by Anne Marsh
“What happens next? You planning on telling me?”
“With us?” He shrugged, ignoring her sarcasm. “You're a first for us, sha. Virgin territory.”
Hell. She didn’t like feeling pinned. Herded. They were letting her do this, and that made her madder than hell. They’d volunteered themselves to take care of her problems, but the real problem here was that she didn’t want to submit to their taking care of.
She didn’t want to fight, though, and she didn’t like that, either.
She settled for playing twenty questions, buying time while she sought information. “You’re really going after her?”
Dre looked over at her. “Hell yeah.”
“And you think a night in the bayou with those vamps isn’t going to leave a mark?” She’d survived nights she hadn’t wanted to live through, but she’d always known her father would draw the line at some point. She’d feel like dying, but her old man hadn’t wanted to kill her. She was pretty damn sure those vamps had different plans for Riley.
“Our Pack’s goin’ to take real good care of her,” Landry said, his voice tight.
There was that word again. Care. “What is she to you?”
Dre and Landry exchanged glances, but Landry answered her question. “She’s a blue-moon bride too.”
“Excuse me?”
“You remember our conversation about that moon last night, Mary Jane?” He finally sounded exasperated. “Do you understand how uncommon that kind of moon is? That’s more than the second full moon in a month.”
“I’m opting out of this cosmic dating service.” She said the words lightly, but her mind was racing. Fiercely independent, loud-mouthed, laughing Riley wouldn’t like being picked out like a chocolate from a box.
“Centuries,” Landry gritted out. “That’s how long we’ve been waitin’. That moon rose this week, and we had a chance.”
She shot him an incredulous look. “You are aware of what your reputation in this bayou is, right? The two of you aren’t precisely sitting around waiting for the one to put in an appearance.”
“That moon picked you out for us and Riley for one of our Pack mates.” Dre’s voice slammed her to a halt. Maybe she was tired, because she sure hadn’t made that connection. Last night wasn’t about the three of them taking a liking to each other? It was some kind of divine rent-a-bride program? Hell no.
“I don’t think so.”
The hurt she felt was irrational, she told herself. So they didn’t want her for her. She’d known the odds of them sticking around were slim.
She stared out at the marina, and the day she’d believed couldn’t get any worse took a nosedive. The boat tied up a hundred feet down the dock was all too familiar. Dre and Landry hadn’t bothered to name her. Most of the fishermen she knew called it That Damn Boat or Lucky Devil, because Dre and Landry pulled in more than their fair share of catches.
“You said your boat was in dry dock.” She pointed to the boat, and Landry cursed. Too bad she couldn’t bring herself to care. “Guess that was a lie, too.”
Behind her, there was a short, fierce argument, too low to catch, and really she didn’t care right now. No, she was mad, and that felt good. She liked mad.
“Cast off.” She pointed to the lines and, to her surprise, the Breauxs swung themselves up onto the dock and busied themselves with untying the ropes. One. Two. Three. “I’m done with you two.”
“Too late, sha.” The male growl belonged to Dre. “You already made a choice.”
“Like hell,” she snapped sweetly. Before he could get any more words off, she flipped the key in the ignition and motored off, leaving Dre and Landry on the dock.
Chapter Ten
Dre and Landry had followed Mary Jane upriver, giving their mate the space she needed. Not too much, though, because they still had a bayou full of fucking vamps. The way Dre saw it, patience was in short supply. If they hadn’t needed to wait for Dag to make it down here and pick up Riley’s trail, he’d have been jonesing to be gone.
She’d put in at the next bayou town and gone straight to the local authorities. Based on the way she’d come storming out, the sheriff had either been a patronizing fuck, or he’d been a careful law enforcement agent and demanded evidence. Mary Jane had to realize how crazy her story was. She had no proof, either. The Bayou Sweetie was squeaky clean—Landry had made sure of that before rejoining Dre and Mary Jane in their hotel room—and the vamp bodies had ashed as soon as the sun rose. No, all Mary Jane had was a missing crew member, and at less than twelve hours old that absence wouldn’t win any attention.
