Lone Wolf (A Breed MC Book Book 4)

by Anne Marsh

  Rewind.

  She’s going into the boat. The boat’s going to Baton Rouge. And I’m coming back here. Alone. That’s how this plan works. I may have borrowed her company and then let her borrow my shower, but I’m giving her back. She’s not a stray kitten I could keep—and even if she were, wolves don’t adopt felines. The world doesn’t fucking work that way.

  When I look up, however, I have to reassess. Poppy’s so hot in my clothes that I’ve been focused on watching her move instead of keeping my eyes open. There’s one of those crazy-ass come-out-of-nowhere storms brewing just over the horizon. My wolf keens silently, fur rising. I’m gonna have to rethink today’s plan.

  “Storm’s coming.”

  She looks up at the sky. It still looks normal, kinda cloudy but there’s a hint of sun peeking through. She pats her ass, probably looking for her cell phone so she can double-check my shit. But I know it’s the truth. Not like I can tell her it’s because I’m hardwired into the werewolf weather channel, but it’s still true. There’s a motherfucker of a surprise storm brewing fast and way too close.

  “Looks fine to me.” She shrugs off my hold and jumps down into the boat. That’s fine. I can get her out easily enough.

  I double-check the sky instinctively. This part, this small sliver above us? Yeah. There’s no problem there. But my wolf’s fur ruffles, tension washing through him. We both know what’s coming. The clouds moving in fast, the rain pelting down and tearing up the smooth surface of the bayou. Probably, it’s fine. If I open up the motor, we’ll probably reach Baton Rouge before the worst of the rain. I could hang at the clubhouse until the storm passes.

  But what if I’m wrong? What if we’re halfway there and then the rain hits hard? She’ll be unprotected. Not safe.

  “Out.” I hold my hand down to her.

  We’ll both stay here. It’s the best solution.

  She scans the boat, making no move to take the hand I’m offering. “Have we sprung a leak?”

  “There’s a storm. We’re staying here.”

  Her feet shift on the deck. “I need to go back.”

  The sky’s already purpling up way off on the horizon, the thick, humid air pulling at my skin and making me twitch.

  This is stupid.

  This is dangerous. “Back inside.”

  She’s not getting hurt on my watch.

  Poppy

  Gator shoves a big steady hand at me as if that’s all it will take to get me to fall in with his crazy suggestion. Or maybe it’s more along the lines of an order.

  Okay.

  It’s very much an order.

  “Out,” he repeats.

  He’s so much more likeable when he keeps his mouth shut.

  I jab a finger at the sky overhead. The mostly blue sky. Whatever storm he claims is coming, there’s zero sign of it at twelve o’clock. “In.”

  And before he can get any wild ideas about taking my stuff hostage, I plant my butt on it. The damp seeps unpleasantly through my borrowed layers of flannel and denim, and Gator’s eyes narrow. He’s obviously used to being the big guy in charge, so I’m really doing him a favor, right? I’m giving him an important lesson in flexibility and learning to give in graciously.

  Not that there’s anything gracious about the way he’s eying me. He looks more like a big toothsome predator deciding which piece of me he’ll bite first. I swear to God he actually growls. It’s like he’s the Borg and his new theme song is Resistance is futile.

  “We’re twenty miles from Baton Rouge.” He rubs a hand over his head. I hope he finds whatever Zen moment he’s seeking because he looks way too pissed off right now.

  There’s no way I want to be stuck on an island in a storm with angry Gator.

  “I need to go,” I tell him, willing him to understand.

  I mean, it’s not like I can actually stay here with Gator. No matter how big his island mansion is, it’s still in the middle of nowhere. We’d be totally alone. Cut off from the rest of the world. I’ve seen the movie version of this, and it doesn’t end well for the girl. Plus, this place looks exactly like the river scene from a movie I watched once about giant mutant anacondas who ate everybody they could reach. I force myself not to peer over the edge of the boat—looking nervous isn’t going to convince Gator to get in the boat and take me back to Baton Rouge.

  “Fuck it,” he mutters.

