by Anne Marsh
“Let’s ride,” Jace says to me and Fang. Sounds like a plan, except… oui. I’m ride-less thanks to my girl.
Fang bounces over to the bikes, adds one and one, fails to come up with three, and smirks. “Somebody’s lost his ride.”
No shit, Sherlock. None of his business, though, so I stare him down. “Doesn’t matter. Got something to take care of here.”
Jace gives me a look. “Something I should know about?”
Guess he’s wondering if he’ll have to come back and take care of a body—as if I wouldn’t do my own clean up.
“It’s personal.”
“Gotcha.” Jace turns away and straddles his bike. He doesn’t go anywhere though—just gives me some space.
I stride right up to Two Dog, getting in his face. “Who is she?”
Two Dog crosses his arms over his chest. Pretty sure Jace cracked his ribs because when he inhales, he can’t quite hide a wince. Purple bruises are already blooming on his skin—a really pretty look for him. At least the fucker’s made time to do up his pants. “Who?”
Oui. He’s not feeling like Mr. Helpful. I’ll just have to convince him—and it’s up to him if I use my words or my fists. “Who is the girl you were banging on your front porch?”
“My girlfriend.” He smirks at me.
Now see? That just makes me want to kill him. “You been dating long?”
He frowns. “None of your goddamned business.”
“Making it mine,” I inform him.
Two Dog shrugs. Asshole clearly has no idea just how close he is to dying. “It’s a free world, but I gotta tell you that Leah’s already made her choice if you’re thinking of tapping her.”
Leah. It’s a fucking crime I had no idea what her name is, but that’s on me. I’ve found her now, and whatever made her run from me before, I’ll fix it. I’ve spent the last five hundred-plus years fighting, so I’ve got this covered. It’s one advantage to being a werewolf—I’m long-lived and experienced.
“Stay away from her.” Short. Simple. Even the idiot wolf standing in front of me can understand those words, right?
“You’re warning me off my own girl?” Two Dog snorts. Okay. He’s not so smart. “I’d like to see you fucking try stopping Leah once she’s made up her mind. That girl’s single-minded. And hot.” He pauses, like he’s remembering shit he really needs to forget because I’m seeing red and the urge to kill him seems more and more actionable. “Really hot. Not like I’m saying no to her when she begs me to fuck her.”
My fist shoots out before I can finish thinking my own shit through. My knuckles connect with Two Dog’s jaw. From the sound, I crack bone. Two Dog hits the ground and doesn’t get up. I stand over him and deliver my message to his unconscious body anyhow.
“Won’t say it again. She’s mine.”
Jace’s sigh carries all too clearly. “You do remember which century we’re living in, right? You go declaring that kind of shit to your Leah, and she’s likely to disembowel you with a rusty spoon, or a heel, or whatever she’s got handy. You can’t just go grabbing her.”
“You have to do the woo.” Fang laughs at me from the back of his bike, the idiot. I distinctly recall him striking out with Keelie Sue—and it’s not like Jace found it easy convincing that girl to take a chance on him.
“Better to leave her alone,” Jace says slowly. “Seeing as how she’s human. Don’t need to go riling T.D. up like that either—that wolf’s gonna be a pain in our asses.”
“Can’t.” Don’t know what I’m hoping to accomplish by disagreeing with my Alpha, but part of me—a big part—is staring up the road where Leah vanished. I’m not ready to let her go. Not when I’m so ready to start over.
“Can,” Jace growls. For a minute, I think he’s about to get off his bike and put me on the ground. It’s his right as our Alpha unless I challenge him for the pack leadership. Fang blows me a kiss over Jace’s shoulder—fucker’s enjoying this. He’s usually the one in the doghouse.
I stomp over to the porch, grab my wallet, and toss it to Fang for safekeeping. If I take it with me now, I’ll just lose it along with my clothes when I shift. Fang flicks me a two-fingered salute and stuffs it into his jacket pocket. He’s still smirking when I shuck my clothes and shift.
I’ll just have to prove them wrong. Coax Leah into admitting she’s mine—because I’m already hers.