Clearly thinking things through, she’d gotten busy sorting oysters on deck. He’d have bet every dollar he had that she hadn’t given up on Riley. Mary Jane was cooking up a new plan to get her friend back. She sorted fast and furious, the meaty thunk of shells hitting crates an audible accompaniment to her anger.
He needed to fix this, and damned if he knew how.
At least she hadn’t headed straight back into the bayou, although he was betting that was next on her list.
Two hours into her sorting and right before she finished up, Dag made his appearance.
The other male loped out of the bushes, emerging from the dense, lacy canopy of low-hanging branches shading the bayou bank. His wolf was almost two hundred pounds of pure black and muscle, a lean, lethal, killing machine. Cold yellow eyes swept over them, lingering on Mary Jane and the boat for too long. His lips pulled back from his canines as he scented the vamps, a guttural snarl tearing from his throat.
Mary Jane’s head snapped around, her eyes searching nervously.
Dre moved in, putting himself between the wolf and the boat. For a long, charged moment Dre thought the other male wouldn’t or couldn’t shift back. Dag shimmered in between half-man, half-wolf for minutes.
“Change,” Landry bit out when the worry got too much. “Fuck. Don’ you do this to us now, Dag. You come on back.”
Dre crouched beside the wolf, half an eye on Mary Jane and half an eye on Dag. He couldn’t help either, and he damned sure didn’t want to hold Dag the way he did his female.
“You don’ let Riley down,” he ordered. The missing woman mattered to Mary Jane and she was a blue-moon bride. That was the plain truth, so Dag would go into the bayou and bring her back. Fast. Before something worse happened to the woman. Before she was irretrievably lost.
Finally, Dag finished shifting. Dre didn’t know whether the other male had gotten the don’t-fuck-up message, or if he’d simply been ready to make the change. Landry tossed him a pair of pants, motioning for Dag to get dressed. Not that Dag would stay human for long, but they’d all pretend to be civilized.
Ass covered, Dag looked at them. “I’m listenin’.”
His voice was a harsh rasp, like he hadn’t spoken out loud in days. Hell, knowing that wolf, it was true. Dag almost never shifted to human these days. He ran on all fours, every minute, every mile, bringing him closer and closer to the day he wouldn’t come back at all. That was the price a mate-less male paid. The price Mary Jane had saved them from.
“How many vamps?” Dag asked.
Landry rocked back on his heels. “We killed Four. The fifth took Riley. There could be more, probably are.”
“Alrigh’.” Dag assessed the far bank. “I’ll go in.”
Landry nodded, liking the progress. “And?”
“And I’ll bring her out, okay?” The change already rippled over his skin again, so he was clearly jonesing to be on his way.
“You be nice to her,” Landry said pointedly. “She’s goin’ to be Pack. She could be choosin’ you.”
Dag glared at him, his yellow, feral eyes trying to burn a hole right through Landry. Landry wasn’t budging, though, so Dag had to fall back on words. “You wan’ to saddle her with me? I’d think you’d be treatin’ her real gentle after the night she’s had.”
“She’s not ours.” That was the truth right there. He supposed she could have been Luc’s lon
g-lost mate or destined for their Omega, Jackson, but yeah, he had his hopes up for Dag.
Since time was burning, Landry pointed Dag towards the bayou bank where Riley had disappeared and handed over the plain white tank top he’d snagged from her duffel last night. Dag took the shirt, his fingers tightening in the fabric. Wolf nails ripped and tore, but he drew in one breath. A second. Moments later, he’d vanished into the bayou.
Dag wasn’t the kind of male you wanted to set on a female’s ass, but desperate times called for desperate measures.
###
That moon brought out the Pack. Those boys didn’t hide when the sky lit up all blue and pretty. No, they brought out their big guns, howling and running for all they were worth. Either Kar tracked them, or he tracked the moon’s rays, found the bride-to-be and then waited. And while he waited, he amused himself with the bride.
Like baiting a trap, except the bait was pinker, fresher. Prettier.
