by Michele Hauf
An old-timer sporting a white beard to his belly and commandeering the table next to the men’s room waved to him. Beck nodded in acknowledgment—the guy was here every time he stopped in—and ordered a whiskey. He asked the bartender to pour the old man another of whatever he was drinking. He’d never spoken to him, hadn’t a clue who he was, what he did or where he lived. Didn’t matter.
The first swallow of whiskey burned sweetly. Beck pressed the shot glass to his forehead and closed his eyes. The sounds of pool balls clacking battled with the cheesy country tune that proclaimed cowboys the best rides.
Beck laughed to himself, thinking that women should really give werewolves a try if they were looking for a wild ride. Then again, best keep all the wild goodness away from the mortal females. They wouldn’t know how to handle him.
Hell, what was he thinking? He’d dated many a mortal woman. They could handle him in were shape just fine.
Daisy had been his first wolf. And it had been a risky pairing. Normally packs protected their females as if they were gold in Fort Knox. The only wolves allowed to sniff around them were fellow pack members, or wolves from neighboring packs. But if Beck knew correctly, Daisy’s pack was just her family. So she would have to seek a wolf elsewhere to mate and marry. Naturally, her father, the pack principal, would insist she marry another pack wolf. It could prove a good alliance for the two packs. Hell, the whole lone wolf thing was a real stigma to packs.
One of the men at the pool table whooped triumphantly. He bounced back and forth on his feet as if a prize fighter. He was wearing—a leather skirt? With a plaid sweater that stretched across his physique. And combat boots. Yikes.
Beck shook his head and noticed the other two players shook off the winner’s antics and approached the bar. One was tall, thin and had messy blond hair. His face was angular and alien. He looked down his nose at Beck.
The other revealed short hair shaved to his scalp when he pushed back a hoodie. Sleeves covered his hands to midfinger. He also glanced at Beck, while the other, the one still cheering his win, bounced around as he racked the balls.
“Trouble!” the one closest to Beck called. “We get it. You won.”
The bouncing winner wandered up to the bar next to the one who had spoken. The twosome exchanged looks. The winner asked, affronted, “What, man?”
The one in the hoodie nodded toward Beck.
An uneasy creep tightened at the back of Beck’s neck. Then he scented them.
Ah hell.
“This guy smell familiar to you?” the one in the hoodie asked his cohort.
Now the dark-haired one, who had been sitting at the bar, lifted his head, tilting it as he observed the one in the skirt walk up to Beck and make a show of sniffing the air.
“Well, I’ll be,” Trouble, the skirted one, said. “You Beckett?”
Yeah, this felt fifty ways of wrong. Beck pushed the empty shot glass toward the back of the bar and turned to offer his hand to the man, who stood about as tall as he did, yet his shoulders were a bit broader and his wild eyes gave him a menacing edge that Beck sensed he was going to learn a lot more about. Like it or not.
“Beckett Severo,” he said.
Trouble didn’t shake his hand. And then Beck realized who he was. Who all four men were. But before he could speak, Trouble’s fist connected with his jaw, knocking him off the stool and grasping for hold on the brass rail edging the bar.
He’d felt the Saint-Pierre power punch before. Daisy’s right hook had nothing on this guy.
“This is the one who has been nosing around Daisy Blu,” the hooded one said. “I could smell you on her the other day when she came to see me.”
Beck winced and shook his head. His jaw might have dislocated with that punch. “Visited you? Are you Stryke? The one who got hit by the silver arrow?”
“What the hell are you doing with my sister, eh?” Trouble punched him in the gut.
Beck caught his elbows against the bar. Now Stryke and the blond moved around to stand beside Trouble. Without looking over his shoulder, he sensed the dark one at the bar remained sitting.
“Take it outside,” the bartender ordered. “Unless you’re willing to pay for the damages. Could use some new decor.”
Trouble gripped Beck by the scruff of his neck and shoved him toward the back door, which opened out to a small parking lot, glazed over from the icy rain that had stopped when Beck had entered the bar.
