Savage Retribution

by Lexxie Couper

  How can that be? All he’s doing is squeezing your—

  With savage speed, Declan ripped her tank top open and captured her right nipple with his mouth.

  Regan sank her nails into his bunched shoulders. Oh, God. Yes.

  Sharp teeth closed down on the puckered peak, flooding her pussy with cream. He drew her breast deeper into his mouth, suckled on its distended tip. His tongue laved her sensitive flesh with rapid strokes, flicked and circled her aching nipple. She tossed her head from side to side, eyes closed, lips parted, her throbbing sex greedily closing down on a phantom cock she wished was there.

  Declan’s lips scorched a line from her right breast to her left, replacing his mouth on the heavy, abandoned swell of flesh with his masterful hand. He pulled at her nipples, with teeth and fingers, and Regan’s pussy gushed with eager moisture.

  She shoved her hips harder into his rigid cock. “Please…” The single word fell from her lips, barely more than a breath.

  Declan’s mouth continued to feast on her breast. He tortured her nipple with his teeth, sucked it so hard she saw stars. She gasped and drove her nails into his shoulders. A distant part of her mind screamed at her to stop him, get away from him, get away now. A louder, more primitive part however, squealed in ecstasy at each drawing pressure on her nipple and demanded she rip the shirt from his torso, granting her access to skin she knew to be smooth and perfect under her palms. Granting her access to the small circles of his nipples, tracing them with first her fingertips and then her tongue.

  The thought sent a sizzling stab of liquid heat into her core and she moaned, both in frustration and rapture. She’d never wanted someone like this. It was wild. Animalistic. Consuming and overwhelming. She wanted him. Every mysterious, reality-bending inch of him.

  As if Declan heard her craving, he slid his palms down her torso. Long-fingered hands wavered at the elasticized waistband of her running shorts for a frozen second before, with an abrupt move, he jerked her harder to his cock, plunged his hands into her shorts and grabbed the cheeks of her ass.

  Regan’s heart skipped a beat and she sucked in a swift breath. “Holy fuck!”

  Declan lifted his head from her breast with an audible pop. “I keep telling you, Regan, there’s nothing holy about me.”

  His eyes seemed to glow silver. They bored into her like a drill, making her sex constrict and her head giddy. Trapped her as surely as his hands and body did. Nothing holy…

  She stared back at him. Felt the branding heat of his hands on her ass sink into her core. Felt the thick, turgid length of his impressive cock press to her mons, just as branding, just as commanding. The crisp cotton of her shorts served as no barrier, no protection. A shiver rippled up her spine and a soft moan sounded in her throat.

  The sound shattered the heavy silence and in a heartbeat, Declan’s eyes—those untamed, thunderous eyes—dilated. Became an animal’s eyes. A wolf’s eyes. An utterly inhuman growl filled the air.

  Regan’s throat squeezed tight. Oh, no.

  The wolf’s eyes stared at her from Declan’s face. His fingers sank into her ass and, as he pulled her sex closer to his, she felt his short blunt nails grow harder, longer.

  Her heart stopped. Her pussy constricted. And, before her wanton body could take charge of her actions, she swung her arms into two sharp arcs and whacked them against Declan’s head, smacking her flattened palms to his ears.

  He threw back his head and howled, staggering backward, clawed hands pressed to each side of his head, eyes squeezed shut, agony etching his face.

  Regan watched him. For a split second. Heart pounding, throat tight, she grabbed the doorknob and flung the door open. Running out into the sun-filled car park of the motel and sprinting down the footpath.

  Away from Declan O’Connell. Away from the creature he was becoming.

  Chapter 4

  She bolted. Faster than she’d ever run before. A lifetime spent chasing wandering cows on her family’s farm and irritated animals at Sydney’s zoos and animal parks meant she knew how to run fast. Right at that very moment Regan figured she was close to breaking not only her own personal best, but the current world sprint record. With a frown, she pushed more speed from her legs. The Lord help her if she needed to run a marathon at this pace. She was fit, but not that fit.

  A noise behind sent her already frantic pulse into acceleration. Damn it. Was he on her tail already? She risked a quick look over her shoulder.

