Wolf's Claim: A Wolf Pack Motorcycle Club Book (A Breed MC Book 3)

by Anne Marsh

  “Do you train guys?” I know what a gym is, obviously, but I’ve never met anybody who owns one, let alone thinks of it as his occupation. And since I can’t imagine Blade sitting in some corporate office, messing around with spreadsheets and purchasing orders, I’m guessing he takes a very hands-on approach to his business.

  He drains half his coffee mug. “I train fighters. We offer classes in self-defense, Krav Maga, and knives, but my specialty is medieval combat.”

  “You train those Renaissance reenactment people?” I nearly snort coffee out of my nose. Since I’ve been to a Renaissance fair precisely once in my life, it’s possible I’m not giving medieval knights a fair shake. Maybe it’s more than prancing around on a horse and knocking each other off with padded sticks.

  “Something like that,” he says dryly. “Do you have to work today?”

  Oooh. Subject change. Since I’m feeling magnanimous—and he did make the coffee—I allow it.

  I nod. “Going in as soon as my friend Harlow gets here.”

  “You ever think about calling in sick, taking the day off?” He takes another step toward me. Funny how my cabin suddenly seems way too small. Blade demands you look at him. He fills up my space, sucks away all my air, with that tattooed, muscle-bound body of his. And it’s not just that he’s tall, his shoulders stretching the cotton of his T-shirt impossibly wide. It’s the promise in the way he moves, the way he watches me. Like he knows exactly what to do with his hands and his mouth and he wouldn’t mind showing me. My nipples harden, desire catching me off guard. Maybe one taste couldn’t hurt.

  One little, teeny tiny, really, really dirty lick.

  I could prioritize.

  Pick just my favorite spot.

  Blade’s eyes darken, as if he can read my mind, or maybe we’re sharing the same filthy thoughts because he takes a step toward me, and I swear his eyes almost glow. He stretches out a hand, reaching, and I suddenly know exactly how Eve felt when that wicked, wicked serpent slithered over to her, offering apples and sin and the sweetest temptation. I shouldn’t kiss this man. I shouldn’t want him.

  But I do.

  Blade smiles, and I wish I knew what he was thinking. I mean, other than the obvious dirty things. Because there’s a look in his eyes that I can’t quite make out.

  “Chère.” That one word hangs in the too-small, too-hot space between us, rough and full of promise. He so knows what I want right now. I shouldn’t, I shouldn’t, but damn… he makes me want to.

  The roar of bikes outside, followed by approaching voices, interrupts my inappropriate fantasizing. Saved by the bikers. I have no idea why they’re here, but Blade swears softly, stepping away, and just like that our moment’s over. I’m saved from making a mistake of epic proportions because letting Blade be my… whatever… couldn’t possibly end well.

  So when heavy fists slam into my front doors, making the glass panes shiver and dance, I wince.

  Wow. Aren’t any of the bikers small men? When I open the doors, I recognize one of the guys as the crazy one from T.D.’s beat-down—and from the way Crazy Dude looks me over, he remembers every second of that encounter. Lovely. He’s seen my vagina and I don’t even know his name. Even for me, that’s an all time low. His companion is larger, rougher, and way more banged up. A vicious set of scars covers his bare forearms and disappears beneath the edge of his T-shirt.

  Harlow is hovering behind them, looking two parts nervous and one part intrigued. Lucky for them, the proportions aren’t the other way round because if my friend were a cat, she’d be on her ninth life already. She’s never met a mystery she didn’t want to solve or a question she wouldn’t ask.

  She’s also colored her hair since the last time I saw her, the dark, ink-black strands cut ruthlessly to chin-level. She looks sweet and curvy, like a too pretty Madonna with those big eyes, until you get to her mouth. Her mouth is a bright crimson bow of color, her lips curled up in a delighted grin as she takes in my company.

  “You go, girl,” she breathes as I step back to let everyone file in.

  Harlow believes wholeheartedly in orgasms for all. She’s been known to argue that since Easter is a thinly disguised fertility rite, the Easter Bunny should be the bringer of Os. I’ve never met a guy who could resist her. She knocks them down, takes no prisoners.

  “Introduce me,” she demands, shouldering Crazy Dude out of the way.