Leah
I get the bike back to my houseboat without causing too much property damage. Honestly, I’m proud I a) acquired no speeding tickets and b) didn’t lay my ride down once. I do, however, nick the gate when I turn into my place, resulting in a large scratch in Blade’s shiny paint job. He won’t be happy when he sees his bike—although if I’m lucky, I won’t have to do any confessing face to face.
My face stings from the wind whipping my hair every which way (Blade clearly doesn’t believe in helmets), and my legs don’t feel much better. There’s a reason why bikers wear leathers and boots—riding kicks up more shit than I care to remember. Still, it’s also an adrenaline rush. I love the feel of that powerful engine vibrating between my thighs, and not just because that’s the most exciting thing to happen to me in a long time.
I’ve moored my houseboat on the outermost edge of Baton Rouge. My choice of parking spots is partly because of the “must have water” requirement, but more thanks to the fact that the less-than-desirable status of the neighborhood means the rent is cheap. For two hundred bucks, I get access to a dumpster, a coin-operated laundry, my own teeny-tiny wooden dock, a small patch of grass, and a carport. It’s a great deal and I’d been considering another month. The fistfight out at T.D.’s place, however, is reason enough to move on.
I stop at the property manager’s place on my way in and give four weeks notice. Our rental agreement is month-to-month as I never do leases—I like to keep my exit options open. He argues briefly with me, trying to convince me to stay on, but he doesn’t try too hard, and five minutes after I arrive, I’m on my way back out. I need to hit the boat. Pack. Pick my next port of call. And—major obstacle—figure out how to get my poor boat moving again, seeing as how her engine went on vacation a week ago and shows no signs of returning.
I love my boat, and, yes, I customized the hell out of her. She’s an ungainly squat rectangle floating sluggishly in the slightly brackish water. She never achieves more than twenty miles an hour, but she’s mine, and it’s not like I’m planning on a trans-Atlantic crossing. We get water lilies and mosquitoes here in Louisiana—so I’ve already got the best of both worlds, right? The pink color I painted her reminds me of peaches, and the back is all porch. Curlicue trim circles the roof, a bunch of slim Indian-looking columns dot both the front and the back, and tons of little glass lanterns with tea lights serve as my outdoor illumination. Harlow claims my place looks like India meets Pier One meets rummage sale.
Unfortunately, with the motor toast and my bank account running on empty, I’m low on options. Somehow, though, I’ll come up with both cash and a mechanic before the end of the month. My thighs ache, both from the strain of riding the bike and from T.D.’s attentions. My head hurts, my skin stings, and I feel like an idiot. I just flashed my vagina to strangers.
Overall, it has not been one of my finest days, and now I need to figure out what to do with Blade’s bike. I could sink it. Or leave it by the side of the road and call it in. Pay someone to drive it back to the Breed’s clubhouse. I settle for parking it under the carport for now and adding a blue tarp as camouflage. The plastic’s too small, and the rear wheel pokes out but at least the big scratch is covered. Somehow, I feel better about hiding my crimes.
I stagger inside my boat and collapse on the bed, thinking furiously. Okay, I’m also hosting a really awesome pity party, because today has not gone as planned and, yes, I feel sorry for myself. Why is it my pursuit of the ever-elusive orgasm always goes so badly? All I want is a guy who will put out and put equal time into making sure we both come. Fireworks are nice but optio
nal—even a little orgasm not at my own hands would really work for me right now.
I’m lost in feeling sorry for myself when something lands on my deck with an audible thunk. Holy. Shit. Fiesta of woes abruptly ended, I sidle up to the glass doors fronting my porch and flip the locks. Nope. Nothing out there. A shadow teases the corner of my vision. A shadow with a tail.
There’s a dog on my boat. A huge dog that has no business coming aboard and violating my personal space. In fact, it’s possible that’s not a dog—it might qualify as a fucking wolf. Or a mutant. I’m honestly not sure which. It’s enormous. I’m guessing two hundred pounds, most of which is muscle and teeth. Way too many teeth. I can’t tell if it’s growling, dripping saliva, or just curious. Doesn’t matter. I retreat, grab my cell phone, snap a photo, and then dial like a mad woman. Naturally, the property manager doesn’t answer. It’s Saturday, I just cancelled our rental agreement, and the guy won’t come around until it’s time for the final inspection. I hang up, redial, and call Harlow. God bless girlfriends—she answers on the second ring. No matter how many times I’ve moved in the last few years, she’s always been just a phone call away, and right now she’s a mere fifteen minute drive if she’s willing to be flexible about the speed limit.
