It was a name. His name. His mate was calling for him! Filled with excitement, Westley leapt up. Placing his paws on his mate’s shoulders, Westley licked his face in greeting. His mate turned his head to expose more of his cheek in response. Westley lapped until the scent of the other wolves disappeared and then he licked away the salty water that trickled from his mate’s eyes.
“I can’t… you’re too heavy.”
Westley didn’t recognize the words, but he felt the way his mate slumped. He brimmed with shame. His mate was hurt and here he was leaping on him! Getting down, he rubbed against his mate’s legs and felt their tremble. Brushing against his mate’s feet elicited a choked cry. Westley nosed the remnants of his mate’s shirt up and licked gingerly over his wounds. His mate’s stomach pulled back, but Westley followed it, intent on his task to heal and soothe. Finally, his mate seemed to get the idea. He stopped pulling away and even, Westley was pleased to notice, pushed forward to meet his tongue. Westley knew how well a carefully applied tongue could ease the worse hurts. When he finished cleaning his mate’s stomach, he rose up again, supporting himself against the wall instead of on his mate’s shoulders this time. He licked fondly at his mate’s ear when he felt his mate’s nose nuzzle against his chest. With his mate comfortably nestled against him, Westley turned his attention to the raw skin rubbed red from the metal traps that bound his mate’s paws to the wall. His mate hissed when Westley licked, but he continued anyway, knowing that after the hurt was licked away, his mate would find comfort in Westley’s dedication.
“Don’t suppose you can pick the lock while you’re at it?”
Westley paused. He wanted so badly to understand his mate. The tone of his voice rumbled pleasantly in Westley’s stomach, and lower, its authority positive and comforting, but the words meant nothing to him. Nudging his mate’s neck, Westley urged him to try again. His mate pulled on the traps, hard, and slumped down. Westley watched as he gathered his strength to do it again.
His mate was so clever! He’d found another way to communicate. Westley twisted his body so he could land on all fours. He leapt and turned to show his happiness, bouncing over to lick his mate’s face again before leaping high. He landed and crouched, wagging his tail.
“Are you going to eat me now? Is this the pre-dinner exercise?” His mate’s rumble sounded tired. Of course, of course. He’d been trapped too long. Westley remembered a stern caution about traps: Don’t go near them. He resolved to thoroughly scold his mate for not knowing better. For now, Westley needed to free him, find him sustenance and water, and a safe place to sleep. He glanced at his kill. It would be easy to tear off a hunk of meat… but no. Freedom first. Then food. Westley circled his mate’s legs, nudging him forward to move between him and the wall. He was gratified when his mate leaned against him, even if Westley’s intent had been to get a better look at the traps. Coming around to the front, he rose up again and snapped at the chains with his teeth. (“Hey, watch it!”) He hurt his teeth, felt shame for making his mate scold him, and the chains held firm. Frustrated, he got down again and this time tried charging them, an idea he was forced to stop mid-leap when his mate yelled, and Westley learned he did recognize one word, when said at volume: No.
Westley skulked away to a corner. He peed, pretending he’d meant to abort that (foolish, stupid, hasty) plan for this purpose, and kept his back to his mate until he had sufficiently recovered from his disgrace. He felt better for having urinated. Now he had covered more of the room’s bad scent. Although, all things being normal, his mate should have been the one to do that. Westley could forgive the change in structure though, considering that his mate was in no position to assert his status, and he had clearly been caught by a higher alpha. Westley’s job now was to save his mate from abashment. He certainly would never remind him of this. Still… it wouldn’t reflect well on his mate if the alpha who’d caught him—and Westley’s nose told him it was a strong alpha indeed—should enter and find the piss of an omega serving the purpose that should be an alpha’s domain.
No, that wouldn’t do. Trotting with purpose, he planted his nose between his mate’s legs and nudged. He smelled of urine already, and the... clothes, his brain supplied, he wore felt cold and clammy against Westley’s snout. Perhaps he had already tried to assert his dominance. Westley nosed him again, trying to signal him that another display was needed.