  No. Just what appeared to be a kindergarten class out on a field trip with their teacher, the frazzled-looking woman trying to keep twenty-odd riotous kids under control, on the footpath and off the road.

  “Miss Bristow.” A squeaky voice called out. “I saw that lady’s boobies.”

  Boobies.

  The word punched Regan in the stomach and she stumbled, hitting the concrete with both hands and knees. Boobies? Damn it. She’d been so intent on getting away she’d forgot Declan had torn her top.

  How the hell could you forget that? His mouth on your nipples felt like—

  She leapt to her feet, the giggles of the children behind her and the treacherous thought in her head making her face burn. Fair Dinkum, she’d let him touch her, kiss her. They’d be on the floor of the motel right now, fucking each other senseless if it hadn’t been for his eyes changing. An excited chill shot up her spine, despite the scorching sun beating down on her. Her pussy pulsed and she scowled. She had to get away. She couldn’t outrun the perfidious ache in her sex, but she could outrun the man she’d left in the motel. For a while, at least. Taking off again, sweat trickling down her forehead and spine, she crossed the road, hugging her tattered top to her body as she dodged more than one speeding car. She needed a phone.

  The screech of cicadas filled the morning air like a dentist’s drill, following her every step. She wished they’d shut up. Their noise made it impossible to hear if anyone came up behind her.

  Do you think you’d hear him?

  Stomach churning, she cast a look over her shoulder. Just an old lady walking a Bichon Frise and a teenage boy resplendent in full Goth attire muttering to himself. No stalking wolf. No hint where she was. She had no idea where Declan had taken her, but she guessed they were still in Sydney. The baking heat, screeching insects and yellow haze told her as much. As did the maniacal way the cars whizzed by, like their drivers were determined to break the land-speed record on their way to wherever they were going.

  Or maybe they’re trying to escape a drop-dead gorgeous, Irish werewolf too?

  Her feet stumbled again but she caught herself before she fell. Damn it. She had to get her act together. Vaulting a low, brick fence she cut across a corner, and headed down another street, following the main road. She’d come across a gas station soon. It was Sydney Law of Probability Number Two: Every main road had at least five gas stations in a ten-mile stretch.

  “Nice arse, honey!”

  The shouted words bounced off her as a lowered hatchback filled to the brim with pimple-faced youths shot by, as did their following whistles and lewd suggestions. Something far more important had caught her eye—the green, red and white Caltex star, towering over all. A faint whiff of gasoline tickled her nose and she smiled, pushing out a new burst of speed.

  The gas station was deserted when she reached it. The only sign of life a pair of very grubby jeans and worn-down boots sticking out from under a Ford coupe jacked up in the adjoining mechanic’s workshop. She scanned the signage around her, searching for any clue to what suburb she was in. Nothing.

  Tossing a quick look behind her, expecting to see Declan or, worse still, an unnaturally large, grey wolf, she crossed the oil-stained concrete, stopping at the Ford’s tailgate. “Excuse me? May I use your phone, please?”

  “Pay phone’s near the john, honey,” a muffled voice answered from under the car.

  “I don’t have any money.” Regan fought the urge to fidget. Time was pressing down on her like a wrecking ball. “I’m sorry, but it
’s an emergency.”

  An impatient snort of disgust came from beneath the car, followed by a muttered, “It always is.” The filthy jeans shifted and out shot a man even more filthy, the wheels of his trolley squealing louder than the surrounding cicadas. Sullen eyes glared up at her, contempt etching his grease-smudged face…until he took in her torn shirt and red, sweaty face. “Crikey, lady!” He scrambled to his feet. “Are you awright?”

  “Please.” Regan gave him a harried smile. “I need to use the phone.” Apprehension was beginning to get the better of her. She felt Declan’s warm breath on the back of her neck, felt the wolf’s whiskers feather her sweaty skin.

  “Sure, sure.” The man barreled past her, shoving open the connecting door to the store with such force Regan expected the glass to shatter. It didn’t, and she followed him in, the icy bite of its air-conditioner making her fevered flesh ripple into goose bumps.

