Saved her by ripping out the throat of a human.
A twinge of cold apprehension fluttered in her stomach and she swallowed. The guard, Blue Eyes, was never going to be a potential Nobel Peace Prize recipient, but no one deserved being mauled to death by a wolf, no matter how hideous they were.
Squinting against the bright morning sun, wishing like hell she could turn back time, Regan peered at her alarm clock.
Six twenty-seven.
She groaned again. “You’ve got to be kidding!” She’d only been asleep for two hours? What the hell woke her?
For a moment, Regan listened to the call of slumber beckoning her again: Another thirty minutes, that’s all. C’mon, y’know you want to. She wiggled on the sheets, the cool cotton caressing her bare skin like soft kisses. Oh, how tempting…
Her stomach however, had other ideas. She had after all neglected it for the last twelve hours. Now it grumbled loud enough she expected the neighbors to run from their homes screaming “earthquake”. With a very unladylike snort, she shook her head. There was no way she was going back to sleep now.
She climbed from her bed and padded barefoot across the polished floorboards of her bedroom, heading for the small but very cozy living room. Sydney wasn’t the cheapest city in Australia to live. Finding an affordable place halfway decent had been almost as draining and traumatic as her regular lab raids. Her home, tucked high on the northern hill overlooking Bondi Beach, may be the size of a postage stamp, but it was hers, not the bank’s and she loved it. Big enough for her king-size bed, third-hand sofa, old TV and a terrarium in the corner for Rex when he wanted to soak up some heat-lamp rays.
She studied the living room, wondering if the adult frill-neck lizard was waiting for his breakfast.
Nope.
A small grin pulled at her lips. He was probably sulking under the fridge. “Let me get my caffeine fix first, Rex!” she called to the absent lizard, shuffling toward the kitchen and its already percolating coffee machine. “Then I’ll get dressed and tell you about the nightmare—”
A low whine stopped her dead.
With a frown creasing her brow, Regan turned.
And saw the wolf.
Chapter 2
Nathan Epoc stormed across the expansive floor of his opulent bedroom, his head aching with enraged agony.
Fucking do-gooder, animal-rights activists.
ActivIST, Nathan. ActivIST. There was only one. A female. A single, unarmed female.
Hot blood pulsed through his head like a molten trip-hammer and he scowled, running his palms over the smooth dome of his scalp. One little bitch. One little do-gooder, animal-rights activist bitch causing all this trouble. He glared out the glass wall of his bedroom.
Sydney Harbor sprawled before him, so blue it almost hurt to look at—a cerulean blanket bejeweled by the dazzling dawn sun and gleaming white boats. The bone-white arcs of the Sydney Opera House curved up and over the horizon to his right, a defining monument of architectural brilliance for a young country. Money could not buy the view afforded through every window of his home, only power. Absolute power. And he—Nathan Epoc—had absolute power. Had it. Wielded it. Was it.
He turned from the window, the sight of the arching Harbor Bridge in the distance catching his attention. The construction spanned the rippling channel dividing North Sydney from the commercial epicenter, another marvel of man’s engineering genius.
Huh! If the world knew what he had achieved, these pitiful man-made constructions would be scorned for the triflings they were. If the world knew…
He ground his teeth. If the bitch who invaded his lab last night spoke of what she saw the world would know, well, begin to suspect, and that was not acceptable. He’d worked hard to present an immaculate, benevolent image to the people of this country and one little bitch could ruin it all.
A low growl rumbled in his chest and he felt his canines lengthen, digging into his lower lip. A ripple passed over his flesh. Fuck! Just thinking of the cunt and the trouble she could cause and he was close to shifting.
The drilling fire in his head flared and he growled again. Not at the pain, but at the thought of the female and the grief she could bring down on him. If she took photos while in the lab… If she had evidence…
He spun about, glaring out the window at the sublime day. “Fucking do-gooder bitch!”
He hadn’t been this angry since Aine’s death. Since the night the Onchú clan butchered her. The night his sweet lifemate was lost to him forever.
