Lone Wolf (A Breed MC Book Book 4)

by Anne Marsh

  Lone

  Wolf

  ANNE MARSH

  He’s the lone wolf…

  I don’t play well with other wolves. The pack needs muscle, and I provide it as their enforcer. My biker name is Gator—after the alligator that chewed my face up. Sure I can make a woman scream with pleasure, but the scars on my face? That’s truth in advertising right there. There’s not an ounce of pretty in me. I fight, I ride—and I do it alone. So chasing the gorgeous marine biologist who wanders into my bayou hunting for wolves is not my smartest move. She’s Beauty. I’m the Beast. That story’s already been told and life’s fresh out of happy endings.

  Who’s coming for her…

  The biker who rescues me from a mud bath in the bayou, the amazingly hot but rough-around-the-edges man with the powerful motorcycle, is the stuff of fantasy. Dirty fantasies. His powerful arms, broad shoulders, and muscled thighs make me tingle in all my favorite places. He’s also grumpy, surly, and way too take-charge. So I definitely can’t eat the eye candy…. Can I? I just got out of an abusive relationship and I’m not looking for a new man. I don’t need a complication like Gator. But I don’t know how much longer I can resist him either…

  Gator

  I’m tearing through the bayou. I’m a wolf. I love to hunt, and there’s no better place to do it than the Louisiana bayou. Reeds whip at my skin when I go too close, get too fast to the water’s edge. Sometimes I run in my wolf form, but other times I stick to my human skin. It all depends on what I’m hunting. As an enforcer for the Breed, my motorcycle club, my prey tends to be living, breathing, and run on two legs. A surprising number of idiots think they can cross our club and get away with it—and that’s not counting my fellow wolves who decide pack law can’t possibly apply to them.

  Oui. I fucking learn their asses.

  I’m the ruler our Alpha raps their knuckles with. The long arm of the law reaching for their running, whining selves. If you break the rules, I’ll come for you. I don’t take excuses, can’t be bought off, won’t stop. Look at my face and you’ll know it’s true. In my human skin, I’m scary as shit, my face and forearms scarred by an alligator attack, my dark hair buzzed close to my scalp in a way that makes me look like a street fighter. A mob enforcer. The stuff of nightmares. Fucking take your pick—I don’t care. My usual uniform is blue jeans, boots, and an arsenal of weapons. My club vest with its Breed patch is all the heads-up you need. You don’t fuck with me and live, and if you see me in your rearview mirror, you’d damned well better hit the gas.

  My wolf skin? Oui, that’s even scarier. When I shuck the human trappings, I trade up for two hundred pounds of pissed-off lupine. The gator’s scars don’t go away, though. They’re part of who I am, and my wolf wears the same marks as my human side does. This part of me is brindle-colored, the wolf’s eyes gold. Somebody once tried to tell me they were pretty. I don’t do pretty. That’s not who I am. Just remember that my teeth and claws are every bit as lethal as the blades and chains the man wears.

  The man running through the bayou, legs pumping, arms working, is the aberration. He can’t be the real me because he’s hunting for a happily-ever-after and not prey. He’s out of control, panicked, the breath sawing from his lungs as if it’s got somewhere better to be. Someplace it would rather be. His dark hair is ruffled like he ran his fingers over that shit or maybe tried to tear it out. As if baldness might help him focus. As if the white plastic EPT stick shoved in his back pocket isn’t enough of a distraction.

  The real me doesn’t panic.

  The real me doesn’t run like he’s had the piss scared out of him and maybe if he makes like a fucking gazelle he can haul his stupid ass somewhere safer. Or saner.

  Because there’s no way I’m gonna be a daddy. Poppy can’t be pregnant.

  Werewolves don’t knock humans up, not easily. Some of it’s just basic birds and the bees stuff. Sure, we still have to procreate like every other species does, but we don’t do it often because, given how long we live, the world would be overrun with werewolves. Fucking think about that for a moment. You humans wouldn’t be on the top of the food chain anymore. You’d be somewhere lower, somewhere snack-sized. We’re steak in the buffet of life, and you’re the complimentary peanuts the airlines pass out. Barely a mouthful. Hardly enough to satisfy.

