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

by Anne Marsh

  Bill nods and then gives up and wanders away to check in on some other unsuspecting tenant.

  “Your girl’s planning on doing a bunk,” Gator drawls, eyes still closed.

  “Looks that way,” I say tightly. So what if Leah isn’t planning on sticking around? My first instinct is to run her down at that nail salon where she’s working and ask her what that plan is all about. Why she’s moving on already—and without a word to me. So much for being friends, right? My second impulse is to toss her cute little ass over my shoulder and take her back to my place. Make her mine in every sense of the word until she’s too busy screaming my name to think about leaving me.

  But there’s an air of vulnerability about my mate that makes me think wait and not yet. She’s scared and fragile and yet she’s also one of the strongest women I’ve ever met—apparently, she’s not afraid to pick her shit up and move on. Pretty sure she’s also the nicest fucking woman I’ve ever met, too. Never heard the word no cross her lips, which makes me wonder how far she’d let me take us in bed. She’d have had knights lining up to pledge themselves to her service.

  And that would have been a problem.

  The whole chivalric knight thing is way more fucking complicated than people want to believe. We were more than a bunch of bad asses in armor with a lady’s scarf tied to the end of our lance. We were competitive motherfuckers, in it to win it, and every day was a competition. A generous lady could gift you with the tools you needed to come out on top—a better horse, weapons, armor. But once she started making presents and you took them, you also made promises to live up to those gifts. If someone giftwraps the moon for you, you’d better believe she’s expecting more than a thank you. She wants that win too, the biggest, baddest trophy. And what woman really wants to back a loser?

  “Water break,” I grunt in Gator’s direction, and he nods, but doesn’t move. Guess he’s either still working on a suntan or maybe he picked up more than scars when he wrestled that alligator because the man likes the sun as much as any lizard.

  Leah’s cabin is an Aladdin’s cave of treasures. She may move around, but she doesn’t believe in traveling light. It’s like stepping into a junk store or a magpie’s nest. Framed pictures cover the walls. Every available surface holds books, pillows, knickknacky shit. The bed’s almost completely hidden by a mountain of blankets and little fake fur throws. Maybe she’s got a Viking or a caveman fantasy going on in that pretty head of hers—fuck if I know. The sofa where I’m crashing is the only bare space, my blanket folded neatly on the back and my saddlebags tucked beneath.

  Tempting as it is to do some housecleaning with a pair of garbage bags, I resist and go into the tiny galley kitchen to grab some water. Like the walls, the fridge is covered. Leah has postcards from all over Louisiana, held in place by souvenir magnets. I open the fridge and grab a bottle of water.

  Her place may be cluttered as fuck, but it smells good. A scent that’s sweet and heated, all rich cinnamon and magnolia. The wolf in me wants to lick her from top to bottom. The more human part of me just needs to shove her thighs apart and focus. Sleeping on her couch is a bad idea. The longer I spend around her, the more I want to fuck her and the harder it is to remember that she doesn’t want the same second chance that I do.

  Pretty sure she doesn’t know jack about werewolves. T.D. isn’t the brightest bulb, and none of us trust his ability to keep silent. It’s possible that he told her something, either on purpose or accidentally. The way she freaked out when she spotted my wolf on her deck said she definitely has issues with dogs—but is her fear due to some up-close-and-personal interactions with T.D.’s juvenile pack, or had she come by her fear legitimately? Fuck. I just didn’t like her being scared.

  The sound of wheels approaching the boat yanks me out of my thoughts. Not a Harley or some kind of bike I could respect, but a two-wheel, bright blue bicycle with an actual goddamned white plastic basket with yellow flowers. I half-expect Leah to break into song and announce she’s off to see the wizard or some such shit. Her ponytail bounces from one bare shoulder to the other as she jolts down the road singing along to something on her phone. An ear bud flies out when she hits a rough patch, and she jams it back into place. Oui. I need to get my fingers in her hair. Hold her in place for my kiss.

  Gator snorts. “You got it bad.”

  Man doesn’t open his eyes, though, so how can he tell?

