Of course, that’s when Rifter and Rogue ran into their own trouble with the weretrappers.
Linus had been able to quiet things down since the Dires returned, but obviously not enough. The king had been murdered by his own once loyal wolves days earlier, and now chaos ensued. Manhattan was in an uproar and Linus’s son was missing, rumored to have died at the hands of the same outlaw wolves.
But as far as Vice could see, there were no outlaws in the bar and everyone appeared to be at peace.
Well good for fucking them.
“There are twenty weretrappers out back,” Stray reported as he stopped to smell the air, then muttered, “Suicide mission.”
“I wish,” Vice muttered, stomping ahead. “Just gonna hurt like hell, and in the end, we’ll all still be alive.”
“We’ve been wanted since what feels like the dawn of time—you’d think we’d be used to it by now,” Stray grumbled.
Vice’s eyes glowed. “Let me take care of them once and for all.”
“Rifter’ll kill you—just do what we came to do and let’s get the hell out.”
Stray was never any goddamned fun.
Then again, neither were the weretrappers, who were humans, armed to the hilt with all kinds of silver shit, which was deadly in large quantities to regular Weres but could do nothing but cause extreme pain to the Dires. They could fight through the pain—and would—but it would be far easier to avoid contact with the stuff to begin with.
The weretrappers targeted all wolves—especially the Dires lately—not to kill them, but to hold them for experimentation. The horrors they inflicted on wolves, the majority of whom stayed as far away from humans as they possibly could, were unspeakable.
Vice had seen some of them firsthand on both Rifter’s and Rogue’s bodies, and his gut twisted at the thought of what they’d gone through.
He just wanted Rogue to wake up, no matter what state he was in. Slept on the floor next to the man just in case. So it was for Rogue that Vice was on the rampage, out to destroy as many weretrappers as he could without getting himself caught or drawing too much human attention to the packs.
Howlers was packed to the damned rafters, just the way he liked it, with wine and women and various other vices that would for sure lead a man astray.
Vice really liked astray, so much so that his entire life had been molded around it. The music slammed through him—the smells of Were and sex and smoke and whiskey washed through his senses. When Stray turned back to him, his eyes had already changed.
Vice knew his had too. It was controllable, but here, where there was no need to control, he let something be goddamned easy. And when a stripper—Were—slid by him, tits against his chest, and he smelled her want, immediate and strong, he wanted nothing more than to pick her up, carry her to the back as she wrapped around him, telling him he’d be so amazingly good.
He would be too. Fact of life and breeding and many, many years of practice.
But Stray the killjoy simply shook his head, reminding Vice they were just cutting through the bar and not supposed to be enjoying themselves. But hell, turning it off was never that simple.
Misconduct, misbehaving and sin—yeah, those were a few of his favorite fucking things…
Vice made it his life’s work that all the people he’d come in contact with found their favorites too, because what the hell was more fun than that? He was born to lead people astray, take them off the beaten path, travel the road not taken.
Den of iniquity was tattooed across his back because his entire being was one, along with the words mayhem and deviant. They didn’t stop the women—and the men—from wanting him. The wolves all knew better and gave him a wide-as-hell berth. They didn’t want to be pulled into his world of sin, and Vice knew it was better they weren’t all in the damned gutter with him.
“According to Facebook, Rifter left the bar with a human.” Stray was checking his iPhone as they pushed through the crowds. “Twitter confirms.”
“I fucking hate social media.” Vice lit another rolled cigarette, the wafting of the special blue smoke hovering around both of them like a heavy embrace. “No one can just fuck in private anymore.”
“Rifter went home with a human and that’s what you’re worried about?”
“Ah, Stray, come on. Probably just a rumor.” He stared up at the full moon, the pull that much stronger because of this time of year. Mating season made them all edgy and way too unfulfilled, even after hours of mind-blowing sex. They couldn’t get everything they needed, and neither could their wolves, and that made for some very unhappy dual-natured creatures.
If Rifter had taken a human home, she was in big goddamned trouble. That made Vice smile. “Let’s get this shit over with.”
He looked through the small window on the heavy back door and saw the open, tree-covered field behind the bar. When he opened it, the smell of snow—and human—would be unmistakable. “They’re out there.”
“Shift?” Stray asked, sniffed the air himself, and, yes, that was certainly the best option. Much easier to let their wolves run wild and leave their faces a complete mystery.
They eased out the side door so as not to be spotted, and in the small alleyway, they stripped, left their clothes behind as they let the change take over their bodies.
There was the familiar creak of bones and stretch of skin as Vice allowed his Brother Wolf to take over, pushing him to all fours as he shifted from man to beast.
It wasn’t pleasant, to say the least, but as his old Marine sergeant used to say, Pain is just weakness leaving the body.
Vice really liked the Marines.
And when the shift was complete, their wolves were far bigger than most Weres and regular wolves. When you looked at a Dire in any form, you knew you were looking at something that wasn’t entirely of this world. It was the height, the build, but especially the eyes—Vice knew his looked silver when he changed, and they were nearly silver in human form.
Time to kick some ass.