“Westley.” His mate’s voice sounded weak. He twisted; Westley followed as he backed into the wall. He began to wiggle, Westley following and encouraging his movements until he heard a small “ping” and his mate went still. Westley looked toward the sound. A small, thin stick lay on the concrete ground. “Don’t suppose you could get that for me?”
Westley looked up. He thumped his tail on the floor and waited for his mate to figure out how to get his meaning across.
“Um. Fetch?”
Leaping up, Westley ran from one end of the room to the other, jumping across his kill and back again. Fetch! It was a puppy’s game, but being with his mate made him feel so young and, yes, he would play fetch! What a wonderful game! He skidded to a stop in front of the tiny stick and carefully picked it up.
“Good boy. Now give it here.” His mate wiggled his fingers. Westley carefully stretched up on his hind legs and placed the stick in his mate’s hand. He stole a quick nuzzle as he got down. Scooting backwards, he watched with eagle eyes for the stick to be thrown.
His mate seemed to be struggling with the concept. Perhaps he’d forgotten how to throw. Instead of flinging the stick, he turned it inward and tapped it along the trap. Westley whined.
“Come on, come on, come on... there!” His mate let out a triumphant cry that, as far as Westley could tell, had nothing to do with their game. Feeling sullen and snappish, he nipped his mate’s knees. “Ow! Fuck!” A kick followed the harsh words. It didn’t hurt, but Westley skittered away nonetheless. He settled down next to his kill and set his chin morosely on top of it. He didn’t even feel like eating now. But at the same time, he didn’t want those other wolves to get it.
Where were the others? Surely they should have come by now. With a glance at his mate, who was preoccupied with his single-player stick game, Westley ventured up to stick his head out the door. The hall was empty. He walked down it, looking side to side. Two wolves lay on top of desks in a room filled with them. They didn’t look at Westley with any interest, so Westley dismissed them. At the front, a computer screen swirled in different colored lines. A woman was slumped half on top of it. She seemed familiar. A tingling in his mind urged him to know her, but he couldn’t make the pieces fit. Westley sniffed the blood that dampened her hair. It smelled of the powerful alpha. Whimpering, he backed away. That alpha’s scent was everywhere, but it had lost some of its power. The master wolf wasn’t here. Westley perked his ears, listening, but no howls fell within his hearing. He didn’t like this place with its yellow walls, blood-scents, and wolves that stayed inside—no place for a wolf; no place for him. His paws clattered on too-smooth floors as he skidded back toward the one he would recognize no matter what. He charged into the small room, intent on checking that his mate hadn’t been further harmed while he was gone.
He saw the traps first, hanging empty with his mate’s blood still staining them. Then something landed on him and yanked his fur. He growled and waved his head to snap before his senses kicked in and he recognized that his mate was on top of him. He pulled the fur on Westley’s shoulders while one arm reached around to squeeze his neck. His knees gripped Westley’s haunches. Westley flattened himself to the ground. He offered his best supplicant whine. How angry his mate must be! Westley had done so much to threaten his dominance. If his mate would get off, Westley would roll over to bare his stomach and throat, but now the pressure eased and instead of a weak but punishing grip, Westley felt simply a dead weight on his back. His mate’s head slumped alongside Westley’s shoulder and his breathing steadied. Moving with the utmost care, Westley picked his way around
his kill toward the door.
His poor mate! He needed help and Westley had allowed himself to be distracted with play. He’d nipped his mate’s knees! He’d peed! Westley felt such shame. He’d make up for it now. He’d get his mate somewhere safe and see him healed. A low growl drew his attention as he rounded into the main corridor. The two wolves he’d previously ignored stood in front of him. It woke his mate, who uttered a sharp word and rocketed off Westley’s back. With the extra weight gone, Westley charged. He made short work of the first wolf, who he outweighed by a hundred pounds. The second bit him on his left haunch, and Westley spun around. He saw his mate backed against the wall, about to be attacked. Westley leapt and knocked the other wolf away. It snarled, but limped off. Keeping his head low, in case his mate was still angry, Westley nudged him forward. He walked a few steps before stumbling again and falling to his knees. Westley wiggled beneath him and lifted him up.