Bitter rage ripped through him, as fresh and biting as it had been over two hundred years ago. That night began a war unlike any the lycanthrope clans of the world had seen. A war led by him. His rivals had caught him off-guard once. They wouldn’t do it again. He wouldn’t let them. Any of them.
But now… Now this human…
He had to find her. Find her, find out what she knew and silence her.
And the second she was no longer a problem, find Declan O’Connell again. He wasn’t done with the Irish werewolf. The conriocht. Not this close to success. Not this close to punishment.
He crossed to his personal bureau and jabbed at a key recessed in the rose-cedar surface, impatience coursing through his veins.
“Yes, Mr. Epoc?” a husky voice sounded from the wall speaker above the bureau, both reverent and submissive—the way he expected all his staff and pack members to be.
“I want the bitch brought in,” he said, canines growing longer, thicker with each word. “And I want her brought in now.”
* * * *
Regan’s heart hammered.
The wolf lay on its side, taking up most of her old sofa, its eyes closed, its rib cage rising and falling with rapid, shallow breaths. Dry blood smattered the grey fur on its neck, cracked and thick like black mud. The cushions of her sofa bowed and compressed under the animal’s massive bulk and, as she had in the lab, Regan wondered what species it was. None she was familiar with.
How can that be?
She frowned. She was at least passingly familiar with just about every species in existence—she had to be in her line of work. How could she not—
The wolf whined again, softer, weaker, and Regan’s puzzlement vanished.
In a heartbeat she crossed the room and crouched by the wounded animal, skimming her hands over its body. A wave of awe rolled through the cold worry knotted in her chest. It was unwell. Its limbs trembled and each breath seemed weaker than the last, yet its feral strength was undeniable. She’d thought it a creature of primitive power back in Epoc’s lab but now, here in her room with its corded muscles under her examining fingers, its mana seemed almost tangible. “What genus are you, my friend?” she whispered, running her hands over steely quadriceps much bigger and longer than any wolf species she knew. Quadriceps turned to femur, femur to pelvic bone.
Regan frowned, confusion squirming in her gut. The animal’s pelvis felt wrong, like some sick bastard with a Doctor Moreau complex had taken to it with a bone grinder in an attempt to reshape it into a human hipbone. “What have they been doing to you, mate?” she murmured, tracing the distorted bone. “My God, how can you even walk?”
She moved her hands up the wolf’s spine, counting vertebrae, looking for wounds or injuries. Curiosity ate at her concern. Where had the creature come from? Wolves were not native to Australia and as far as she knew, the only ones in the country were those housed in zoos and animal enclosures. For this lone wolf to be in Epoc’s lab…?
Imported illegally, perhaps?
But from where?
Her seeking fingers slid through a patch of wet fur low on the wolf’s rib cage and Regan stilled her investigation. She parted the animal’s dense coat, looking for… “There it is.”
Fresh blood, bright red and warm on her fingers, seeped from a ragged hole puncturing the wolf’s side. Regan prodded the surrounding flesh gently, worrying the bullet may be embedded in bone beneath. She’d have to get the animal to Rick. Whether the bullet was there
or not, the wound needed to be—
The wolf whined. Low. Almost human.
“I’m sorry, mate,” Regan soothed, removing her fingers from its rib cage. Chewing on her bottom lip, she smoothed her palms over its scapular and down first one foreleg and then the other. Both rippled with muscle and once again, uneasy wonderment wriggled in Regan’s stomach. The humerus seemed too close to human in structure to be possible. She ran her hands over it and it seemed to shift. Grow longer. Straighter.
Regan scrubbed the back of her hand against her eyes. She must be sleep deprived. Bones didn’t change structure. With a slight shake of her head, she went back to her examination. As soon as she was convinced the animal could be moved, she’d call Rick. He’d give his left nut to help her out, any excuse to try and impress her into his bed. But quite frankly, she had no hope of moving the animal herself, even if it would fit in her car.