Beck eyed his truck, parked across the street. He was grabbed from behind, an arm hooking around his neck. Punishing knuckles met his kidney in a bile-stirring introduction. They’d paired up, the sneaky Saint-Pierres. And he was going down. He staggered forward, swallowing his bile. Shit, they could punch.
But he wasn’t in the mood for running with his tail between his legs. He had worse things with which to deal. And these boys had better learn he was not a wolf to mess with.
Righting, and turning to face the trio—the dark one with the long hair had leaned against the trunk of the bartender’s black SUV, arms crossed over his chest—Beck thrust up his fists.
“Listen, guys, I don’t want to start anything with Daisy’s brothers. But I sure as hell am not going to stand here and let you beat me to a pulp.”
He swung for Trouble, catching him on the jaw.
Shaking it off as if a nuisance, Trouble bounced back and forth on his combat boots as if a prize fighter. The ice gave him little challenge. “A love tap? Is that all you got, lone wolf?”
Beck swung again, this time pounding his fist into Trouble’s gut. The wily wolf huffed out his breath, caught Beck at the nape of the neck and, with a twist, slammed the side of his head against a nearby car trunk.
Face to metal scoured pain through Beck’s skull. His nose dripped out blood. He didn’t want to do this. And oh, yes, the ghost wolf inside him wanted to do this.
Swinging around, he thought to punch the crazy wolf in the face, but instead one of the others caught his fist, smiled and delivered a high kick that doubled him at the gut. Bent over, he felt the new wolf’s fist at his jaw.
“Good one, Stryke!” Trouble called. The wolf still bounced at the periphery of Beck’s vision. “Hey, lone wolf, take it easy on Stryke. He’s still healing from the hunter’s arrow. Almost killed him, that asshole.”
Turning, Beck gripped Stryke by the shirt and shoved him against a pickup cab. “You see the hunter who shot you?”
“Dude, I was on four legs at the time.”
“Yeah, but you have his scent, right? I need to find that hunter.”
“You talk too much.” Stryke swung up a fist, which Beck blocked with his forearm.
The two tussled, throwing punches and dodging a few swings. The guy was fast on his feet, but his punches didn’t pack the power that his brother Trouble’s did. Just when Beck thought he had the guy, he swung high, and Stryke’s boot caught him in the gut. Damn, he’d gone for the kidney again. These boys did not fight fair.
Spinning around, Beck’s eyes fell across the crazy one who was clapping and cheering for his brother. Still, the tall dark one stood off by a pickup box. Beck decided to stay away from him. The less he had to face, the better. And the blond one? Where was—
An iron fist crushed Beck’s jaw. His feet left the ground. His body soared high, and he landed on top of a Camaro hood. Blackness toyed with his consciousness.
“Kelyn, that is the only punch you get,” Trouble reprimanded the blond one. “You’ll waste the guy before we’ve had our fun.”
As Beck’s body slid from the hood, he matched gazes with the tall, lithe one who’d just punched his brains into next week. A violet eye winked at him. The faery of the bunch. Beck’s boots slid on the ice, and he went down.
Trouble looked over Beck, sprawled in a prone position. “That’s our bro, Kelyn. Feel like your brains are oozing out your nose right now?”
Beck swore. He’d never think faeries a bunch of pussies again.
“Yep, he’s a one-punch deal,”
Trouble said. “But you’re still conscious, so we’ll give you points for that. Come on, lone wolf, we’re just getting started.”
Beck clasped the proffered hand, and Trouble tugged him up to his feet. He winced and stumbled forward, but knowing the enemies stood close, didn’t focus on the pain. Instead, he just needed to survive this.
Whatever the hell this was. They were having too much fun working him over. Because he was screwing their sister?
Good reason. He couldn’t argue that.
“If you think you’re going to scare me away from Daisy—” Beck spat blood to the side “—you’re going to have to try harder.”
Trouble whistled and bounced high, stomping the ground in his macabre glee. “Oh, I’ll bring it! Hold him, Stryke.”