“Nggh.” Every echo of weariness was captured in that noise. Westley implemented a warning growl to scare off other comers as he made his way to the door with his precious cargo. Once he reached it, he stopped, confused. He butted it. He pawed it. He growled at it.
It did not open.
His mate made a strange braying sound. Westley tried to puzzle out its meaning. It wasn’t a growl or a whimper.
“What’s wrong, Westley? No opposable thumbs?” He got off Westley and limped to the door. He opened it. “Ta da.” Westley headed out first, licking his mate’s hand as he passed. Finding no wolves around, he herded his mate toward the metal beast that smelled familiar to him. “Thank God!” His mate took hold of it, opened the door, and climbed inside. Westley bounced up to follow.
The door slammed in his face. He whined and scratched, but his mate seemed to be busy on the inside. He made the harsh sounds again, and slapped the steering wheel and made the noises louder and finally slumped backwards in the seat. Westley scratched again. His mate finally looked at him. “No!” he yelled through the window. Startled, Westley backed up. He hadn’t expected that. Clearly, his mate intended he should stay outside and guard him. Westley leapt on top of the red beast. He sat, alert and watchful. From this vantage point, he could see all comers. His rescue was not yet finished. Beneath him, he could sense his mate settling down. Perhaps he would sleep now, confident in the knowledge Westley was here to keep him safe.
JAYLEN PUSHED THE truck’s electric locks down. Above him, the wolf, Westley, shook the truck as he settled on the roof. Holy fuck Westley is a werewolf. How did he not know? Was Westley some new strain his drug didn’t react to? Some kind of super wolf? He was fucking huge. Christ, when he’d stood up, he’d towered over Jaylen. On all fours, his shoulders were above Jaylen’s waist. When he’d nosed Jaylen’s crotch, he’d needed to bend down to do it. Brain, don’t go there. Nothing like connecting the snout in your business to the guy you’d willingly and, okay, a little forcefully but Westley had loved it, shoved down there that same morning. Jaylen squeezed his dick and uttered a wordless prayer of thanks to no god in particular that he still had a dick to squeeze.
His hand came away damp. His jeans still hadn’t dried from when he’d wet himself. That had come after Denton ordered Cody to stop punching him. He’d made it through being an asshole’s boff bag only for his bladder to betray him the moment he stopped clenching his stomach muscles. They’d brought the propane out not long after, so Jaylen hadn’t had much time to feel uncomfortable in his soaked denim.
At least Westley seemed like a friendly wolf. Jaylen still intended to kill him, but for now he was good with how things stood. Him in here and Westley out there. His mind hazed in and out as each movement reminded him of a bruise or cut, or God, he stank. There was something he should remember, something he should do... He couldn’t believe he’d survived. He’d never expected to make it out of that cell alive. Probably owed Westley something for that.
Danni. The memory of what he’d done slammed him with the subtlety of a car on concrete. There would be wolves looking for her now because of him. Because he couldn’t keep his goddamned mouth shut. Never mind they were burning his fucking skin. He should have bitten his tongue off before he’d said her name. If he’d been smart, he would have dug through Westley’s clothes in the cell to find his phone. The transformation had shredded them. He’d never seen one close up like that; he’d almost vomited watching it, from both shock that Westley was one of them and disgust at the sound and stench of bones breaking, skin ripping, and fur remolding around the new skeleton. But Westley’s phone should have been fine. With a hand on the door, he debated making a run for the station.
Yeah. Great idea. Run for wolf central when you’ve got your new best friend perched above you and one who wants you for snack time waiting inside. Plus, his feet hurt. Pulling his leg into his lap, he inspected the fragile skin where Cody had burned him. He hadn’t been sorry to see Cody get his neck twisted, that was damn sure. Westley had looked stricken, though, and Jaylen had pitied him.
Of course, that was before he knew. Big ass werewolf like Westley? Probably had a few hundred kills under his pelt. Jaylen didn’t know why he acted like puppy with him, sweet and submissive—a little stupid—but turned into a killing machine against those other wolves. He’d acted like he had the intention to eat Cody. Jaylen’s stomach churned. He didn’t have anything in him to vomit up, but he swallowed on his gag reflex anyway. He shouldn’t be surprised. Mindlessness of beasts and all, but... that wasn’t something he’d wanted to see. Plus, Westley would probably be upset if he ate someone. Westley the person; Westley the wolf obviously wouldn’t have minded.