  The strangest part about today’s maddened run through the bayou, however, is that I’m not alone. I’m always alone. I’m the ultimate lone wolf, living on the edges of the pack and avoiding human contact whenever possible. And yet today, two of my club brothers run with me. I asked them to come with me, to watch my back, to…

  Help?

  Fuck if I know.

  My hand’s shaking when I look down at it. I make a fist to make myself feel better because the jitters can’t be right. I don’t shake, don’t waver. I get the job done. This unexpected weakness has to be why Jace keeps pace with me effortlessly, his booted feet chewing up the ground.

  “You wanna stop and talk about this?” He growls the words, but they’re still more request than command. He’s not insisting that I yield to him. Not yet. He’s my Alpha and part of me… part of me won’t stop, not even for him.

  I need to find Poppy because she’s all that matters.

  Jace and Fang put a stop to my roll. It’s some comfort that it takes two of them to take me down. Maybe I haven’t lost my mojo entirely. Maybe I’m not completely broken. Fang hits me hard and low, arms wrapping around my legs, while Jace tackles my shoulders. I could shift, but my wolf doesn’t speak, and there are things that have to be said. Eventually.

  I land on the ground and fight, but the truth is… I don’t want to hurt them, and that gives them a huge advantage. It doesn’t take long before they’ve got me pinned. Jace leans down into my face. His eyes are glowing with rage, with impatience. I’m supposed to be the easy wolf. The loner. The one member of his pack who fixes problems instead of causing them. I’ll bet he’s not happy with the role reversal we’ve got going on here.

  I snarl at him because I’m out of words.

  I have nothing to say about this mess I’m in.

  Jace wraps one big hand around my throat. “What the fuck is your problem?”

  Talking’s supposed to make shit better, right? Supposed to be a chance to air it out and maybe get some clarity. Do you think a conversation is going to fix this? That there’s anything the three of us can say that will undo the happy little news flash broadcast on that damn white stick?

  Not a fucking chance.

  Jace pounds on me, the blows a kind of gentle punctuation to his muttered questions. He’s not hurting me. He’s just trying to get my attention. When I say I’m a werewolf, I’m not kidding. I can take far, far worse than he’s dishing out.

  “If you don’t tell me why you’re hauling ass through the bayou, I’m dragging you back to the clubhouse, swear to Jesus.”

  Jace’s touchy-feely needs work.

  I let my head fall back onto the ground. For a long moment, I stare up at the sky. Funny how it’s such a pretty day. The sky’s almost impossibly blue, and it’s sunny. It’s the kind of day made for lying on a riverbank and soaking in the sunshine. Poppy loves spending her afternoon sprawled out on a blanket, covered in sunshine, and I love the small sleepy smile she gets on her face as the warmth soaks in and she goes boneless with happiness. She’s so fucking special.

  “Gator! Are you listening to me?”

  I close my eyes. Blindness is a cop out. I always meet my responsibilities head on. I never back down. But being out here reminds me of… her… and that just reminds me of why I was hauling ass through the bayou. If Jace isn’t letting me up, I’m not playing nice. Plus there’s al
ways the chance that I catch him off guard.

  Jace’s mate is pregnant. He knows what this feels like. The excitement, the scared-as-shit sensation tearing up the pit of my stomach like the worst case of heartburn ever. Poppy and I had sex, and then we accidentally brought someone else into our equation. Our mini-me will be a whole new person and that’s overwhelming. And fabulous. I’ve spent so much time running alone that I’ve forgotten how to run with my pack, and that’s not something I’m proud of. But this is also my problem, not Jace’s. My… woman.

  My not-mate.

  My heart.

  “Fuck this.” Jace surges to his feet, dragging me with him. Fang must let go of my legs because I pop up. This puts me nose-to-nose with my Alpha, and I stare at him good and hard. I don’t drop my gaze, don’t bare my neck. I’m not backing down on this, even if he doesn’t know yet what this is.

  “Talk to me.” He drags me closer which is a mistake. I could bite, could snap, could lash out at him. But he’s trusting me not to hurt him. He’s trusting… me.