Another whine whispered on the air, so soft Regan almost missed it. “Not much longer, my mysterious friend,” she whispered, letting her hands settle on the wolf’s rib cage again, careful to avoid its wound. Its coat felt like fine velvet under her palms and for a dreamlike moment, she felt like pressing her face to the animal’s side. She leant forward, sliding her hands to its shoulder joint in search of wounds unseen and her bare nipples brushed against the wolf’s chest, flesh to fur. Soft. Cool. So much more than she’d expected. So much more than any animal species she knew.
What type of wolf are you?
She returned her attention to the wolf’s body. With the exception of the bullet wound, it seemed physically uninjured, but who knew what Epoc’s scientists had been doing to it. She smoothed her hands over the silken fur, a distant more detached part of her mind admiring the wolf’s superb biomechanical construct. It was a creature evolved for one purpose only—to kill—yet its beauty was undeniable. Strength, menace and deadly purpose all combined in the majestic somehow romantic form of—
The thigh muscle below her palm shifted, elongated, and Regan stumbled backward, landing flat on her bare butt with an ignominious thud. She stared at the massive, powerful and utterly lupine form. Watched it contort. Shudder.
The dense fur rippled, each strand seemingly alive with its own energy. The back legs grew long, straight. Thick, corded thigh muscles formed on bones no longer short and crooked. “What the…” Regan’s stunned whisper barely left her lips.
Another shudder wracked the wolf’s contorting form. Another. And another. Its fur grew thin, retracting into the flesh beneath, disappearing with each violent convulsion until its coat no longer existed and instead…
Regan’s heart froze and she stared at the naked man laying full-length on her sofa.
The naked, trembling, gasping man laying full-length on her sofa.
Looking at her.
“What the hell?”
The man’s eyes—the angry color of a stormy winter’s sky—flicked over her face. Like oiled smoke, he was on his feet, hard, lean body coiling, pale flesh glistening with a faint sheen of sweat in the sun-filled room. Regan stared at him. Speechless. Unable to move.
Shaggy ink black hair fell across his forehead, brushed straight eyebrows of the same color, cheekbones high and angular. Smooth, curved pecs cut down to a hairless torso sculpted in muscle. Nothing detracted from the perfection of his body, not even the mean scar slashing his pale skin from navel to groin. Regan traced the ragged white line with her eye, her stomach clenching as it disappeared into a thick thatch of black pubic hair just above—
Oh, my God! He’s huge!
A sharp intake of breath jerked her gaze back up to his face, in time to see nostrils flaring on a nose almost too long, almost too large. Those stormy eyes held hers. Kept her naked ass on the carpet. Frozen.
Compelling.
The word flittered through her head, disconnected and surreal and with it came a tight throb, low in the pit of her stomach. A clenching, warm beat between her thighs.
Shit, Woman! Have you lost your mind?
She sucked in her own swift breath, tasting his sweat on the air. “Who…” She began.
Those grey eyes flickered. Grew wild. Dangerous. “You’re in a lotta trouble, love,” he growled, a soft brogue lacing the foreboding words seconds before every muscle in his perfect body coiled and he leapt.
At her.
He slammed into her, flattening her to the floor. Back, shoulders, skull. Bright pain spiked through her head, cold and hot at the same time, and she cried out. Strong, long-fingered hands clamped around her wrists, pinning them to the floor beside her head with a grip so fierce her brother would have been jealous. Regan squealed, glaring up into grey, burning eyes. “Get off me, you bastard!” She bucked—all too aware of the muscled body pressed to hers. The naked body.
Fair Dinkum, Woman! Only seconds earlier he was a wolf! Wake up!
A hot breath feathered her face, ruffled her hair and she bucked again. This was no dream. He was no dream. “Get off me, you freak!”
Grey eyes flashed, all the more intense for the thick, black lashes framing them. “I’m no freak, lady.”
The words flowed from well-defined lips, the soft Irish accent she’d heard earlier cut with anger. Long, corded legs battled hers, pinned them to the floor with a brutal strength. His knees shoved at hers, spreading her thighs wide until her lower body was completely trapped by his.
A rock-hard pressure nudged at the soft lips of her sex and Regan sucked in a sharp breath. Oh no, he was aroused!
Aren’t you?
Hot, terrified shame tore through her. Yes. She was. “Get off me!” she screamed, thrashing underneath him in desperate fury. “Get off me! Get off me! Get off me!”