  “This is Harlow,” I announce obediently to the room at large. “Harlow, Blade and Blade’s friends.”

  Blade tips his head at her. I’m surprised he doesn’t just grunt. Then he nods toward Crazy. “That’s Fang.”

  Of course his friend can’t have a normal name.

  I look at the scarred biker leaning against the doorframe. “What’s your name? Tooth? Claw?”

  He grins at me, but the smile doesn’t reach his eyes. “Road name’s Gator. Because that’s what chewed me up.”

  There’s a moment of silence as Harlow and I digest this. Somehow, I’d assumed the name referred to his powerful build or some other personal characteristics. Like being tough or predatory or sneaky. Fuck, for all I knew he just really liked a nice piece of fried alligator with a cold beer. Stranger things have happened.

  Harlow stares at him. “You’re saying an alligator attacked you?”

  He shrugs. “Convinced it to let go.”

  Fang cackles. “Fucking knifed that bad boy and made a saddlebag out of it.”

  Okay, yes, I’m a vegetarian. I’m also a big, big fan of peaceful living and avoiding any and all conflicts. Blame it on my shitty childhood. Blame it on watching my sister make some seriously bad choices in her personal life. Either way, I’m feeling a little nauseous about the casual way Fang discusses cutting up a living creature and turning it into an accessory.

  Harlow actually reaches over and pats his arm. “Good name.”

  I swear Blade pinches the bridge of his nose. Harlow has that effect on people. “You’re friends with Leah?”

  She beams at him. “You betcha. I’m her wingman.”

  “She’s my ride to work and my moral support.” I cross my arms over my chest, pretending I’m wearing something a little more substantial than a thin T-shirt. My kitchen’s not made for this kind of a crowd. “My date yesterday was kind of an epic disaster and I need consoling.”

  “Your date’s not dead,” Fang offers with a wicked grin. “That’s gotta count for something, right?”

  Harlow sucks in a breath and frowns. “You’re admitting to assault?”

  Fang shrugs, but Gator’s the one who intervenes. “Occupational hazard.”

  Frankly, Gator looks like he’s seen more than one hazard in his life. When he ambles closer, I can see the scars on his forearms more clearly—and can see that he’s got a matched set on the left side of his jaw.

  Gator winks at us. “He’ll still be a pretty boy for your next date. Jace didn’t touch his face. Much.”

  Harlow’s mouth falls open. I’m pretty sure mine isn’t much better. People don’t threaten people in our world. Who the fuck do they think they are?

  “Why are you here?” What I really want is some space and alone time but it looks like that’s not happening. My couch guest apparently comes with an entourage.

  Gator gives me a look that’s not hard to interpret. It screams shut the fuck up and back off. “Club business.”

  “Right,” I say slowly, feeling like an interloper in my own place. My deal with Blade didn’t include this.

  He must sense my upset because he sets a cup of coffee in my hand. I clutch it like a stupid lifeline. When did my life suddenly get this crazy? I slip out and head for the deck, ignoring my new biker buddies. Gator’s moved on from veiled threats to emptying my coffee pot, and he doesn’t so much as look up. Harlow’s apparently thumb wrestling Fang for the biggest mug, and I’m not sure how that’s going or if he’ll let her win. If he does, I’ll be burying his body later in the bayou because she’ll kill him for letting her win. Harl
ow does everything on her own.

  Naturally, Blade follows me. It’s a good thing we didn’t hook up again because he’s way too bossy for my tastes.

  He sort of leans over me, shoulder braced against the wall. “You sure you should go in today?”

  “Not sure it’s any of your business,” I offer. “Maybe you should concentrate on your secret club business.”

  He nods slowly. “I get that, but T.D. was plenty pissed off yesterday. He comes round your work, he could cause trouble.”

  Pot meet kettle.

  My face must reflect that message because Blade sighs. “Just trying to look out for you.”

  There’s a moment of silence as I try to decide how I feel about that. On the one hand, it’s sweet he wants to keep me safe. On the other hand, it’s a little overbearing.

  Okay. A lot overbearing.

  “I’m a big girl. I can do all sorts of stuff by myself, including break up with a guy and go to work. I don’t need a penis for protection.”