Hell, he might be the walking dead, but parts of him still functioned fine. He eyed his new companion. Her mechanic’s overalls sported an embroidered patch that declared Riley and, beneath that, Fuck you and a row of embroidered daisies. That made her position on life pretty clear.
Riley was a fighter. A losing one, of course, as the bruises around her wrists and the dark stain on her jaw where he’d hit her attested. Still, the amount of fight in her as she’d hit back promised she’d be so much fun to break. The way he saw it, he got himself a two-fer. He enjoyed the screaming and the struggles; the werewolves got themselves a little wake-up call because no way would they ignore a screaming bride.
Riley’s eyelashes fluttered.
“Wakey wakey,” he said, immediately on full alert.
Her eyes flew open. “Mary, Mother of God,” she whispered.
He leaned forward, grabbing her wrist. “Not even close.”
Before she could draw another breath or get a word off, he sank his teeth deep into the blue veins. His fangs popped the fragile skin like a grape, the tearing sound audible in the sudden, shocked silence. She hadn’t seen this one coming.
And then there it was. The screaming he enjoyed so much. Over and over, until Riley’s voice was nothing but a hoarse, broken whimper broadcasting Come and die to the Breaux brothers.
###
Mary Jane motored slowly up the bayou waterways as the sun disappeared beneath the horizon, plunging the world into darkness. Her intuition screamed, and listening was a mistake. Go back, her head demanded. Go forward, her heart urged. Something was all wrong in the bayou. After she’d left the Breaux brothers standing on the dock and gone upriver, she’d paid a quick and embarrassing visit to the parish sheriff who now believed she had an overactive imagination and a strong need for anti-anxiety drugs. Her next step eluded her.
Unfortunately, her imagination appeared to be on vacation because she didn’t see any obvious way to bring Riley back. Sure, she could scour the bayou and hope some sign jumped out at her, but that was like hunting for a needle in a haystack. She doubted she would get lucky—and part of her worried that those things, the vamps, would be the ones doing the jumping.
No, unfortunately, it looked more and more like the Breauxs were the only answer to Riley’s disappearance, and that certainly wasn’t happy-making. Landry and Dre were the types to say I told you so, and she wasn't crawling back to them, begging for help.
Unless it was the only way to save Riley.
Return. Stay away. Do something or do nothing. Worse, about an hour ago, her intuition had flared, making her antsy and nervous. Something wasn’t right, and she’d eventually given in to the urge to push deeper into the bayou and find her Breauxs.
Now she drove through the narrow waterway, letting instinct unwind the twisted snarl of possible paths and dead ends until she hit a dead end. Houseboats and hunting cabins on stilts perched on the banks, the men who had been sprawled on the decks rising to their feet, bristling at her uninvited, unwanted intrusion. She swore she heard growling. Too fucking bad, she thought.
“I’m looking for Dre and Landry,” she called, and the biggest male swore, shaking his head.
He was a big motherfucker and impossible to miss, his face a calling card for menace. A thick scar ran down one cheek, almost cutting into his left eye. And, God, those eyes were empty. Those eyes were all don’t-give-a-fuck as he ran his gaze over her, did the math in his head, and then clearly found something about her interesting.
“How’d you get all the way out here?” His words were more demand than question, and she had no idea how she was going to answer him, but then a large grey wolf staggered out of a nearby cypress stand. Red smeared the fur on its side and its muzzle.
Keep on walking. That had been Dre’s advice.
And yet here she was, deep in the heart of the bayou, about to borrow more trouble.
The wolf shifted, and then Landry stood there. His knees buckled and he slammed a second hand out for support, bracing himself as he rested his head against the wall. She could hear him sucking in air as he worked through a wave of pain. Oh God. She had open water behind her and no excuse for having come back here. Other than wanting to do so. And she’d already done plenty of wanting—Dre and Landry had seen to that.
Landry hit the deck, and she flew up the side of the houseboat, making for his side.
###
His twin was injured and stank of vamp.
Dre charged across the houseboat’s deck, laying in a line for Landry. His brother was a goddamned mess. The Pack healed quickly, but that was a gut wound and a bad one, too. Landry needed a patch job and a helping hand. Or at least someone to bitch to while nature did her thing and he healed. Instead, what Landry got was Mary Jane. She crouched over him, her hands slick with blood, but she wasn't hurting him. Instead, she pressed her wadded-up sweatshirt against the wound.
