by Anne Marsh
The last time my dad picked out what I wore, it turned out to be my wedding day. Since I’ve struck that day from my mind, I keep my head down and concentrate on the warehouse, the party, and getting inside.
Halfway to the door, the wolf prospect steps in front of me, body checking me. “You got an invitation, baby girl?”
Fang is big. Aggression radiates off him, and my wolf immediately has me taking a step back. He laughs like we’re playing a game, and slaps a hand on my butt, squeezing hard. I’m not proud of the little squeak that flies out of my throat. I’d like to be stronger. More kickass. Less me. Still, even though I’m not Wonder Woman, the wolf’s hand shoots off my butt.
“Keelie Sue?” When he growls my name, I nod. Apparently he recognizes my voice. Or the top of my head, my cleavage, or even my butt. “Fuck.”
Over my dead body.
My life sucks, but I intend to change that.
I lift my head, pinching the edge of my skirt between two fingers and rubbing the soft leather. “Dad texted me.”
Don’t sound scared. There isn’t much I can do about my scent, but my voice and my hands are a different story. No tremor, no tell. Just sweet little me. That sometimes works for me.
My mind heads straight to my last mating night, and I force the memories back. This wolf will eat me alive, and I’m not sure that’s even a euphemism. The rumors about Fang’s sexual preferences are disturbing.
“You go on in, baby girl,” he says, stepping back. “Make sure you tell your daddy that I said hi.” As soon as he’s patched into the club, he’ll be after me. He reeks of ambition, and I’m a shortcut to the top of the pack’s pecking order. The thought of hooking up with Fang is so awful that I scuttle past him even faster than usual and he laughs. He knows I’m scared, and he likes it.
That’s not tonight’s problem though so I go inside. Humans and werewolves pack the warehouse. The Breed has a membership of some forty wolves, and almost the same number of humans. There are also dozens of prospects, both shifters and not, who hope to become full members and be patched into the club. They do whatever the club’s members tell them, kind of like a combination of unpaid servants and indentured hit men. The only women here are for either serving beer or sex.
Locating my dad is easy. He holds court in the middle of the warehouse, near the bar. He sprawls in a banquette raised above everyone else, surrounded by his usual posse of mean, hard-edged wolves. I don’t spot Jace and that’s the one bright spot in my evening.
Seeing Jace here would be the cherry on my shit sundae. Complicated doesn’t begin to describe my feelings for that wolf. Not only is he the biggest wolf I’ve ever laid eyes on, but that oversized body of his doesn’t come with a single nice bone. He’s crude. He has no filter. And he doesn’t give a fuck. He makes that perfectly clear each time I interact with him.
I was too glad to escape from our paperwork encounter yesterday, even if escape is a temporary fiction and the more accurate words are fallback, retreat, and wait for shit to hit the fan again. Avoiding Jace forever is impossible.
Not only is my wolf nemesis the best fighter this pack has ever had, but my old man is desperate to win his loyalty since technically Jace still runs with the Jones pack despite having patched into Breed MC. He swore an oath of loyalty to the bikers, but the wolves are still a big question mark. Winning him away from the Jones clan would be a coup. The Jones Alpha busted several of our wolves, and I suspect my dad is looking for a little tit-for-tat by taking Jace. I sure as heck don’t know why he trusts the wolf given his family loyalties.
The party happening inside the warehouse definitely looks like Jace’s kind of scene, making his absence all the more remarkable. The Breed are not a classy lot. The bar does a brisk business, as do the beer kegs set up on one edge of the room. The dress code is motorcycle boots, blue jeans, and leather kuttes. Accessories include bruises, scars, chains, and enough weaponry to fill a National Guard armory. The guys take their right to bear arms seriously.
The only thing that seems to distract them from drinking and combat stories is sex. Even though the night is still young, several wolves are already mounting the pass-around girls. I’ve never understood what makes a woman decide that her aim in life includes being a motorcycle groupie. Rough sex doesn’t begin to cover the way the wolves go at them. I let my gaze slide over two wolves screwing themselves into a worn-out woman sprawled on a pool table. The sounds coming out of her mouth are more shrieks than moans.