  “Poppy.” I tell myself her name comes out firm and stern, with none of that emotional sigh-crap that my insides are definitely brewing. Because when I think about her I feel so many things. I feel everything. Jace is holding me up, and I’m mooning over a woman who’s not even here. Who is, in fact, putting as much distance between the two of us as she can.

  “What about her?”

  Behind him, looking baffled, is Fang. Fang’s a good brother and loyal, but he’s no expert in the relationship department. Pretty sure he’s fucked every female he’s ever met with very few exceptions. Dumbass even made a play for Jace’s girl, a mistake that leaves me surprised that he’s still breathing. Wolves don’t share, but I’ve given up trying to figure out how it works. Instead, I blurt out the truth. Or part of it.

  “She’s pregnant.”

  The baffled look leaves Jace’s face and is replaced by apprehension. Pretty sure anger is gonna be a close second because he asks the obvious question.

  “Yours?”

  As if there’s any doubt. “Oui.”

  That one condemning word hangs in the steamy, sultry air between us.

  Fang whistles. “You’ve got to bag it, bro.”

  One broken condom was all it took because I failed to anticipate what could happen if the deposit my dick made turned out to be super sperm. I failed to protect Poppy.

  So it makes perfect sense to me that I take my frustrations out on Fang. I surge out of Jace’s hold, arm swinging, and punch my brother hard on his jaw. His head flies back even as his own fists come up because he’s every bit as much a fighter as I am.

  Fang may be lower than me in the club, but out here some rules do not apply. He launches himself at me, and I more than meet him halfway. It feels so fucking good to act, to do something. The meaty thud of fists smacking into flesh fills up the silence of the bayou, and the bright bite of pain almost eclipses the unfamiliar ache in my heart. Fang is a dirty fighter and lands as many punches as I do. We grapple and roll, slamming each other into the ground, over and over.

  “Enough,” I hear Jace snarl eventually. He doesn’t sound pissed, but there’s plenty of other emotions in his voice. It’s one thing for him to knock his mate up—she’s a wolf. She knows that she’s baking a baby shifter in her belly. Poppy knows nothing about our world except what she’s observed in the bayou—and she still thinks the wolf traces are red wolves, not werewolves. The truth is gonna be one hell of a surprise.

  I roll off Fang, my head hitting dirt as I stare up at the sky. Funny how the sun’s still shining. I need to find Poppy. Fuck, I need so many things.

  “Let’s try this again,” Jace snarls. I feel his hand close around the back of my shirt, dragging me upright. For him, the move is almost gentle. There’s nothing easy about the pack. We fight hard, ride hard, do pretty much everything hard. But he’s always been there for us. Even when Big Red ran our pack and Jace was the new wolf on the block, he tried to make sure we were all taken care of. He stepped between brothers and Big Red’s fists on more than one occasion, and he’s stamped out a lot of bad behavior since he challenged for and won the leadership role. I’ve never needed the TLC he gives the others. I’ve always stood on my own, lending him my strength, watching his back.

  So how fucked up is this?

  “I knocked her up,” I tell him. “Wasn’t intentional. Didn’t mean for it to happen.”

  Jace lets go of my shirt and takes a small step back. I think he’s trying to give me space or something because he just sort of breathes through his nose like he’s processing my dumbass words. Knowing how babies are made is pretty fucking basic. If we were playing one of those game shows where you have to name the most popular responses to a question, thou shalt not knock up the humans would be the winner-fucking-dinner for Things Werewolves Don’t Do.

  “You sure?” Jace’s hand sort of hovers over my back. If he starts patting me, he’ll lose that hand, guaranteed. And since a picture is worth a thousand words, I whip the tiny plastic stick out of my back pocket and slap it onto his palm.

  He looks down.

  Two lines, a hell-fucking-yeah on the pregnancy spectrum.

  He looks over at Fang, who looks like he’d rather be anywhere else but here. Babies are so not Fang’s thing. Jace, however, knows exactly what he’s holding. It’s a home pregnancy test, the little window proudly displaying its two pink lines. Just in case there’s any question, the test’s makers have added a handy-dandy legend to the left of the window that unpacks any mystery. One line means you’re free and clear; two lines means knocked up, game over, you’re a plus-one for the next eighteen years.