Declan stared down at the woman beneath him, fighting like hell to keep her in his hold. Christ, she was a wild cat. Even with her legs trapped under the considerable weight of his own, she’d almost thrown him off more than once. What the hell did she do for a living? Wrestle rhinos?
No, Dec. She takes on security guards.
“Get off me!” she screamed again, body like a live current of electricity. He pressed into her, trying to hold her still, trying not to think about the lithe muscles of her limbs and tummy, the sweat-slicked smoothness of her bare skin, the velvet heat between her thighs mashing against his ever-growing shaft with each whiplash buck she gave.
Should’ve thought about the fact you were both naked before you jumped on her.
“Listen, love,” he growled, trying to shove the delicious sensations stirring in his groin from his mind. “Just calm down and—”
Seismic rage erupted in her ice-green eyes. “GET! OFF! ME!”
Her body tensed with each bellowed word, thrusting her soft, damp heat harder against his now-throbbing cock.
Declan’s head swam, the change still too fresh in his system, the primitive, elemental instincts of the werewolf still too powerful. The musky scent of her sweat and sex threaded into his every breath. Intoxicating. Potent. She was a fighter, a warrior… She’d risked her life to save those incapable of saving themselves. The wolf in his blood growled in ancient appreciation, in hunger…
Unable not to, he leant down to kiss her.
One second he stared down at her, struggling to hold her still, the next he captured her lips with his and tasted her with his tongue.
For a moment, she lay beneath him, her exquisitely bare body locked frozen with shock. And why not? A man she’d never met before was kissing her, a man who—only seconds earlier—had been a bloody, great big wolf stretched out on her sofa. He almost pulled away, rational thought smashing down on him. But then, a slight tremble rippled through her, her arms snaked up around his neck and she was kissing him back. Deeply.
Her tongue battled his, curled and delved and flicked. Her teeth nipped at his bottom lip and a jolt of liquid heat shot straight to his groin, bringing a low and utterly raw groan to his throat. He dragged his hands from her wrists, down the smooth columns of her arms, his thumbs brushing the hea
vy swell of her breasts pressed flat against his body. The contact, light and fleeting, sent another surge of wet heat into his balls and his already-hard cock pulsed with new, eager blood.
What are you doing?
He didn’t know. The change had never left him so vulnerable to his werewolf’s desires, so manipulated by those animalistic cravings before. All he knew, all he cared about at that very moment, was how wonderfully warm and sensual the woman beneath him felt. How completely she returned his kiss.
He plunged his tongue into her mouth again, shifting his weight to smooth a hand up the delicious curve of her breast. The soft feel of it under his palm, the puckered peak of her nipple under his fingertips made him groan again, made his breath catch in his tight throat. Praise Mary, she felt so damn wonder—
Something hard and small smacked into his temple.
Explosive, white-hot pain erupted in Declan’s head. Eyes blurring, he rolled to the side. Christ, she’d hit him!
“Get off me!”
She lashed out, completely dislodging his weight before he recovered. She’d hit him! Christ, she’d almost knocked him out.
“Get the fuck off me!”
Another savage blow thumped against his head, this one narrowly missing his nose. He reeled back, pain and blood roaring in his ears. She’d hit him! While he was drowning in her taste and feel, she’d hit him!
Almost stumbling across the floor, Declan reached for his throbbing head, eyes still incapable of focusing. The blurred shape of the woman leapt to her feet, and he got the sense she was on the verge of kicking into him. A squirming wave of admiration rolled through him and his cock, still too full of hungry blood, twitched. “Shit, love, do you know how to throw a punch!”
The blurred shape loomed over him. “What the bloody hell are you and what have you done with my lizard?”
Declan blinked, both in confusion and in an attempt to clear his vision. “Your what?”
“Where the hell’s my lizard?” Long, bare legs came into focus—briefly—drawing his attention up to their apex and a distant, devious part of Declan’s mind—the part not in pain—noticed she not only knew how to punch, she also knew how to handle a razor.
Savage Retribution Page 3