  Yeah. He’s not wrong, fuck him very much. Still, it gives me an idea now that Leah’s home from work.

  “Shift,” I hiss.

  “Public place,” he points out calmly. Asshole stretches slowly as if he’s got all the time in the world to have this conversation.

  “Want to check something,” I admit. “Leah’s scared shitless around wolves, but maybe it’s a dog thing.”

  Gator sighs and rolls, dropping down onto the deck. He’s a team player, all right. If he’s shifting, he’s doing it out of sight where no one can see him or get an eyeful because those are the rules. “You think she can’t tell the difference between a wolf and a dog?”

  “It’s possible.” Fuck if I know when or if they teach that shit in school.

  “Like mixing up a gecko and a T-rex.” Gator stretches one more time—this time he’s just fucking with me—and then he shifts. The change ripples over him so fast that I almost miss it. It’s as if he just turns himself inside out and that wolf of his is lurking so close beneath his human skin that it takes no time at all for it to come out.

  He makes a big ass wolf, too. He rolls, leaping lightly to his feet, yet I swear the fucking deck shakes. Must be well over two hundred pounds, black as sin except for the white muzzle. Told him once it qualified him as a panda bear, and he tried to beat the shit out of me. Good times. Yellow eyes gleam as he turns his head to track Leah’s approach. I grab his clothes and jam them into one of the storage cubbies beneath the bench.

  Leah doesn’t notice Gator at first—she’s too busy parking her bicycle by my Harley. Fuck me. Should have picked a different day for this plan because she looks good enough to eat, and I’m not doing that in front of Gator. The little pair of denim shorts barely covers her cute ass, and it’s a toss up whether I like those best—or the white tank top. The nail salon’s logo is embroidered right over her left tit and the way the cotton hugs her tits is out of this world, not quite containing a pink-and-white bra. I don’t remember the color of her nipples. Pink or brown? That’s an oversight I plan on fixing.

  She hops off the bike, slipping on a plaid shirt. As she walks toward me, I get the full effect. She’s wearing a pair of steel-toed boots, and that’s instant hard-on material.

  She breaks into a smile when she sees me bent over her engine. “You almost got her working?”

  “Not quite. You that eager to get rid of me?”

  Her forehead crinkles into an adorable frown, but I don’t miss the way she checks me out. My dick promptly votes for switching places. She can bend over the engine, and I’ll hammer her from behind. I just need to get Gator the hell out of here.

  “You got something you want to tell me, chère?” I hunker down. The engine compartment doesn’t improve on closer acquaintance. Looks like it’s been cleaned less often than a frat house.

  She makes a face. “I’m hearing subtext.”

  “Come on down here and we’ll talk about it.” I pat my thigh.

  She laughs. “Do I look stupid?”

  I pat my thigh again. “Park your sweet little butt here, and I promise I won’t hold your less than stellar cleanup skills against you.”

  She shakes her head. “Friends don’t ride friends.”

  “We’re special friends.” I toss my wrench back into my toolbox and stand up. Her eyes travel down my body and, halle-fucking-lujah, I can smell her interest as she warms up to me. Like cookies and sugar, it’s the sweetest, richest scent, and no way I stop at one bite.

  I walk over to the side of the boat and hold out my hand so she can jump down from the dock. She
eyes my fingers like she’s checking for bombs.

  “No strings attached.” I wiggle them. “Now fucking take my hand and get on the boat.”

  “You should work on your manners,” she informs me.

  You don’t train to be a knight without learning a thing or two about manners. Sure, my knowledge is centuries out-of-date and some shit’s changed since then, but the basics are the same. Pay her compliments. Don’t touch what you’re not invited to touch. Dance as well as you fight and learn to croon a few romantic numbers. I was never much for the singing, but I had the dancing down. Might have learned a few new tricks since then, too.

  While she’s still staring at my hand, I slide my other arm around her waist and waltz her right off the dock. She shrieks, her fingers digging into my shoulders. I set her feet on the deck and dance her around in a series of dizzying circles. She’s laughing, right up until the moment she spots Gator. Her tits start heaving up and down, which looks pretty fucking spectacular except there’s that fear scent again. We really have to work on that.