  “That’s your answer to my argument?” I’m kind of disappointed. Nathan never actually bothered to argue with me either. He laid down Nathan Law and that was it. No discussion, negotiation, or counter-argument. I just wasn’t worth his time. So Gator arguing with me actually felt like an upgrade.

  “Two ways this can go.” He folds his arms over his massive chest and glares down at me. He’s definitely not happy and something anxious uncurls in the pit of my stomach. “You can come back to the house with me, or you can sit here in the rain.”

  “It’s not raining.”

  “Yet,” he says grimly.

  I shift on my backpack. It’s lumpy and doesn’t make the best of seats. I’m a little sore from my unexpected swim (or more likely from the air-bound water entry portion of events) and my hair is slowly escaping from its braid in medusa-like tendrils. My stomach growls, reminding me that we’re closing in on lunchtime, too.

  Gator’s scowl shouldn’t be so hot. I mean, clearly there’s some important survival wire crossed in my brain if I find his glaring attractive. He sort of snarls and curses, and part of me can’t help latching onto what he said earlier. That it’s not safe for me to be out there in the bayou. Is he just concerned for me? Because that’s almost… sweet.

  He turns and strides up the dock, away from the boat. I check the ignition on the off chance that he’s left the key there, but no luck. Plus I’m not sure I really want to add boat stealing to my resume. Not today. Not after I already crashed my boat and put a big dent in this one. I should probably try to stay out of trouble.

  Gator hesitates at the end of the dock.

  I look up at the sky, and the blue’s gone. Instead of all that pretty robin’s egg color, there’s a quickly darkening mass of black and purple. Okay. So even the sky takes its orders from Gator. Somewhere not too close—but not far enough—thunder booms. The boat’s going to offer zero cover, too.

  I’ve totally lost this round.

  I heave my pack onto the dock and then scramble awkwardly up after it. I’ve never considered myself a bad loser before, but there’s something about Gator that makes me want to scream and kick. Protest or dig my heels in. Do something because this man is way too used to getting his way. But since I’m out of mature, feasible options, I settle for trudging down the dock to where he’s waiting for me. As soon as I’m close, he grabs my pack and slings it over his shoulder.

  “Come on,” he says impatiently as the first drops of rain hit my cheek.

  “I can’t stay here. You can’t make me.” I can’t help looking back down the path. At the dock. At the boat that’s just waiting there to take me home. I can’t really believe that this is happening—maybe I’ll wake up soon, squashed in the wolf blind, and it’ll all have been a bad, hunger-induced dream.

  He hustles me up the path toward the house. “Can too.”

  “What are we, five?” I sound a little breathless, but that’s totally because the man’s moving at Mach Five and not because pieces of me keep bumping into and rubbing against pieces of him. My boob hits the side of his arm, and he slides me a glance.

  I don’t think he’s appreciating my not-so-huge girls, either.

  “I own this island,” he growls. “I also own the two hundred acres surrounding it. I own every inch of the land where you stuck your hunting blind and where you’ve been watching for wolves. You’re trespassing on my shit, babe.”

  I don’t know what to say. I mean, I really, really don’t know what to say. Do I apologize? Swim back to Baton Rouge? I’m suddenly way too aware, however, that we’re alone and there’s twenty miles of swa
mp between us and civilization. And instead of putting any space between us while I work up an apology, I’m practically plastered to his side and headed for his lair.

  He could totally be Blue Beard of the bayou.

  I dig in my heels. “Hey.”

  Gator doesn’t say anything. In fact, I’m not sure he even notices my token resistance. His hand on my elbow tightens a little, his fingertips feathering over my skin where he cups me. He’s definitely not hurting me—but he’s not letting go, either. I’m not some stray kitten he can drag home and make a pet of. I’ve been there, done that, and got the T-shirt.

  I jerk backward. Fuck this. Fuck him. I’m so tired of worrying about what he wants—it has to be my turn for once.

  He stops, glaring down at me. He’s really big. I can’t help noticing that Mother Nature apparently decided to venture into XXXL territory when she created Gator. His shoulders block out what’s left of the sunlight as he looms over me. His eyes drop slowly over my face and move lower, lingering on my flannel-covered breasts.