  The man charged around the counter, worried gaze continually flicking to her. “Here.” He held out a cordless phone smudged with greasy fingerprints, and Regan almost smiled in sympathy at the nervous energy radiating off him. “Are you sure you’re okay? Is the bastard who did this to you close by? Do you want me to go get ’im? I’ve got a tire-arm in the garage. Are you callin’ the cops? You should call the cops.”

  Regan removed the phone from his trembling grip with her free hand, keeping the other tightly clamped on her torn top. “Thanks. I’m okay.”

  “You’re callin’ the cops, right?”

  A tight, dull beat began to thud in her throat and she nodded. “I am.”

  Peter would not believe what she was going to tell him, but she had to ring someone, and after Declan busted her on the phone in her bedroom, her brother was probably on the verge of a mental breakdown. Pressing her arm against her chest, she punched in Peter’s cell number, gnawing on her lip as she waited for him to answer. Perhaps Declan—if Declan really was his name—had drugged her? Perhaps he’d seen her running from Epoc’s lab last night and followed her, breaking into her home and injecting her with something as she slept. Perhaps—

  Don’t be stupid, Woman. After growing up with Peter and his regular “snake-in-the-bed” attacks, do you really think anyone could do anything to you while you slept? Get real.

  Real? What was real anymore?

  Declan O’Connell?

  Vivid, wild memories whirled through her head. The wolf’s unusual bone structure, the feel of its coat under her palms, the way its powerful body shuddered as it changed to a man, the feel of said man’s tongue on her flesh, his teeth biting on her nipple…

  “Lady? Are you awright?”

  The mechanic’s alarmed voice made Regan jump and she gave him a startled look.

  Worried blue eyes stared at her. “You were moanin’ a little. Are you in pain?”

  Regan’s face erupted in hot shame. Moaning? Where the hell was her brain? In her pants? In Declan’s? She gave the hovering man what she hoped was a reassuring smile, wishing her pussy would stop clenching with eager want. “I’m okay.”

  Turning her attention back to the handset, she scowled. Peter wasn’t answering. She’d have to ring his command.

  Still chewing on her bottom lip, she looked out through the grimy front window of the store. No grey wolf. No black-haired, silver-eyed Irishman.

  Maybe it’s all in your head?

  “Detective Thomas’s desk.”

  The smooth, female voice with a faint German accent on the other end of the line made Regan blink. An uneasy shiver shot up her spine. “May I speak to Peter Thomas please?”

  There was a short pause. “I am sorry, Detective Thomas is not available at the moment.”

  Regan bit back a curse. “This is his sister. Do you know when he’ll be back?”

  “I am sorry, no.” The woman paused again, and inexplicably, an image of a tall, voluptuous blonde filled Regan’s head. “This is Peter’s partner. Can I help with something?”

  Regan frowned. Partner? Peter’s partner was a gruff man called Michael Williams, Doughnut to just about everyone. The woman on the other end did not sound like Doughnut at all. Unless Doughnut had been taking voice-acting lessons, that was. Or had undergone a sex change.

  “Miss?” The female voice floated down the phone line. Low. Calm. Confident. “Regan?”

  Regan gripped the phone harder. Something felt wrong here. Surely Peter would have told her he was getting a new partner? Yet how else would the woman on the other end know her name? Another icy chill shot up her back.

  “Regan?” The woman repeated, and this time Regan detected an edge in her otherwise poised voice. “Are you alone? Tell me where you are and I will come get you.”

  “Lady?”

  Rough fingers touched Regan’s shoulder and she jumped, almost dropping the phone.

  The mechanic stood beside her, looking more anxious than ever. “You don’t look well. Your face’s gone all white. Are you sure you’re okay?”

  “She’s fine,” a deep, rumbling and oh-so-familiar voice answered, the exact second a long arm reached forward and took the phone from Regan’s hand.

  She turned, heart thumping, pussy fluttering and stared up into stormy, grey eyes.

  Declan shook his head slightly, very deliberately hitting the disconnect button on the hand piece. “Just a little stubborn, is all.”

  “Who the fuck’re you?” The mechanic blustered, wide-eyed stare darting between Regan and Declan. “Is this the guy who did this to you?”