I keep on walking. I know better than to interrupt or register a protest. She has to do that for herself, same way I’m the only one who can stand up to my dad for me. Angry tears prick my eyelids. I want to be anywhere but here, but I come to a stop in front of my dad.
“’Bout time you got here,” he snaps.
Funny. I came as soon as I got his message, and since he employs me to manage the club’s books, he knows precisely where to find me. Since there’s no good answer, I keep my mouth shut and my head down. Don’t challenge him. Don’t look him in the eye.
I’m hardly seen as a credible threat here. More than one set of hard eyes moves over me, assessing then dismissing me like dear old dad does. I lack claws, teeth, and visible firearms, which makes me a non-threat in the wolves’ eyes and which just goes to show that men underestimate women all the time. The ability to shift doesn’t make them any smarter.
“I’m picking you a new mate.” My dad drops his bombshell with about as much interest as if he’s discussing the weather. Maybe less, frankly, because I’m a sure thing in his world. Then he dismisses me and turns to his lieutenant and officers. No details, no explanation, no nothing—and since wolves mate for life, I need more. Including an escape route.
“No.” The word doesn’t come out very loudly, but it comes out. That counts for something, I promise myself. Those two letters, that one word? Count for something. Next time I’ll scream the word. Next time I’ll make him listen. Baby steps.
“Jesus.” My dad turns back to me, his fist swinging my way so fast I don’t see it coming. I feel each knuckle meet my cheekbone though. The impact knocks me off my feet and drives me into the floor. Pain splinters through my face as I fight to breathe. I wish I could say I’m not frightened. That I bounce to my feet, spit in his face, and kick him in the balls. Do something. Just like always though, my wolf takes over and I curl into a ball, whimpering. He’s Alpha. I’m Beta. The scents of his other wolves surround me, reminding me that they’re bigger, stronger. Meaner.
Tonight will hurt so bad.
He cocks his head and looks down at me. The toe of his boot nudges my ribs hard. “I’m holding a mating ball next week to celebrate your new pairing.”
A ball. Like he’s fancy and he’s proposing one of those black-tie charity affairs where the people come in limousines with their checkbooks in one hand and a flute of champagne in the other. This will be a bonfire and kegger deep in the bayou, and it will also be no-holds-barred drugs, drinking, and a side of violence. The mating bond doesn’t have to be romantic and it doesn’t always form an intimate connection between the two wolves involved, but it always involves sex. Lots and lots of sex—and my dad’s wolves won’t care if it’s consensual or not. Speaking up with my dad’s boot banging on my ribs, however, isn’t happening.
And then he puts the nail in the coffin anyway. “Got us a whole bunch of human girls too,” he tells me, like I should freaking applaud him or be grateful for the company.
A grin splits the face of his lieutenant, a big, mean-eyed shifter with a scar bisecting his cheek. Not much makes Gator smile. Fast cars, new weapons, and the opportunity to dish out a world of hurt tops the man’s list. He earned his name after he fell into the bayou late one night, and a particularly vicious fifteen-foot alligator decided he’d make a good midnight snack. Gator carved his attacker up—with his teeth—and then made himself a new pair of boots. He’s never touched me, but I’ve caught him watching me more than once. Gator is hard to figure out.
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“Some of them are really pretty too,” Gator drawls. “Gonna have a beauty contest and keep us the winners for mates.”
There are no winners in this scenario.
“How many girls you got?” It’s not like I want to make conversation about this, but I need to know. Because you know how everyone has that line they won’t cross? Human trafficking is apparently mine. I have no idea how to fix this, but I’m going to try. I don’t even know where they keep the girls, which is another thing I add to my mental list of crap to worry about.
“You concerned about the competition? Don’t be.” My dad’s boot makes contact again, and my ribs protest. “I’m gonna mate you to the strongest wolf there is.”
God, no. My stomach joins the rest of me on the floor, a sickening, too-familiar plunge. Memories tug at me, horrible, awful snippets from the last time my dad mated me to one of his wolves. I emerged from that night a widow—and I’m pretty sure I won’t be that lucky twice in a row. Bolt’s death was accidental, but I’d have done it on purpose too and that’s the truth.