But as their Brother Wolves bounded for the hills, their wolf vision sharper now, their huge paws punching silently through the snow, something other than the cold made their hackles rise. The scent of death hit Vice hard. Human. Lots of blood. His mouth watered, his lips peeling back from sharp teeth, but no, eating humans was not cool.
They both slowed to a trot, crouching in the underbrush, which caught on Vice’s pure white fur—and yes, he understood the irony of that color being on him—and left burrs in Stray’s shaggy black coat. Vice’s sensitive ears twitched as he listened for movement, and when he heard nothing but the icy wind cutting through the pines, he rose slowly to his seven-foot height on two strong legs, and Stray joined him. At the sight ahead, neither wolf could stop from howling desolately into the night—a cry of both victory and frustration, because they knew they had to shift to human form now, even though the moon’s hold was fierce.
And they did, the change back just as painful as the wolf retreated and the man returned, Vice finding himself still on all fours, shaking his head to stop the ringing that always remained for a minute or so after the change.
Finally, he got off his knees and stood next to Stray.
“This was a trap… and it wasn’t for us,” Stray said.
The men stood there naked, surveying the carnage. The weretrappers were dead—twenty humans, scattered along the ground—and there was an eerie silence along with the metallic scent of blood drifting through the air. “Gotta bury them.”
“Before anyone sees,” Stray finished his thoughts. “Call the twins.”
But Stray was already doing so, calling forth the young Weres who’d gotten kicked out of their own pack for being moon crazed. Jinx had taken them under his wing, and subsequently they’d moved into the Dire house. They’d gained some semblance of control, but they were still both like lanky teenagers, their wolves barely contained.
Within minutes the young Weres came bounding up, identical to each other in both human and w
olf form except for the color of their eyes—Cyd’s green and Cain’s amber, closer to yellow than brown, their dark hair short and messy, dressed like they’d walked out of Abercrombie & Fitch.
Tonight, they were thankfully still in human form, although they were restless. These young Weres would have a hard time keeping it together unshifted with the scent of violence so pungent. For Weres, the scent of blood was enough to drive them to shift, thanks to their prey instinct.
“Jinx is coming… whoa, what did you do?” Cain asked, staring up at the full moon like she was calling to him—which, of course, she was, while his brother, Cyd, remained characteristically silent and just went to work hauling the bodies into the woods.
“Definitely the work of a wolf,” Vice said as he studied a body and then pulled up short because he smelled… a Dire, and it wasn’t Stray. No fucking way. “Is the outlaw pack stupid enough to do this out in the open?”
“None that I’ve heard of,” Stray said, and then they both stopped short when they heard a rustle behind them. One of the bodies was moving, the man attempting to get up.
“He’s mine.” The smell of the unknown Dire got stronger, and Vice could still feel Brother Wolf’s incisors, and he bared them viciously as he went over to the man who’d just shifted from wolf, prepared to do lots of harm.
But when he caught sight of the face, everything changed, and he wasn’t sure it was for the better.
Harm.
All the Dires had been hunting this particular Dire wolf for years—and for good damned reason.
Harm mumbled something. The silver had done a number on his ass and they’d have to get him back to the house before they could get anything resembling an explanation as to why he’d taken on the weretrappers himself—why he’d led them into this homemade trap to begin with… why he’d let his fellow wolves down.
Harm was the reason Rogue had gotten captured.
Stray was next to Vice, a blur, half changed and howling, and Vice had never seen him so worked up, not while awake, anyway. The nightmares did a number on him, but Vice and the others were always quick to wake him, mainly to stop his screaming.
Vice heard his own Brother Wolf growl and knew he was in real danger of losing it, found his hand wrapped around the back of Harm’s neck as he brought his face forward to rip out his goddamned throat…
“He’s mine.” It was Jinx, yanking Vice out of the way and baring his own teeth to Harm as the man struggled to stay on his feet. “When you’re healed, brother, we’re going to fight and you’re going to be the first fucking Dire wolf to die and stay dead. And that’s a motherfucking promise.”
Chapter 4
Brother Wolf was tugging at him before the sun came up. Rifter reluctantly pulled his hand from Gwen’s and his mind from her dreams and covered her with a blanket. She was calm now, satiated, if the small smile she wore as she slept was any indication, and Rifter had more pent-up sexual energy than he knew what to do with.
But Brother Wolf wasn’t tugging for his run—no, something was happening there. It took Rifter a second to realize that Brother Wolf had set Father Wolf chomping at his heels.
It was the second time his wolf had brought up that goal in less than twenty-four hours.
“Not. Happening,” he told his wolf, who bit out a howl so fierce, Rifter’s eardrum ached.
It’s already happening, Brother Wolf argued. Brother Wolf should know better than that, and Rifter told his wolf to shut it.
For maybe the first time ever, their goals were in opposition to each other, and neither liked it.
You like her, Brother Wolf told him, and Rifter couldn’t argue, so he didn’t. He didn’t want to leave her, but both he and Brother Wolf knew that daytime and Dires didn’t mix all that well. No, they were better suited to nighttime, when it was easier to fight the weretrappers and avoid the law.