  She scoots backward toward the side of the boat so fast that it’s a miracle she doesn’t go straight overboard. “You have a dog?”

  The dog lifts its head and checks her out, the bastard. Swear to God the fucker’s laughing because his eyes gleam and his mouth hangs open.

  “Borrowed him for the day.” Gonna be a dead man though, if he doesn’t stop checking out my girl.

  Leah doesn’t move. Scaring the shit out of her wasn’t part of today’s plan, but apparently the day’s just taken a right-hand turn into Shitville. “Shouldn’t he be on a leash?”

  “Non. He’ll behave.” I nudge Gator with my boot. Bastard’s tongue is still hanging out of his mouth. “Come on over here and say hi.”

  Her feet don’t budge from where she’s planted them. “What kind of dog is he?”

  Does it fucking matter? He’s not a fluffy-ass Pomeranian, and I can’t slap a bow on him to make him cuter. Gator’s even uglier as a wolf than he is in person. Man wouldn’t be in the running for Miss Congeniality if we held a beauty pageant.

  I go with the safest answer. “Mutt.”

  “Uh-huh. He’s big.” Her eyes give no sign that she knows that Gator is anything more. Her tits practically threaten to escape from her top. Plus, it’s hot. The cotton is soaked, and I want to make her wetter.

  “Leah,” I hold out my hand and try again. I should let her go. It’s clear she doesn’t know jack shit about the Breed or that the Louisiana bayou is full of werewolves. “He’s just a big ugly dog.”

  Gator bumps my leg. Hard. Bastard doesn’t like my compliments.

  “He won’t hurt you,” I promise. Because I’d fucking kill him.

  “I don’t like dogs,” she says, and damned if she doesn’t find a way to inch closer to the side of the boat. I feel like a goddamned idiot standing here with my hand out. One of the advantages of being big, mean, and talented with my blades is that I don’t have to negotiate. If I see something I want, I take it. Must be something leftover from my early days as a knight, because fuck me if I don’t want to just pick her up. I’m bigger, she’s smaller, and the outcome is a given. My dick’s an iron bar in my pants, so I know which way it’s voting.

  “You wanna try explaining what you don’t like about dogs?”

  “Nope,” she says, rubbing her left arm with her hand. “But I’d appreciate it if you got him off my boat.”

  “Maybe you could give him a chance?” I ask, setting down my tools. She bites her lip and I want those teeth all over me, nipping and marking me as hers. “I’ll be right here.”

  “No,” she tells me. “Some things are non-negotiable.”

  Gator snarls softly. Yeah, we have a problem, Houston.

  “Maybe try explaining it to me?” I tangle my fingers in Gator’s ruff because the asshole’s trying to push forward. I knock him backward, tuning out his pissed off whine. Since he’s playing the furry pet in this scenario, he gets to take orders. He slams his head into the back of my knees, knocking me forward a step. Fucker’s not helping my case any with Leah, so I keep on walking. Mountain’s gonna have to go to Mohammed.

  “Cliff note version? I got bitten.” She holds her arms up—the scarred forearms she’s covered up with those pretty pink roses and black ink. It’s not like I hadn’t noticed those marks. I’d figured she’d tell me about them when she was good and ready. So much for encouraging my inner gentleman. She’s been giving me a dozen different clues, and I’m just the dumb fuck who failed to connect the dots. When the wolves came out at Rose Bayou, she practically climbed me, trying to get away. I thought her fear was due to the fight—but she was freaked out about the wolves. Should have realized when she panicked when I showed up on her deck in my wolf form.

  “Stay,” I growl at Gator.

  The unspoken or I’ll kick your ass into the middle of next week goes without saying, right? Bastard stops, though. I think he might actually like my Leah.

  Kicking ass, killing shit, fighting—those things I do well. I can fix anything with moving parts when properly motivated. All I have to do here is find a way to convince Leah that whatever deep-rooted, well-justified fears she’s been hanging onto are things she should let go of.