Beck swung at Stryke and managed a punishing blow to his gut. Stryke spat aside blood, grinned, then lunged, slipping an arm behind Beck’s neck and his arms to get him in a shoulder pin. As he struggled against the wolf, he felt Trouble’s boot hit his cheek. His skin broke. Blood spilled down his face.
“You think you have a right to move in on our sister?” Trouble asked. “Wolves who don’t run with a pack shouldn’t be so bold, don’t you know that?”
Beck shoved Stryke backward against a truck. The wolf chuffed out a breath. Arms still wrenched back, and Beck rolled forward, flipping Stryke over his head. The two brothers collided and went down.
“Good one,” Trouble groaned from the ground. He shoved his brother off him. “Kelyn, let’s end this.”
“Ah, shit.” Beck turned but didn’t have time to register more than a fist aimed between his eyes. Blackness won over the pain. Beck dropped to the icy pavement.
Trouble bounced up to his feet, but a groan struck from his aching side.
Blade, hands in his pockets, strolled over to the fallen wolf and knelt over him. “This wolf can certainly take some punishment.”
“That he can.” Trouble pounded a fist into his opposite palm. “I like him.”
Blade stood, nodding agreement. With a whistle from Trouble, the brothers gathered. They performed a group fist bump over Beck’s prone body.
“Let’s get the hell out of here before the owner calls the cops,” Kelyn suggested.
“Right.” Trouble wandered off toward the parked vehicles. “Stryke, grab the loner.”
“What? I thought I was the one recovering here?”
With some grumbling about always having to clean up the mess, Stryke bent and managed to hoist Beck’s body over a shoulder. “Where’s his car?”
Blade pointed down the street, and the brothers found the truck. It was unlocked, fortunately for Beck. Trouble would not have paused before smashing out the window with a fist.
Stryke laid him across the front seat, and Beck stirred from his blackout.
“He must really love her,” Stryke muttered.
“Yeah, that’s what I was thinking, too, when he stood up to us. Poor guy.” Trouble toed Beck’s foot out of the way so he could close the door. “We were just playing with you, lone wolf. It’s the big guy you should be worried about. That would be our dad, Malakai Saint-Pierre.”
“Bring it,” Beck muttered. Then he passed out again.
Trouble and Stryke laughed. Kelyn shook his head, muttering about pussy wolves.
And Blade had already wandered off, blending into the night.
* * *
Beck woke shivering. He sat up on the front seat of his truck. The windows were iced over, but daylight glinted in the rearview mirror.
How had he—?
Opening his mouth to yawn, he winced and swore. Rubbing his hand carefully along his jaw, he wondered if it was broken. It should have healed from the beating he’d taken last night. If it hadn’t been for—
“That damned faery.”
The brothers must have scraped him off the ice and tossed him in his truck. A surprising courtesy. He shuffled in his front jeans pocket for the keys and turned on the ignition, flipping the heat onto high. Collapsing back across the seat, he pushed his hands over his scalp.
They’d been toying with him last night. Maybe. Probably. But those punches hadn’t been a tease.
“Daisy’s brothers.”
And yet one of them had said something about watching out for the dad. And Beck had idiotically said something like “bring it.” Oh, foolish lone wolf.
He groaned and sensed the pain shifting from his back to his side. Some well-aimed kidney kicks. He lifted his shirt and saw the mottled maroon-and-green bruising. When it took longer than six to eight hours for a werewolf to heal, then he’d really taken a beating.
He wondered if the dad wasn’t on his way to finish the job right now. Maybe Malakai Saint-Pierre was standing outside the truck, waiting for Beck to wake up?
Sniffing the air, Beck didn’t sense anyone in the vicinity. He was alone. Beaten. And freezing his ass off. It was going to take the heater a while to warm up.
Pulling himself upright, he let out a groan and shuffled behind the steering wheel. While good sense told him to drive home and sleep off the pain, all his heart wanted to do was turn toward town and knock on Daisy’s door.
Chapter 18
“Come in,” Daisy said to the sad-faced werewolf standing in her doorway. She winced. His jaw was bruised green with spots of violet, and he clutched his ribs. “I heard about what happened.”