  He traces one finger down my cheek, the rough pad drawing the line of my jaw. “We’re multi-purpose, chère.”

  I move away from him. “Do you still have club business with T.D.? Is that what today’s visit is about?”

  I should let Fang and Gator’s visit go, but I hate not knowing what’s going on, particularly when it’s happening on my boat. I don’t think Blade will tell me anything—that’s not how clubs work—but I’ll still ask.

  Blade lifts one shoulder. “Got that taken care of yesterday. Anything else that happens is about us.”

  Some things have to be pointed out in the interest of honesty. “There is no us.”

  “Thought we’d agreed to be friends,” he says softly, leaning closer. I can’t help but notice that the space between us has been reduced to inches.

  My stupid vagina decides that now would be a good time to perk up and try to butt into the conversation. No. No matter how pretty Blade is, I’m not going there.

  I give him a deliberately wide grin. “Well, friend, let me reintroduce you to my toolbox. My engine awaits.”

  Blade

  “Who the fuck made you a mechanic?” Gator drops onto the deck beside me. Fucker’s laughing his ass off, too. Probably caught Leah’s toolbox handoff and found it funny. Fang certainly flipped me the bird before he took off for the clubhouse and whatever work Jace had for him there. After Leah and Harlow left for their jobs, Gator and I ran through some club business and now he’s “supervising” as I get back to work on Leah’s engine. “You hard up for cash now?”

  “Shit’s broken, and I can fix it.” Honestly, I’m not in any rush to get Leah’s engine up and running even if sleeping on her couch sucks. I lean over the empty engine compartment. While it would be nice if the motor gave me some sign of what the problem is, it doesn’t feel like speaking English or French, so I’ve settled for taking it apart one deliberately slow inch at a time. The list of what’s wrong is ever growing. Worse case, when I’m done procrastinating, I’ll order up a new engine and drop it in when Leah’s away at work. Based on the sad state of the engine compartment, she’d never notice because she’s clearly never popped the engine open. Ever.

  Gator nudges a part with his foot, flashing me a mocking look. “Easier ways to score some pussy.”

  I glance down at my hands. Grease covers more of me than not. Maybe Leah will be in the mood to play sexy mechanic with me later tonight.

  “Leah Holmes is mine.” You have to spell shit out with Gator. He’s blunt, more battle ax than scalpel, and there’s never been a more loyal brother. He’s grumpy as all fuck, but he fights like a madman, and more than one of us has suggested that the alligator that chewed him up was only getting some of its own back. It’s entirely possible he attacked the animal first.

  Gator gives me a hard look. “She’s human.”

  I reach for another part. “She’ll adapt.”

  “You run this by Jace?” That’s another thing about Gator—the man has a nose for trouble. He can spot the problem in a heartbeat. It would be hard enough if Leah were a civilian female I wanted to introduce to the MC, but she’s not a wolf. She has no idea that I’m a shifter and that my loyalties lie with my pack. There will be a way to make this work, but right now I’m just getting my foot in her door. Spending some time getting to know her while I wait for my opportunity to come clean. There’s no way I could mate with her and hide who I am—and I wouldn’t want to if I could. You don’t fucking lie to your mate, not about anything.

  “Not yet.” I twist a particularly stubborn bolt with my wrench.

  “Longer you wait, the more pissed off he’s gonna be.”

  “What are you, Doctor Ruth?”

  Gator snorts. “As if. But we both know Big Red woulda told you to fuck the chick and move on. Breed her, maybe. He wasn’t big on permanent relationships.”

  The bolt fucking flies off, I twist it so hard. “Big Red’s dead. Jace is different.”

  So far.

  Yeah. Those two unspoken words hang in the sticky, too hot air between us.

  “You ever think about challenging Big Red?”

  No point in lying about shit. Not to my brother. Not ever. “Oui.”

  “Me too.” Gator glares at the engine block as if it’s personally done something to piss him off. We both know that our chances of taking down Big Red had been decent—but not assured. The man had not only been a brutal fighter, but he’d been crazy as fuck, too. Hard to predict what he would have done in a fight, but one thing had been certain. No one who challenged him had won—or lived. He put down the losers.

