locals, and that wasn’t going over all that well with the weretrappers. This bar was owned and operated by a Were—but catered to humans as well. The thing was, most humans beyond the weretrappers didn’t believe that Weres existed at all, and the Weres and the Dires had been able to pass as full human for as long as they could remember.
He could deal with a fight to get his blood going. But first things first. He moved next to her, watched her turn to him, look up at him. Her eyes widened—appreciation rather than fear, and yeah, what the hell?
“You’re not in a good place,” he growled over the music.
“I’ve got a seat at the bar—that’s the best place,” she told him, not slurring her words yet, but by the way she was motioning to the bartender, she’d find herself doing so soon enough.
She was human and he was drawn to her.
Making sure she’s safe.
Right, because he was a goddamned Boy Scout. He didn’t give a shit about humans—those who knew about the existence of Weres were either terrified or idiot groupies or hunting his kind. The wider the berth, the safer for all involved. But there was something that yanked him to her, a zing right to his cock that had him by her side, watching her lick the salt from her hand, down the tequila and suck on the lemon while staring at him with green eyes that were far from innocent.
“I’m Gwen,” she said, her voice all hot and smoky sounding even though there wasn’t a cigarette in sight. She leaned back and stared at him again and let a smile tug one corner of her lips.
“Rifter.”
He knew she wanted to comment on the name, but she didn’t. Instead, she reached out and played with a zipper on his black leather jacket, then let a long finger roam over the soft, smooth fabric. He could picture the black against her creamy skin.
“I want to wear this,” she murmured.
“Later. Naked,” he told her and she stared at him, her neck graceful, her body more so, and she looked like some kind of aristocrat, like she should be in a ballroom instead of here.
But she was here. There would be no female Weres for him tonight, even though more were already circling. He picked up on the low growls, because Dires never went for humans. Everyone was confused, and he was president of the club.
He expected this to be all over fucking Facebook within the hour. “I want to take you home,” he emphasized, in case the naked part hadn’t been enough of a clue.
Have to. Need to. Fuck, he felt like dropping to his knees and howling and it had nothing to do with the full moon.
She tilted her head and continued to study him.
“I’m not into anything beyond sex.” Blunt for sure, but he had to make that clear.
A small smile played on her lips. “Don’t worry—I won’t be around long enough to stalk your tall ass.”
“You’re moving?”
“Dying.” Rifter froze and she shrugged. “You’re not going to let a little thing like that stop you from coming home with me, right?”
“You’re joking.”
“No, I don’t joke about death. Well, that’s not true—I’m a doctor—we have to. Gallows humor keeps us from getting too emotional.”
“You’re dying and so you’ve decided to pick up strange men in dangerous bars.”
“It’s like one of those bad game-show questions—if you found out you only had a short time left to live, what would you do?” She laughed but there was little humor behind it. “I have no idea what I want to do, besides not die.”
She looked healthy to him—healthy and beautiful, with long blond hair, wearing leather, and she did fit in here, in a weird way. And Christ, he could think of nothing more he wanted to do than die. I-fucking-ronic, as Vice would say. “How long do you have?”
“At least through the night. And it’s not catching,” she added as an afterthought. “Are you worth it?”
He didn’t know how the hell to answer that. So he did so truthfully. “Hell yes.”
“Then let’s go.”
Rifter checked to see if Vice was hanging around, because women sometimes acted this way with his packmate, who was a walking ball of sin. But no, Vice was nowhere in sight and everyone was antsy.
Goddamned full fucking moon. Like a bitch with a whip.
He didn’t bother to fight the urge to pick her up, and he slung her over his shoulder, caveman-style, grabbing her jacket off the back of her chair. He heard her startled, soft gasp, but she didn’t protest as he walked out with her, daring any of the wolves to follow him.
They all knew what he was—they may not like him, but they sure as hell knew to respect his power.
When he got to his bike, he set her down and handed her the coat. Her hair tumbled over her shoulders, her black tank top had ridden up a little along her belly and her cheeks flushed from the cold. “Thanks for the ride.”
“That was nothing.”
She refused the helmet he offered, instead wrapping her arms around as much of his waist as she could, and off they went. Normally, he didn’t give a shit about the icy roads, but his passenger wasn’t as indestructible as he was. Though he gave the bike lots of gas, he didn’t get stupid on icy corners and snowy shoulders. After a while, she was no longer holding on and had put her hands in the air, yelling into the wind. He went faster because it seemed to excite her.
When he stopped in front of her house, a pretty little Victorian in the middle of nowhere, she hopped off and he followed her as she walked up the path. Before she could get to the door, he took her arm and pulled her close and brought his mouth down on hers before he could stop himself. She tasted like sugar and cranberries—tart and sweet—and he wanted more. Wanted it all, and Brother Wolf seemed to agree, as he was ignoring the running in favor of letting Rifter take his time.
When he pulled back, her lips were swollen and she was breathing hard and he was glad about that. “Every guy in that bar wanted to take you home tonight. Why me?”
Her eyes flicked over him coolly. “You were the biggest.”
He couldn’t tell if she was joking.
Chapter 2
Gwen wasn’t. He was huge. Really freaking huge—built like a brick shithouse, with long, shaggy dark hair, hard jaw, cut cheekbones and those eyes—holy hell, they were gorgeous. Gray and blue and black and brown, all speckled like a kaleidoscope that could pull her really far in.
She’d more than noticed him when he’d walked in—no, she’d felt him.
Rifter. Even the name tugged at her.
He wouldn’t be gentle, and she was so tired of being treated carefully. She just needed to get through the next few hours without a seizure.
“Just give me a few minutes, okay?” she asked, and he nodded, his gaze raking over her as he stripped off his leather jacket and threw it across her couch. Looked between it and her, and my God, she already felt naked.
He made her already small house seem like it was made for dolls, but somehow, she’d fit against him surprising
ly well, despite the height difference. Her lips felt well kissed and her body strummed in anticipation of more.
“Just a minute,” she repeated and backed out of the room before she stripped down and jumped him. A little tequila and all her carefully held self-control obviously had disintegrated.
In the privacy of her bedroom, she downed a couple of extra pills, the newest in a long line prescribed by the neuro, but they wouldn’t work. None of them ever worked for long, which was why she’d had to choose between med school and having a life. Well, more so than the average med student, because the damned seizures got in the way of everything and the meds made her stupid or silly or sleepy.
She was tempted to throw them away, but then functioning would be gone. She was already living with a death sentence, so why make it harder?
God, the morning’s neuro appointment couldn’t have been any worse. She’d demanded the truth and she’d gotten it.
“The seizures will kill you,” he’d said. “You’re close to OD’ing on the meds and they’re not helping. The activity is everywhere. I’ve never seen anything like it.”
The MRI film left little doubt: The length and increasing severity of each episode debilitated her—inside her brain was the perfect storm of electrical impulses.
“Feel free to use my case as a write-up,” she’d told him, and the doctor’s mouth had twisted in empathy and pain.
He’d been frank but not unsympathetic.
She’d gone straight to the bar from the consult.
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