“What’s up?” Since my phone phobia is only—just—trumped by my fear-of-dogs phobia, Harlow knows my calling isn’t just because I’m bored, lonely, or in need of a good gossip.
“There’s a dog on my porch.”
“Are you sure?”
It’s possible I may have called Harlow once or twice with a false alarm—and once for a teacup poodle that had escaped its owner three docks down and gone for a walk-about—but this time? I’m very, very certain. I text her the picture because we all know what happened to the little boy who cried wolf—he and his sheep became a wolfie snack.
“Wow,” she says, a few seconds later. God bless technology and Steve Jobs. “That animal’s huge.”
“No shit, Ms. Sherlock.”
The wolf-dog-thing lowers its head, butting against the glass doors. Glass. Doors. My houseboat has a serious design flaw.
“Get over here. Now. Or send the National Guard. It’s trying to break in.”
And eat me.
“Call animal control.” Harlow sounds way too calm. Of course, she’s not the person facing down a woman-eating animal with no way out.
“It’s the weekend. They’re closed. Please come over here?”
The wolf knocks its head against the door again and the glass shivers visibly. I start mentally canvassing my place for weapons. Unfortunately, scissors, a baseball bat, and some ancient distress flares are not the arsenal of death I’d choose.
“Leah.” Harlow makes the second syllable of my name last approximately a million seconds. “It will take me at least thirty minutes to get there.”
In which time, I could become dog chow. I debate whether I should call 9-1-1 or try screaming for my neighbors. I’m tempted to try both, although since it’s the weekend, most of my neighbors are either passed out from the previous night’s mass alcohol consumption or working. We tend to be all-or-nothing people.
“Please?” The thought of becoming a doggie chew toy is terrifying. “You’re the animal rescue expert.”
Under the influence of several margaritas and over the course of multiple girls’ nights out, Harlow has claimed to be a former lion tamer, a bareback horse rider, a habitat specialist (which she insisted made her an interior decorator for giraffes and zebras), a veterinarian, a dog walker, and an animal groomer. I know for a fact that she currently works part-time for a local animal shelter, which puts her in the rescue business when she’s not painting nails with me at the salon to pay the bills. And oh look—here’s an animal in immediate need for rescue. If the simple act of rescue turns out to be too mundane for her, she can teach the dog to pirouette and build it a bachelor pad somewhere far, far from my deck.
“Fine.” Harlow sighs and gives in. “I’ll be there as soon as I can. If the wee beastie goes away on its own before I get there, the margaritas are on you.”
She hangs up. I dial 9-1 and set the phone next to me on the bed ready to hit that last digit and make the rescue call if needed. I’m a big believer in insurance. Outside, the wolf paces up and down my deck, and yes, I whimper shamelessly. I just want to crawl under the covers and hide, because today has been a horrible, awful day and I need it to be over. The glass door shivers again. I whimper louder and retreat. If I pull the blanket over my head, will I just look like a really big burrito? Fuck it. I give it a shot—at least that way I won’t see the dog coming for me.
I started the day with such good intentions, too. I was going to enjoy my Saturday. Take my relationship with T.D. to the next level, and finally get myself a non-self-induced orgasm. Instead, I’ve been sucked into gang warfare, committed a felony, and now I’m at risk of becoming dog chow. I have a bottle of vodka in my freezer, right next to my Ben and Jerry’s. As soon as Harlow gets here, we’re breaking those bad boys out.
Six minutes later according to my cell, there’s a knock on my door. A real, honest-to-god, human-sounding knock followed by no sounds of mauling, chewing, or even barking. I poke my head out. You know that saying about out of the frying pan and into the fire? Yeah. Take note of that. My new wolf buddy is gone, but I’ve got a bigger problem standing on my deck. A six-foot-two-inch problem, wearing jeans, black boots, no jacket or shirt, and a pissed off expression on his face.