  Declan turned his head, giving the man a level stare. “Go away.”

  The mechanic’s mouth fell open. “Listen, mate, I don’t know who you think you are, but—”

  He didn’t get any further. The low, animalistic, savage growl sounding in Declan’s throat stopped him dead and he took a stumbling step backward.

  “I’m the man keeping this woman alive,” Declan said. He turned back to Regan, eyes a smoldering, angry silver. “No matter how hard she’s making it.”

  * * * *

  Rex’s tail was scratchy. Peter swiped at it and the lizard sank its needle-like claws into his shoulder in retaliation, climbing closer to his neck.

  The low hum of the rising elevator did little to soothe Peter’s agitated nerves and the almost undetectable pull of gravity only made his already churning gut feel worse. Jesus, what the fuck was going on?

  The Bondi CS crew had been thorough, and while it was too early for a complete report, Peter knew by the grim expressions on their faces as they’d moved about Regan’s house they’d find nothing. The only hope for a lead from what was undeniably a crime scene was the piss sprayed all about the house. But something in Peter’s gut told him even that bizarre piece of evidence would reveal sweet, fuck all. The tire tracks out in front of her house obviously belonged to a van but, despite what movies and TV shows told the viewing world, tire tracks rarely lead the cops to a suspect. All he had to go on were the two names and the two male voices he’d heard on the end of the phone call what felt like a lifetime ago. One Irish, one Scottish. O’Connell and McCoy. How many O’Connells and McCoys were there in Australia?

  Too many to do a door knock, that’s for sure.

  The elevator jolted to a halt and Rex’s claws punctured Peter’s shoulder again. Wincing, he reached up and gave the skittish lizard a soft scratch under its frilled neck. “Steady, mate. It’s okay.”

  The jarring clunk of the opening doors earned him a fresh set of holes in his flesh and he grimaced. Nothing but a prelude to the pain Muriciano’s going to bring down on you, Thomas.

  With Rex digging deeper into his flesh, he crossed the room, paying little attention to the curious and almost sheepish looks from his colleagues. Only one thing occupied his mind and it had nothing to do with his boss. He had to find Reggie.

  Rex wormed higher up his shoulder and Peter gave the lizard another, albeit distracted, scratch. A male with an Irish accent, someone called O’Connell, a male with a Scottish accent, someone call
ed McCoy, a house covered in urine, a tuft of what looks like grey dog hair and two missing sofa cushions…Where the fuck do I start?

  “Muriciano told me you were an odd one.”

  A low and supremely confident female voice jerked Peter out of his dark thoughts. He started, snapping his attention to the svelte blonde wrapped in snug, black linen perched on the edge of his desk.

  Finely arched, blonde eyebrows rose above a direct ocean-blue gaze. Blood-red lips curled into a mocking smile. “Do you always wear a lizard on your shoulder or is this a one-time thing?”

  Peter gave the woman a level look. “I’m hoping to start a new trend.” He stepped over her long, stretched-out legs, unable to miss their incredible shape under the snug black fabric. Dropping his wallet onto his desk, he shot a quick glance at the ID card clipped to her hip pocket. “Any reason you’re sitting on my desk, Detective Vischka?” He turned and stared straight into her striking eyes. His gut however, told him the answer before the blonde said a word.

  “I am your new partner, Detective Thomas.” The husky words rolled with a very faint German accent. “The one Muriciano told you was coming over two hours ago. You can call me Yolanda.”

  Peter flicked his gaze over her relaxed frame and an unexpected tightness stirred in his loins. Long, long legs, a flat stomach, finely muscled arms and breasts more than capable of filling his hands to capacity. In other words, a distraction.

  He didn’t need a distraction. He needed to find his sister.

  The blonde straightened, her razor-blunt hair cascading over her shoulders to brush the heavy swell of her breasts hidden by her pristine, black shirt. “I have been waiting for you.” She brushed the caressing strands of hair back over her shoulder. Her tight nipples pressed at the material of her shirt like neon targets and Peter felt his body tense in primal interest. “I spoke to your sister, in fact.”