His feet were tender, but he’d survive. Few days off them, some decent salve—another reason to call Danni—and he’d be fine. The cuts and welts from the cane were another issue. He tugged his shirt off. Fabric, dried to his skin with blood, opened fragile cuts. They announced their pain with a parade. It drowned out his other senses. Every movement made him want to scream with his torn throat. Dropping the shirt on the floor, he glanced out the window, searching for a sign that the night would end. Still dark as blazes out there above the street lights. Stars and moon shining down. Gritting his teeth, he settled in for the night. He didn’t have a weapon, but he had Westley, who seemed intent on protecting him for whatever wolf logic pleased him.
With pained tears welling in his eyes—he blinked them away before they spilled—Jaylen lay down on the bench seat, out of sight of curious wolves, (as if Westley wasn’t beacon enough) and waited for morning.
CHAPTER SEVEN
DESPITE THE WIND whipping freezing air around him, Westley’s ass felt like he’d sat on a hot plate. He reached back and tentatively squeezed. Fuck. Eighty percent chance he’d burned it. He sat up, clutching his head. What the fuck had he drunk last night? Looking down, he did a quick inventory. Arms, legs, head, dick, all present and accounted for—Dick? Holy shit I’m naked. His hands flew to protect his modesty so fast he almost injured himself. At the same time, he woke up enough to recognize where he was.
In the police parking lot.
On a truck.
That wasn’t his.
Because he’d stolen it.
Which he’d done because...?
Ohhh shit. Jaylen.
Westley climbed down as the memories returned. The ones he could grab, anyway. He’d wolfed. And... blank from there, but apparently his evening had ended with him on top of a stolen truck and—he checked the window—Jaylen asleep inside. So... that was a win, right?
Fortunately, it was too early for anyone to be around. Not that too many eyebrows would be raised if Westley turned up naked. It wasn’t unknown for Cody’s friends, both human and wolf, to wake up in similar situations. The man owned his own keg. And put it to use every weekend.
Okay. Keys. Obviously he hadn’t had the forethought to stick them up his ass, so he’d need to go inside and get his clothes. Wiping the sleep out of his eyes, he headed for the door. All quiet as he went in. Marjorie was slee
ping at the desk. Westley tiptoed past her. He was almost to the corridor when something made him pause. She wasn’t moving. Not even breathing. Turning back, he saw her hair was matted dark with blood. He stumbled backwards and spun when he hit something. It was Lyddie. Had he killed...? The memory returned to him, not in clarity but as a haze of emotion and shadow that still left no doubt to what he’d done. Pressing himself to the wall, he rushed past her. The open bullpen reminded him that either Donnie or Captain Bogard was dead in there. He averted his eyes as he made his way to the holding cells. The door to the one Jaylen had been in stood open. Westley grinned in relief as he hurried in.
He stopped cold.
Cody lay stomach down on the floor, head turned to one side. His eyes were open, glassy beneath his blond lashes. His hands lay straight along his sides, and a bloody paw print stained the back of his shirt.
“No. No no no no no no.” Westley collapsed beside him. He tugged Cody into his lap. “Tell me I didn’t do this. Please tell me I didn’t do this. Please tell me...”
Cody didn’t tell him anything. Cody’s neck hung at its broken angle and his tongue poked out of his mouth. Westley rocked him. He would lie down here and die too. He would—
His phone’s ringing interrupted his silent proclamation. Carefully setting Cody down, he crawled to his ruined jeans and searched for it.
“Where are you?” Tom asked before Westley said “hello.”
“I’m in trouble,” Westley said. His voice shook. He wiped his nose. “I need to ask you something.”
“Can you get here? Right now?”
“Tom, please. I need to—”
Tom huffed. “Yes. What is it?”
“When you told Cody what was going on last night, did you do it so he would stop me?”
A pause on Tom’s end. Then: “What? No. I told him so he’d help you. Why? Is he being a dick?”
“He’s dead.”
“What?”
Wolf Hunter Page 11