Blade
My mate smells like fear. My wolf notices right away—and since my job is to protect her and keep her safe, that scent is unacceptable.
I scout, looking for any signs of trouble other than myself. Her houseboat looks kinda like the inside of a Pier One exploded. Jace’s mate, Keelie Sue, dragged me to one of those stores two weekends ago, looking for “the perfect pillow for their sofa” and I then spent two hours in hell as she made me hold up every goddamned fluffy thing in the store. Which I did. Even fucking smiled for her too, because Keelie Sue’s a good woman and she makes my Alpha happy. I’ve got nothing but respect for that.
I’m also ready to try on that happiness shit for size, which is why I’ve run in my wolf form to a boat that’s nowhere near Breed territory. Might have to extend our boundaries some if Leah really prefers water to dry land. Following her wasn’t as hard as I’d expected, either. She rides like a fiend, but she can only go so fast on the bayou back roads, and once she hit the highway, there were a limited number of exits. I knew exactly when and where she went to ground.
Unfortunately, our reunion has to wait. She’s scared shitless of my wolf. I should be pissed off because she took my bike, but I don’t want her scared and scared she is. When the wolf backs away, the fear scent eases up. Oui. I can connect those dots—and this isn’t gonna make things any easier between the two of us. Not like I’m planning on shifting in front of her, but eventually she needs to know who and what I am.
When I first got here, I wasted a few minutes trying to show her that the wolf wouldn’t hurt her. Walked around her deck, banged on her door and did some whining, my tail thumping slowly from side to side. Her response was to imitate a burrito and curl up in a ball on her bed, dragging the covers over her head.
In need of a new fucking plan, I’d fallen back and headed for my bike where I kept extra clothes in my saddlebags. She’d dragged a tarp over it in a half-assed attempt to either hide her stolen property or the damage she’d done to it. My bike now sports a six-inch scratch on the right side that wasn’t there before, which means teaching her how to ride safely shoots to the top of my to do list. Could have been her leg that got all cut up instead of my paint job and that bothered me. Didn’t see my jacket—she must have taken it inside with her—but I shifted and yanked on jeans and boots. No spare shirt, so she got me without. Banging on her door naked and sporting a raging hard-on won’t win me points. Shit’s changed since the Middle Ages when I was born, but not that much.
&nbs
p; I knock cautiously on her door. “You okay, chère?”
The stupid question works. She pops her head out from underneath the blanket fort. Her mouth opens. Closes. Twitches a little as she considers the implications of my standing there at her door. One of the benefits of being a wolf? I’ve got extra-good hearing, and I’m certain she doesn’t say come in or nice to see you, Blade. In fact, she doesn’t say anything at all.
Huh. Maybe I’ve stunned her speechless.
“I’m coming in,” I tell her. Her mouth flaps some more, and this time words definitely emerge. Since they’re all of the profane variety, I ignore them and jiggle the handle. It’s locked, but a pair of French doors isn’t keeping me out. So many choices for today’s B&E. Kick the glass in? That works. Work the vulnerable divide between the two doors? That’s an option, too. I settle for pulling out a knife and sliding the blade through the trim between the doors. Leah grabs her cell phone and starts speed dialing.
This is not the reunion I imagined.
The bolts pop, I push the doors open, and I’m inside just like that. Since it’s probably better if our private shit doesn’t entertain the entire neighborhood, I take the time to shut the doors behind me. Do I get a fucking thank you? Not a chance. She squeaks, clears her throat, and stares. Oui. I know what I look like. I’m big, and while I’ve leaned out some over the years, I’ve still got the muscles and power of the medieval knight I once was. I’m also half-dressed, leaving my ink on full display. Kinda blame her for that one, though—she’s the one who stole my jacket and forced me to run after her.
I don’t stop moving when I reach the bed. She comes up on her knees, scrambling backward, and I give her points for coordination. Her hair looks like it’s been through a wind tunnel, but she’s just as goddamned pretty as the day I first saw her. The sweet curve of her jaw, the strong line of her shoulders, her generous tits? All equally hot. Her sundress dips low, exposing the lacy edge of a black bra. And unless she’s been busier than I think, she’s not wearing any panties.