The Dires were too well-known and unmistakable to even try to hide themselves in human form from the Weres, although Stray was a tech wiz who made sure to either pull down pictures of the Dires that ended up online or alter them to avoid detection. Now, thanks to Sebastian’s pact with the trappers, many of the humans knew what Rifter and Rogue really looked like, but the others were safe.
It just meant that Rifter had to be more careful—but he refused to have the other Dires bodyguard him, like they had right after he’d escaped with Rogue. He had his own set of tricks—plus strength—and it would take a hell of a lot for them to fell him again.
Now he left his jacket behind because Gwen was still wrapped in it and she looked damned fine. He noted her hospital badge by the front door near her keys. Doctor Kadlin.
A dying doctor. Talk about irony.
He stroked a thumb over her picture—how she managed to look sexy and serious at the same time was a mystery to him. He glanced back toward the bedroom and put the ID back down, then slid out the back door. When he checked his phone, he saw several messages from Stray. Important flagged ones that all but demanded he check in.
The only dreams he’d felt tugging at him last night had been Rogue’s, which meant the others hadn’t slept yet. Normally, that wouldn’t mean much—they were as much creatures of the night as vampires, although both Dires and Weres could go outside in daylight with no ill effects.
It was one of the major reasons the weretrappers focused on them for their experimentation and not the vampires. Sometimes Rifter wondered about creating an alliance with the vamps, but, like wolves, they were an insular group that didn’t trust easily.
After the betrayal of the witches, Rifter didn’t either.
But no sleep coupled with the messages meant something.
Or it could just be that you were spotted with a human.
A human he’d wanted with a desire that burned through him like a goddamned house on fire.
He pushed the bike faster down the icy road, felt the wheels spinning and didn’t care. His breath came in clouds that flew past his face, and he remembered the feel of Gwen’s arms around him as he drove her home last night.
He was an idiot. He could’ve hurt her.
Dires were not gentle—never had been, never would be. It was the reason they didn’t hang with humans—especially females—any more than they could help it.
Last night, inexplicably, he couldn’t have helped it. When he’d thought about how close he’d been to taking Gwen in the leaves. Claiming her. Fucking her…
His cock throbbed and Brother Wolf was growling, and he pulled his bike into the woods, where he could hide it easily when he shifted and ran. Both needed this outlet, because the dreamwalk had served only to heighten his arousal instead of taking the edge off.
“You have an hour before the sun comes up,” he muttered, stripped impatiently, the cold no more an annoyance on his skin.
The flakes that hit him caused steam to rise from his body. His temperature was always warmer, his metabolism more wolf than human, but even by wolf standards, he was overheated.
You let a human do this to you. He’d been wrapped and twisted up in Gwen until he couldn’t think straight. Usually, after he’d been with someone, the clawing loneliness was worse. Hell, it was worse when he was with them most of the time.
With Gwen, the loneliness had been gone.
She was dreaming—none of that was reality.
Except for him—the dreamwalking was always and only real just for him.
He could still smell Gwen on him, even though the cold wind should’ve whipped her scent away. He put his clothes and the keys in the back, combo-locked compartment of the bike. And then he tugged his cock a few times, hard pulls because he needed that.
The pain after orgasm would mingle with that of the shift, and then he’d revel in the loss of control while Brother Wolf took the reins.
He’d wanted to taste her, the urge to dip his tongue to her sex almost unbearable. He’d settled for his hand because he was too worried about her human status.
He was afraid if he did more, he woul
dn’t be able to stop, and that had never happened to him, as he held himself to a control that was almost brutal. Pleasure was supposed to hurt—the fine line between it and pain was something he’d learned as a young boy, and later, as his wolf emerged, it became all balled together until it was impossible to pick it apart.
Last night had been worth the howling, tight pain that seared through his cock when he hadn’t allowed himself to come. This morning, it was impossible to ignore.
He caught his dick in a left-handed, steady rhythm, threw his head back and closed his eyes. As he stroked, he thought about her… found himself in her dream again much too easily. And she was watching him. Stroking herself in time with him, her legs spread, underwear half down and fingers playing along her sex, a smile on her face.
God, she was beautiful, her body ripe and ready, no shame on her face like you might see on a typical human in her position.
Everything inside of her was blooming—she was opening for him like a hothouse flower, smelled like the dianthus that bloomed every spring in his old village in Norway. As a young boy, he would run through the fields there, the flowers’ scent rich and spicy, the fragrance stronger at night, and he’d think about who his mate might be. Now those thoughts mingled with his desire as he pushed himself to the brink of climax along with Gwen.
Gwen roused with her hands between her legs, her body shuddering from a powerful orgasm that made her belly tighten with absolute pleasure. The aftershocks kept her muscles pulled tight, and she whimpered as the blanket grazed her exquisitely taut and tender nipples. She’d come hard, and Rifter had been watching her—she’d been so sure of it, could almost feel his hot gaze raking her mainly naked form even as she shifted from sleep to consciousness.
You’re going insane.
Or just dreaming. She blinked several times, realized she was breathing as if she’d just had actual sex. She moved her hand from her sensitive flesh and let herself revel for several minutes in the completely satiated state.
The goal was to have a man do that for you.
Dire Needs Page 3