  When he finally speaks, however, he doesn’t sound happy. “Is there a problem?”

  I shake my head quickly, wondering if there’s a way to diffuse this situation. I need one of those time turners Hermione Granger had so that I can go back to this morning and just hide out in the blind. Or stay longer, turn right, do anything that wouldn’t have put me on a collision path with this man. My instincts scream for me to back up and run, even if it means swimming all the way to Baton Rouge in the middle of a storm. Right on cue, more thunder booms over the bayou.

  “You want to keep your research going?”

  I nod automatically because those cameras and their so-far-non-existent footage are the only thing keeping my lights on. I need that grant money. Admitting that need, however, is a mistake. I should tell him that I’ve got a dozen other options and all the wolf footage that I need. That I’m planning on submitting my article to National Geographic and then becoming Dian Fossey 2.0 and moving into the swamp so I can be closer and write an award-winning, bestselling book about the whole experience.

  “You think I’m gonna just let you set up shop in my bayou?”

  Is there a right answer here? He stares at me, his eyes hot and laser-focused on my face. At least he’s not looking at my tits anymore, but I get the feeling that he’s also seconds away from handing down an eviction notice. Or something worse. I need access to this land. He steps forward and I instinctively move backward, feet shuffling down the path a handful of steps. Gator’s thighs bump against mine as he drops my pack.

  I can’t breathe.

  Can’t move.

  He’s right up in my face.

  “Convince me.” He whispers those two words, and I feel each syllable against my mouth no matter how hard I try to lean back so I can’t feel him invading my space.

  Convince him? He can’t mean that. I take another step backward, but he reaches out one big hand and catches me by the hip.

  “You’re not going anywhere,” he whispers roughly. “Not without my say so, babe.”

  Big fingers rub back and forth over my hip, sliding beneath the hem of the flannel shirt to find my bare skin. My pulse kicks into overdrive, and I can’t tell if I’m scared shitless—or really, really turned on.

  “It’s a free world.” My voice doesn’t sound quite as steady or certain as I’d like.

  He snorts. “Nothing’s free. You’ve got to know that by now.”

  And then to prove his point, he draws me toward him slowly. Not like there’s all that much distance between us, but he erases even the illusion of space. I’m not in control—he is. He fists my braid, wrapping the end around his fingers. “You’ve gotta pay the piper.”

  I think I’m going to have a heart attack.

  “How much?”

  “You got a fortune hiding in that backpack of yours?”

  My thighs bump against his, the hand on my hip sliding down and back until it cups my butt. He’s way too close, all up in my space, dominating me. It’s like cuddling up to a wild animal. I’m two parts terrified, and one part intrigued. What would it feel like to touch him? To run my hand down that strong, muscled back and grab his ass?

  “Poppy.” He growls my name, tugging my hair carefully until I have to tilt my head back and look up into his eyes.

  “Sorry,” I whisper.

  “Not yet, you’re not. You plan on being real sorry for me?” He leans into me, pulling me close. I’m absolutely surrounded by him. Heat pours off his body and I whimper. The small sound is mortifying, but there’s nothing I can do. It hangs in the air between us because some things feel way too real right now, like the way he’s big and pissed off. There’s no way this ends well for me.

  “Tell me—” What you want. How to fix this. What will make you happy, make you go away.

  Tell me what will make me come.

  That last thought sneaks in there, I swear. Apparently, Stockholm Syndrome is like an instant shot of Viagra. And as if he can read my mind, as if he knows what his touch is doing to my stupid, traitorous, hormonal body, Gator buries his face in my hair. I freeze. Do I really want this?

  His mouth brushes against my throat, his lips ghosting over my ear. “I’ve got a deal for you.”

  “I can’t—” I swallow hard.

  Can’t hook up with you? Can’t be what you want? Can’t… what?

  “If you want to research wolves in my bayou and keep all those cute little cameras of yours, you stay here. With me.”

  He can’t be serious. I mean, I have a life and a place of my own back in Baton Rouge. It’s not like I can just pick up and move because he’s decided that’s how it’s going to work. Plus, I’m not sure what exactly he’s demanding. A roommate? His own pet scientist? Something kinkier, dirtier, and way more off-limits?