  Jace tosses me the stick. “How did this happen?”

  Fang snorts. “When a man loves a woman, Alpha, he—”

  Jace growls something obscene—but actually quite explanatory of my current situation—and punches Fang. It’s a half-hearted smack, more of a shut-the-fuck-up rather than a real attempt to put the hurt on our younger brother. Fang dances out of the way easily enough. He also shuts up, so mission accomplished.

  I repeat the one important fact, the single sentence beating through my head like a tornado siren. “She’s having my baby.”

  Jace nods. “Does she know what she’s having?”

  And that, right there, is the all-important question.

  I wince. “The ultrasound’s gonna be one hell of a wake-up call.”

  This is where Jace should go to town on me. Not only have I broken one of our unspoken rules, but I’ve made the whole mess worse. I’ve knocked up a human who doesn’t know that werewolves exist. Poppy is a scientist at heart, and while she’s remained certain that red wolves have been reintroduced to the bayou despite the pooh-poohing of her fellow scientists, she doesn’t realize just how close to the truth she’s come.

  “She ran,” I growl. I don’t sound particularly pleasant. I wish I could, that it were easy to change myself into someone rock solid and charming. Her Prince Charming. But there’s no charm school for werewolves, and I’m gonna have to fix this on my own.

  Jace crosses his arms over his chest. Fucker looks relaxed, but he knows exactly where he left his mate—and that she’ll welcome him back with open arms.

  “And this was your big plan to catch her?” He sweeps an arm toward the water. “Running after her wearing an arsenal and a scowl?”

  Okay. So my plan sucks. And it would probably only work if she were a deer. Or insanely, hopelessly in love with me.

  Which she’s not.

  She told me so.

  I’d like to pretend that I don’t feel those things for you speech of hers didn’t feel like she was eviscerating my heart with a grapefruit spoon, but the truth is that it did. Worse than when that alligator chewed my face to hell and back all those years ago. Apparently, that’s what happens when you fall in love—you hand the grapefruit spoon to your beloved and give her permission to have at it.

  I try the words out loud. “I lo
ve her.”

  Fang makes a gagging noise. “Condom, bro.”

  Jace and I both ignore him. Maybe he’ll grow up in another century or two.

  Jace nods once. “Then we’ll figure this out. Somehow.”

  Jace doesn’t sound terribly optimistic. Maybe that’s because I’m the man who’s in love. I’m not the kind of guy women fall for. And honestly, I’ve never cared before. I’ve been happy doing my thing, living alone. In addition to not having the manners of Prince Charming, I also fall well short in the looks department thanks to my scars. I’m beastly through and through, and the visible lack of a white horse and castle should just be the icing on the ugly cake.

  “She ran.” I’m the King of Obvious today, but it goes with the one wolf pity party I’m hosting here in the bayou. Christ. I suck.

  Jace shrugs. “And you’re running after her.”

  Fang snorts behind him and mumbles something less than complimentary about my planning skills. He’s not wrong.

  So even though Jace seems to think everything can be worked out, that there could be a happily-ever-after lurking in my future, I have to tell him the truth. “She broke up with me. She doesn’t… she doesn’t want me in her life, Jace.”

  Jace’s face fills with rough affection. Our Alpha has always wanted what’s best for us. He’s only been mated with Keelie Sue for a short while, but Cupid shot his ass full of arrows and love stuck. For Jace, his mate is the sun, moon, and stars, the everything in his universe. So if anyone can appreciate the fact that I’ve been reduced to bad poetry, it’s him, even if he’s never been the lone wolf and has always surrounded himself with a pack. He’s not like me because he doesn’t mind settling down and letting someone in. Letting someone love him the way forever mates do. The way the rest of the Breaux brothers in the next parish over do with the women they found during those freaky blue moons.

  Up until now, I’ve always thought that blue moon shit would be a pain in the ass. The moon rises, it turns blue, and then you follow its rays like some kind of magical, sexed-up breadcrumb trail to your one perfect woman? I wish life were that easy, that the moon could be the perfect werewolf version of Tinder. But I don’t think so. And while it may have worked out for the Breauxs, it’s not for me.