“You got something else to say to me, baby girl?” My dad pokes me harder in the ribs with his boot. The sharp blossom of pain almost drowns out the unwelcome sensations liquefying my insides.
Nothing’s gone right tonight. I’d like to pretend that I could get up and walk out, but truth is, there’s nowhere I can run where the Breed can’t find me. I tried it once, after Bolt’s death, and they about killed me. And since there’s no point in making useless stands, I’ve bided my time ever since. Someday, somebody will make a mistake and hand me my opportunity. I just have to wait it out, hold on long enough.
But daddy dearest isn’t done with me. Another hard smack drives my head backward into the floor. I’m still seeing stars when he hoists me up onto his table. Glasses fly, and his wolves holler in appreciation. Just once, I want a happily-ever-after ending. Something upbeat and less like one of those Russian novels where everybody dies or gets banished to Siberia to freeze to death in a snowstorm.
“I’m goin’ to do you a favor, baby girl.” His words whisper harshly in my ear, so low that no one else can catch them. “Bolt was a damned unlucky wolf, and I’ve had my doubts that luck was involved with his death.”
Denial. Denial is my best friend here. I was truly alone in the bayou when Bolt met his end, and I knew then that I had to keep what happened a secret. “I had nothing to do with that,” I croak out.
“Might not mind if you did,” my dad says, surprising me. Or maybe not. As long as I’m single—even if I’m branded a black widow—he can mate me to a new wolf of his choosing. As long as I’m mateless, I’m all his to control. “I’ve got my eye on Jace Jones.”
Guess Jace’s interest in me the other day wasn’t so benevolent after all—he probably knew this night was coming.
“Why?” The word fly out of my mouth before I can bite it back. Stupid. I might as well dance a cancan dressed in scarlet in a bullring. My dad doesn’t allow questions.
“He’s one tough son-of-a-bitch,” he growls against my ear, shifting just enough that his teeth prick my vulnerable skin. Big Red is one of the few wolves in the pack that can manage a partial shift. The ability means he’s strong, but it also makes him mean. I about pee myself when his canines scrape my ear, and then he bites down and I scream.
JACE
The Breed pack needs new management. If I hadn’t promised my brother Cruz that I’d keep my head down and focus on gathering the intel he needs to take the club down in the human law courts, I’d do some housecleaning. Big Red is a mean son-of-a-bitch, ruling the pack through terror and intimidation, even though a smarter wolf would know that any loyalty bought with pain isn’t worth shit.
I can take him in a fight.
The current Alpha knows it too, because he’s pussyfooted around me, sounding me out and seeing how much of his crap I’ll take. He needs to know if I’m gonna challenge him, or if I’m less ambitious and will be content to take his orders and be number two. I’m not Alpha of the Year material, but Big Red is into some nasty stuff, and averting my eyes doesn’t sit right with me. The man practically begs for a beatdown, and I’m the only wolf strong enough to deliver it. Kinda makes it my job, the way I see it.
When I enter the clubhouse, Big Red is in the process of vaulting up onto the bar, kicking a rack of glasses out of the way in a shower of glass and noise. Nice. As soon as he has the attention of every wolf in the place, he reaches down and hauls something—make that someone—off the floor. Place is fucking nasty too, because housecleaning isn’t something Big Red bothers with. Not that I’d do it myself, but there are cleaning crews for that kind of shit. Cash fixes some problems.
“Who wants to mate my girlie?” The asshole straightens up and bellows the question loud enough for the entire club to hear. He gives the girl he’s hanging onto a shake, knocking the hair back from her bruised face.
Ah, fuck.
Guess there’s gonna be a change in management tonight after all.