  Fear of losing hadn’t held me back. It’s always better to die fighting than to roll over and show your belly, but my upbringing as a knight had taught me to serve and obey my liege lord. Some days, that gave me a gold star in the effort column. I protected my Alpha and I kept the faith with him. I’d had Big Red’s back, even when his actions sickened me. Looking back, I’m not sure that had been the right decision. I’d made promises to Big Red, but I’d also sworn to protect the defenseless and avoid all meanness and deceit. So far, Jace seems like a better Alpha.

  I may be running mental replays, trying to spot the moment when I should have thrown down and gone after Big Red, but Gator’s already moved on. He sprawls on the bench, soaking in the sunshine and catching up on his sleep. He’s not letting woulda-coulda shit bother him. I can’t let it go that easily, so I vent my frustration on the motor, slinging my wrench around with some extra oomph. Fuck. This isn’t like me. I try counting breaths, inhaling and exhaling in the familiar pattern, but I can’t settle. Everything’s different today. Gator, the lucky fuck, just folds his arms over his chest and falls asleep in the sun.

  Working on Leah’s engine gives me the perfect cover to hang at her place and check out her neighbors. Make sure it’s safe and shit. Now that my scent’s all over the place, no other werewolf would come knocking on her door without an invite, but the Breaux pack has had problems with vampires, and the world’s got an overabundance of problems anyhow. No matter how big your toolkit is, you can’t fix every problem. And oui, I’ve got an enormous toolkit.

  I’m still wrestling with the damned engine when the marina manager stops by to do some not-so-covert checking of his own. His gaze flicks from me to Gator and back again. He’s definitely got us pegged for trouble. Man’s not wrong.

  “You helping Leah out?” he asks.

  The crooked nametag pinned to his red T-shirt reads Bill. It’s a nice, soft, bland name and it fits. The guy is sandy-haired and balding already, although he can’t be thirty yet. With his wiry build, he wouldn’t be bad in a fight, but I could take him in a minute.

  I make him nervous. His eyes shift from me to the bikes parked at the end of the dock and then back to my club colors. I’d slipped them off before diving into Leah’s engine, and they hang over the captain’s chair where Bill can’t miss them. Our insignia is a snarling wolf. The club name is embroidered above the patch and ou
r territory is called out beneath it. Bill gets the message—he hovers on the dock, waiting for an invite to come aboard.

  “Oui,” I say finally, motioning for him to join us when the silence has stretched on long enough to make him nervous. Can’t blame him for his curiosity. Most marinas won’t let you park a boat unless they’re convinced that sucker’s running and houseboats can be crap. Half the ones I’ve run into are either missing the motor or the engine quit working decades ago, and parts are harder to come by than rain in California. He’s probably worried that Leah will pull a runner on him and leave him stuck with a worthless piece of junk.

  Bill hops onto the boat, makes his way over to the engine, and hunkers down for a better view. He’s determined despite the fear that I scent—gotta respect that. “What’s the problem?”

  “Engine.”

  “Huh. Sounds serious.” He sucks air through his teeth. Sounds annoying as fuck, and I toy with the idea of knocking him off the dock and into the water. Most property managers don’t like bikers. We’re not the ideal tenants. Our bikes wake up the neighbors, and we don’t like to hang around much. We’re here today, on the road tomorrow. Plus, clubs have a reputation for illegal activity. Some of that rep is well deserved. The Breed aren’t a bunch of saints. We’ve gotten up to shit that would keep a prosecutor busy for years, and the word’s definitely out on the street. You fuck with us, and you pay for it. Bill doesn’t want trouble, and my club colors aren’t a Girl Scout badge.

  I don’t like hassling someone who is just doing his job the best he can. Billy-boy’s in charge of the rulebook, and he just wants to earn his paycheck. Much as I’d like him to move the fuck away from my territory, I can respect that. Certainly don’t need to beat his ass over it.

  “I’ll have her fixed by the end of the week. Just waiting on some parts.”

  Bill leans in for a better look—any farther and he’ll be face-first in the engine compartment. “Leah gave notice that she’s out of here by the end of the month.”

  I shrug as if it’s no big deal. “Engine will be running by then.”