Her tender care of his brother undid him.
His Pack didn't do tenderness. He'd trust his brothers with his back anytime, but they were hunters first. Rough and tough, with no smooth edges or finesse. Hell, they were weapons in a war most never knew existed. That was okay. The work needed doing, and he'd never passed on a fight. But Mary Jane’s actions were something else. Her hands held his brother together, while she whispered all concerned and worried. This male stretched out on the floor mattered to her.
She wasn't walking from his brother.
She looked up and spotted him.
“You shouldn't be here,” he growled, and he had to wonder why those words were the ones his mouth decided to put out there. He wanted to thank her for her care of his brother, but instead he’d apparently opted to pick another fight with her.
“Shut up,” she snapped, her head coming up. “Get your ass over here, Dre, and help me hold him together while one of you calls 9-1-1. He needs an ambulance. A chopper. A fucking rescue boat. I don’t care which, but get him something.”
The worry in her brown eyes told him she thought Landry wasn't sticking around until medical help came.
“He's goin’ to be fine, honey. You jus’ keep holdin’ him together.” In another couple of minutes, Landry wouldn't even need a needle and thread. He'd be sore as hell, but he wouldn't be bleeding out on the floor of the houseboat they shared, either.
“Find a fucking phone,” she ordered, “and call for an ambulance. I don't care what kind of off-the-grid life you run out of here. You call now, because I'm not letting him die if there's something I can do.”
Her soft heart was a liability that would get her killed.
“You need to listen to me,” he said. “Landry will be okay. Give him five, maybe ten—” it had been one hell of a hit, “—and he's going to be up and about.”
“Dre.” She shot him a glare that could have peeled paint from the wall. “No one walks away from a gut wound. I'm holding him together. Literally. So. Pick. Up. A. Goddamned. Phone.”
Behind him, his brothers moved closer, hemming them in. Mary Jane's gaze flickered to them, and her shoul
ders sagged.
“Move your hands. Look,” he suggested.
Of course she didn't move. His brothers finally turned away and headed back to whatever strategy session they’d been holding. Yeah, they didn't want to get tangled up in this. As if on cue, though, Landry stirred and cursed. “Fuck. That hurt.”
“You should have been payin’ attention,” Dre pointed out.
“Pardon me for not seein’ a bastard vamp in the shadows,” Landry grumbled. He levered himself up on his elbows, then realized he had Mary Jane's hands all over him. “This isn't a bad way to go, Dre. You should try it.”
Mary Jane's shock was almost comical. “Oh my God.” Her hands fell away from Landry’s stomach. Her sweatshirt pulled away, the fabric sticky and stiff with blood.
Landry cursed as the material caught on his injury. “Careful, darlin'. I'm feelin’ tender.”
“You should be dead,” she accused. “Your intestines were all but falling out. You were bleeding.” She looked down at her hands and the crimson slick on the floor.
“Yeah.” He winked up at her. “And it hurt like a bitch, too.” They both examined the shiny pink scab on his abdomen.
Dre had had enough. “I told you before, Mary Jane.” He dropped his hands onto her shoulders and sank down behind her, nipping at the skin of her throat. “When you see a man down, you don't stop.”
She shook her head like that would straighten everything out. He had news for her. The world wasn't ever going back to the way it had been before. “He should be dead.”
Landry cleared his throat. “Let’s take this inside the cabin.”
Getting carefully to his feet, Landry wiped his hands down the front of his shirt. Hell, at least it was a black shirt. Blood showed less on black. Landry swayed once, planting his booted feet apart, putting a hand out looking for support. Mary Jane shot to her feet, right there to lend a hand. She bore Landry's weight, even though he about took her back down to the deck. His brother wasn't a small man. None of them were.
Moving carefully, Landry made for the door of the houseboat’s cabin and stepped inside. Mary Jane matched him step for step. Dre followed, shutting the door behind them as soon as they were clear.