Keelie Sue is a sweetheart and she deserves way better than the asshole worrying her. Mentally I root for her to come up swinging, maybe nail the bastard in the balls. She can do it too, because Big Red underestimates her and that gives her an advantage. Keelie Sue has fight in her, but she hides it well. She’s a watcher, and she doesn’t jump into a fight or come out swinging first. She’s more like one of those medieval Italian ladies—a Borgia princess through and through. Piss her off and she just might poison you. Big Red doesn’t look worried, but I’ve heard the stories about how when Keelie Sue’s first mate disappeared, some people thought she had a hand in it.
I hope she did it.
Or maybe I’m being overly optimistic. Don’t think I have it in me, but it’s possible. Because whenever I see her, she stinks of terror. She’s a Beta, her daddy has anger management issues, and she’s already been mated to the one asshole wolf. And despite the mysterious end of that union, I don’t care who or what turned the guy into gator bait, because when I do the math, Keelie Sue couldn’t have been much more than sixteen when her daddy paired her off.
Asshole got what he had coming to him.
She doesn’t look too young tonight, however. More like she’s seen inside my head and dressed to match last night’s wet dream. I’m a bastard for appreciating her curvy, bare legs, but I’m not dead, and my dick doesn’t always take orders from my head. Usually Keelie Sue walks around in something that looks handpicked from her momma’s closet—her sixty-something, church-going, I’m-gonna-cover-it-up momma. Doesn’t take a genius to figure out her secret plan involves fading into the woodwork until all the badass wolves forget she’s there. Tonight, however, her plan has failed spectacularly. She’s all gussied up in a leather miniskirt and a teeny-tiny black tank top. The skirt has worked halfway up her ass, and her pretty, red panties match the bra peeking out of her top. I want to wrap her up in my arms and get her out of there.
Freedom. Her silent demand is right there in the hate-filled gaze she turns on the room watching her daddy throw her around. Maybe she’ll let me take out her old man, but that’s all she wants from me.
Fuck, some white knight I am. She claws at the hand holding her aloft, where the bastard is using her ponytail for fucking leverage. Nah. I’m not walking away from this fight. I vault across the room like I’m some kinda fucking flying machine.
“She’s mine,” I growl, trying to dial my aggression back. Kill Big Red, and then Cruz and I will have words. He’ll demand evidence and dead guys don’t produce that. Problem is, I’m not lying when I claim Keelie Sue. Some primal piece of me has already decided I’ll be the last man she fucks. Might not be her first, but I’ll be her best, and that starts with my getting her asshole father off her back.
“Not yet,” Big Red says. He laughs, a mean, knowing bark. “Not until I say so.”
Christ.
Another quick glance at Keelie Sue tells me she doesn’t like the word choice, but is in no position t
o protest. I could cut her free—won’t take much. One flick of my wrist, and I can send my hunting knife clean through that ponytail of hers. Since she probably won’t thank me for the haircut, I give using my words another shot.
“Not something I want to talk about,” I admit. Look at me telling the truth tonight. “So how about you just hand her over, and we call it quits for the night?”
Big Red flips me a fuck you with his free hand. “I don’t need you talking, boy.”
“You gonna give me a hint?” My eyes flick to Keelie Sue. It’s business as usual with her. I don’t have the faintest clue what she wants from me.
“Wolf who breeds Keelie Sue for me gets to be my first lieutenant.” Big Red doesn’t dress it up, just lays the offer out there, and shit, even I can tell it plays well with the other wolves in the room. No need to challenge the old man—just take the daughter, knock her up, and claim it all someday in the glorious future when Big Red bites it and goes to the happy hunting ground in the sky (or heads down to a hotter, more hellish place). It’s a payday without the work week, and too many of the Breed wolves are lazy sons-of-bitches.
“Do I look like a portable sperm bank to you?” I prowl closer and slap my hand on the bar. Me down here, him up there. It isn’t a position I favor. I consider my options. Some of the other wolves press closer, their shoulders banging into mine as they set their hands on the bar. Keelie Sue whimpers, kind of like she’s about to really lose it, and I plant my boots on the nasty-ass floor. She should know I won’t let these other fuckers have a taste of her. Bad enough that they can all see up her skirt and look at that red thong of hers. Unfortunately, should doesn’t mean that she does, which means I’ll just have to show her.