  “What are you asking?” He has to spell this out.

  “You move in here.”

  “Why?”

  He shrugs like it’s no big deal that he’s just scared the ever-living fuck out of me. That he’s decided to rearrange my life as easily as he’d shake up a can of soda.

  “Because I said so.”

  “But what about what I want?”

  “You want a wolf?” I close my eyes at the anger in his eyes. I don’t understand what’s happening here, why I’m not halfway back to the dock, screaming. His fingers glide over my bare skin in another barely there caress. Maybe that’s why. That simple, warm, too welcome touch. It’s been so long since anyone held me or touched me. Since anyone saw me. Gator is too big, too scary, but he’s looking at me.

  He sees me.

  “Yeah,” I whisper. “I want a wolf.”

  The truth sucks. I need that grant; I need that chance at a do-over on my life. Without that paycheck, I’ll be scrambling, looking for any job that will pay the bills, and it’s harder to find work than you’d think.

  He shrugs impatiently. “Then you’re with me.”

  “I can’t be yours forever.” That came out wrong, but the words still hang in the air between us. “I have a life. Responsibilities.”

  He eases back. “One week. You stay here one week.”

  Seven days. One hundred sixty-eight hours. Far too many minutes. But still… how bad could it be? What could really happen? Gator looks like a bad guy, but I’m not convinced his inside matches his outside.

  “I’m not having sex with you.” I should step away from him and put some space between us because with the way our bodies are touching there’s a whole host of possible misunderstandings brewing. It’s why I just put the words right out there without dressing them up.

  I need to be plenty clear on what is—and is not—happening between us. Point A? I’m not trading sex for land access. Point B? I’ve accidentally mixed up sex and work before, and it ended badly.

  He grunts as if I’ve amused him. “You want to touch me, all you have to do is ask, babe.”

  Oh. Well.

  His hand slides down my arm as he
steps away. And then he’s holding out that big hand of his again, like it’s just the most natural thing in the world for me to stick my fingers in his.

  “Do we have a deal?”

  “Why?” I’m not going to lie. I have a half-dozen scenarios competing for head space right now, and none of them make me happy.

  “Because,” he snaps, Mr. Fucking Unhelpful.

  “One week. I get complete access to your land.”

  “Oui.” His face is all closed off and hard again. Maybe I imagined that flash of humor. Maybe this man has zero softness in him because it’s been all chewed away by alligators and life. It’s not like I need him to like me. I need to remember that.

  The rain’s starting to come down harder, the wind picking up as the storm moves closer and closer. We’re going to get drenched standing here—we might as well have tried to make it across the bayou. I could be almost home, almost…

  “I have a cat,” I blurt out. My neighbor checks in on Moo when I pull an overnighter in the bayou, but I’ve never gone away for a week before.

  “I’ll make arrangements for the goddamned cat. Staying or leaving?”

  I suck in a breath. This is crazy. “Staying.”

  Poppy

  The rain comes down unrelentingly, hammering the roof of the mansion and lashing at the windows. It sounds like Mother Nature’s working on the Flood 2.0. The water creeping slowly toward the doors, inching over the lawn, only reinforces that belief. We’re going to be cut off even more than we already are. Ironic, really—Gator’s definitely getting his people-free time with a vengeance. If I’m lucky, he’s the kind of survivalist/prepper who has an enormous cache of awesome survival supplies tucked away somewhere because this is so not the kind of weather you hit the Walmart in, and I’ve signed up for isolation—not starvation.

  I’ve never been kidnapped before. Okay, so Gator hasn’t exactly kidnapped me, but this whole high-handed, I-demand-you-stay-here thing isn’t normal, either. I should have insisted on going back to Baton Rouge or, given the apocalyptic monsoon lashing the bayou, at least barricaded myself in one of the mansion’s many rooms to wait for a drier, safer opportunity to hightail it back to the mainland. Never mind that the lack of furniture would make any attempts to fortress myself difficult—a girl really should try. Instead I can’t quite banish my memory of Gator’s almost-smile earlier and the heat in his eyes when I came floating/tripping down his staircase.