  “Tell me what to do,” I say slowly. “I’d like to see you get past the dog thing, if we’re being honest, but if you can’t, we’ll work that out, too.”

  She wraps her arms around herself, and that does it. I pull her into my arms. How the hell am I supposed to watch her be afraid? She has me to stand between her and whatever life throws at her.

  “You think I like being afraid?” She sounds miserable.

  “Hey,” I whisper roughly against her hair. “There are worse character flaws. When I’m afraid, people die. Your way is far nicer.”

  “I wanted people to die,” she says quietly.

  “Yeah?” I wait for her to give me a list, to point me in the direction of who I need to hurt for her. Because she’s not really worried about a dog—she’s worried about whoever set that dog on her.

  “My teenage years kind of sucked. Not sure what yours were like.”

  If she’s looking for a kindred spirit, I’ve struck out already. “I fostered out,” I tell her. “Grew up with a bunch of guys my age. We ate together, fought together. Got into more than our share of trouble. We were pretty rough around the edges, so our elders spent most of their time trying to beat some manners into us—or beat the shit out of us on the practice field.”

  “My mom lit out early on,” she says, nodding as if what I said made total sense. I cup her ass with my hands, lifting her up. I need her closer than this. “My dad was pretty much a deadbeat. He rode with a local biker club, and I don’t think he even patched in. He just did whatever crap jobs they ordered him to do, watched the bikes, and drank whatever he could get his hands on. Eventually he got busted for running guns for the club. He peeled out of a bar in front of a cop, and between the alcohol in his system and the weapons in his trunk, he went away.”

  “Not all clubs handle their business like that.” I frown because that business shouldn’t have touched her even if they were using her old man to run guns. The minute he went away, the club should have stepped up and taken care of her.

  “My sister helped me out,” she says. “She was three years older than me, and she’d gotten out as fast as she could. Married her high school sweetheart and offered me the couch at their place. They didn’t have much, but I figured it had to be better than foster care, right? Turned out he wasn’t much better than my dad. He liked to beat on my sister, and once I was around, he included me in the fun. At first I thought maybe it was me, maybe it was too much trying to squeeze me into their space. It was wrong to let him get away with shit, but I did. It seemed easier, and I didn’t have anywhere to go. My sister didn’t want me to upset him, so I didn’t. I tried to ignore what was happening, up until I couldn’t.”

  “He still breathing?” Because I could total
ly fix that.

  “He got mad when I wouldn’t fill in for my sister one night when she was at work,” she whispered, her voice shaking with something I sure as fuck hoped was anger. “That was too much, Blade. I said no, like I should have weeks before. I didn’t know what I was going to do, where I was going to go, but I stood up and walked out the front door. I might have hated him, but I didn’t like who I’d become, either.”

  I can’t imagine not loving her. That’s the truth.

  I want this to end with her in my arms, happy and letting me take care of shit for her. And while I also know there are some things you have to let a person take care of herself, taking out the bastard who’d beat on her and her sister fucking heads my personal list. She wears those scars on her arm like some kind of sick punctuation because walking out the door hadn’t been the end of that particular sentence.

  “He had this dog,” she tells me. “Usually, he kept the poor thing chained up in the yard, and he wasn’t any nicer to it than he was to us. He’d trained it to fight in local matches and it must have won because he’d kept it around. I was almost to the street when he dragged me back to this shed behind the house. He tossed me in and then he sent the dog in. He gave it the command to attack.”

  “Christ.” What do you say to that? Not like I have a fucking time machine. I can’t go back and fix this, can’t teach that sorry bastard that we cherish the women in our lives. We don’t turn them into dog bait.

  “My sister heard me screaming and got me out. It was over fast. I got the ink a year ago to cover up all the ugly.”

  “Fuck, chère.” I force myself not to grip her tight, not to pull her so close that there’s no room left between us.

  “So I’m not real comfortable around dogs,” she sums up, as if none of us have figured that out.

  I swing around so we’re facing Gator. He whines gently and lies down on the deck, showing his belly. Knew the stupid prick liked her. I sink to my knees, her legs still hugging my waist. Taking her hand in mine, I thread our fingers together.