“Yeah? Did your brothers call to report the gory details as soon as they’d finished working me over?”
“Aw, they didn’t mean it. They were just love taps.” Daisy forced the words out even while she was torn apart inside. Damn, Trouble. Her brother could never let anything be.
“Love?” Beck paused in the living room as she coaxed him toward the bed. “If that was a love tap, I don’t ever want your faery brother to love, adore or otherwise even like me. The man left a permanent impression of his knuckles on my kidney.”
Indeed, her brother Kelyn may look like the weakest of the Saint-Pierre brothers, but he was the secret deadly weapon. Why had Trouble allowed him to participate? He knew Kelyn’s strength was deadly. That was so wrong.
“Come here. Let me take a look at the damage. Sometimes Kelyn doesn’t know his own strength.”
“You think?” Beck dutifully followed and sat on the end of her bed. “They all had their go at me. Except the one.” He lifted his arms as she pulled the blue sweater over his head. His ribs were mottled and green. He was healing, but still sore, for sure. “The tall dark one stood back and watched.”
“Blade only raises his fists for one reason.”
“What’s that? To maim?”
“To kill.”
She met his wondering brow with a shrug. She wasn’t about to explain the dark stuff Blade had already experienced in his short lifetime. Gliding her fingers down his chest, she stopped when he winced. “That does not look good. Kelyn?”
He nodded as he lay back on the bed. “Got me twice.” He slid a hand over hers as she unbuttoned his jeans. “Really?”
“I want to make you comfortable. Loosen your clothes a bit.”
“You going to work some faery healing on me?”
The thought to try hadn’t occurred to her. Though certainly if her faery were stronger, she could do it. And oh, did she want to make it all better for him right now. “Uh, I could try?”
“Anything that involves you putting your hands on me is okay by me.”
“My mother has been trying to teach me healing since I was a little girl. If I can tap into my faery side, I can draw up my vita to heal yours. It’s just—well, I explained how my faery and wolf battle. You’ve seen the results. And I haven’t practiced much. Do you trust me?”
“Of course I do. And if it doesn’t work, who am I to argue with a faery wolf putting her hands on me, eh?”
He stroked the ends of her hair that dangled over his chest. The man’s arctic eyes tempted her forward to kiss him. Softly. She didn’t want to put too much pressure where her brothers’
fists had likely pummeled. She hated that her brothers had done this to Beck, but she understood it had been their means of checking him out. Beckett Severo had been weighed and measured and, thankfully, had not come up wanting in her brothers’ opinions.
That was the real reason she wasn’t railing at the Saint-Pierre boys’ cruel treatment of her lover. Trouble had even said he liked the guy. Seriously. He’d said he respected Beck for standing up to them and taking his punches like a man. But none of them had thought their opinion would change their father’s mind about Beck.
“That feels so good.” He kissed her gently, then closed his eyes as she floated kisses down his chin and neck. “You know they had the courtesy to stick me in my truck and not leave me lying in the icy parking lot all night?”
“That’s my brothers for you. Strange kindness.” She dashed her tongue down the center of his chest, and he moaned.
“Is that how the healing works?”
“No, I’m just getting you warmed up.”
“Ah. Well then, proceed as slowly as you like.”
She straddled his thighs and spread out her arms. Much as she preferred her wolf half, her faery half did have some useful skills. For Beck’s sake, she hoped to tap into them. Focusing inward, she summoned her wings. They unfurled with a whoosh of wintery chill and a flutter of faery dust that settled with a glint onto Beck’s chest.
“I like your wings,” he said. “You know a guy could have all kinds of fantasies involving them?”
“Keep a few in mind, big boy.”
She clapped her hands together before her, rubbing her palms rapidly to warm her skin. Slowly she began to pull her palms apart, focusing her thoughts inward to the vita that raced through her system. Every molecule in her being and in the world responded to her thoughts. She felt the stirring between her palms.
A spark of violet faery magic grew within her hands and stranded in pink, blue and emerald that glittered with faery dust. Daisy knew it was her very life essence. As it manifested, it sputtered and disappeared, raining faery dust over Beck’s abs.
