by Anne Marsh
I’m gonna have to take care of her tomorrow.
Pack life is an endless series of bike rides, fights, and meetings. There’s not a whole lot of soft in my life. I’m not top dog, not the Alpha, and I’m good with that. As Jace’s right-hand man and lieutenant, I’m damned powerful. Problem is that the position’s not a permanent one—it’s only mine as long as I can hold it.
Big Dog was on the short end of that fucking stick earlier today. He turned out to be weaker and we kicked his ass. Now he’s dead and I have his mate. She’s this wolf’s property.
History. It fucking repeats itself.
WARE
The morning after I bring her home, I leave the door unlocked so Marly can leave. Fortunately, Jace failed to give me a direct order regarding Marly. Despite my claiming her, she hasn’t made the choice to take me on and there’s no way this attraction between us can work. Ergo, the least I can do is mark the exit for her and make sure she’s got plenty of runway. I also make sure she’s got clothes and cash in the purse I leave for her. Getting her some new stuff wasn’t hard. After she fell asleep, I reached out, called in a few favors. The last Alpha kept an entire stable of club whores—females who cleaned, danced, and banged on demand. In exchange, the girls got cash and a roof—never seemed like enough to me, but I’d also kill the first mother fucker who shoved his dick into me uninvited. The girls mean well and I’ve helped more than one of them out, so they’re happy to repay me by doing some shopping on my dime. Guess my ugly mug made them worry I’d ask for something more.
I told them to pick out pretty shit, and to go to the high-end places. When Tina arrives in front of the warehouse on the back of Fang’s bike, I’m still surprised, though. It’s not like my place is a secret, but no one from the pack has come out here. Figured I’d ride out to the clubhouse and grab the shit from her.
Tina’s barely twenty. She’s got blonde hair bleached even lighter that falls in a straight sheet over her shoulders, although I like the ponytail days better. Easier to fist, to pull her head back for a kiss. Hers is a deceptively fragile face that kinda makes a wolf want to protect her and keep her safe even when he’s riding her deep and rough. I’m not used to seeing her fully dressed, but she rocks a pair of jeans and cowboy boots. A snug white T-shirt stretches across her tits beneath a leather vest that’s a fashion statement of some fucking kind and not a cut.
Most of the women who hang around the club are whores and pass-arounds. I’m not judging, because it’s their business why they’re renting out pussy or hopping from brother to brother, and I’ve taken more than one ride myself. But once in a while, a brother meets a woman who’s something more. She’s special and he ends up feeling and fucking, which makes her keeper material. These are the old ladies, the women whose men give them a “Property of” patch that’s better than any damned ring. It’s sure as fuck not PC, but it’s one more thing bikers and wolves have in common. We don’t hold back when we claim a woman. Once she accepts your patch, you’re responsible for her actions. Anything she does that reflects badly on or hurts the club comes out of your ass.
The wolf pack recognizes Marly as my mate (or they sure as fuck will when I’m done making things safe for her), but the rest of the club recognizes the old ladies. My brain derails, imagining Marly wearing my patch so the whole world, human and wolf, knows she’s mine. Our relationship is only temporary, though.
Tina locks her arms around Fang’s waist, her face turned into the back of his leather cut. Guess he’s been roped into babysitting detail today. Fang is a big motherfucker and aggressive. He advertises trouble from the dark hair shaved closed to his skull to the ink on his arms and the confident swagger in his steps. He showed up in Baton Rouge about a year ago with some bullshit story about relocating from his pack. Since he could outfight most of the pack, our former Alpha welcomed him with open arms. He patched in about a month ago, so now he acts like he’s the king-in-training and has the world’s biggest dick. Jace watches his back around this one, and I’m not real fucking happy he’s here. He wants my place as the pack’s number two, and that means there’s a fight brewing.
My knee’s bothering me, the usual aching twist deep inside the bones and sinew. The damn thing makes sure I know it’s there every fucking step of the day, and if I walk now, it’ll be with a limp. There’s no way I’ll show Fang that kind of weakness—he’d challenge me in a heartbeat.
“Got your stuff,” Tina calls, sliding off the bike and hefting two large plastic carriers. There’s curiosity on her face, but mine reads fuck off. I can see the moment when she decides finding out why I need a woman’s wardrobe isn’t worth risking her life over. She slides off the bike and brings me the bags.
Fang just sits there watching, the bastard. He’ll challenge me soon, and he’s young and strong. The only thing I’ve got going for me is years of experience fighting dirty. Today, though, we’ve got a détente going. He watches and waits; I get what I need from Tina. She hands over the bags, takes the wad of cash I shove in her direction, and then flees back to the relative safety of Fang.
“Got a meeting in a couple of hours,” he grunts in my general direction as Tina slides onto the bike behind him. “Gonna talk about your girl.”
“My mate.” I’d enjoy making him acknowledge Marly with my fists, but I’m a fucking saint this morning. I’ll use my words first.
“Gotcha.” His mouth curls up in a mocking grin as he palms Tina’s thigh. Slides his grip higher. I don’t care if he does Tina on the back of his bike—I just want him gone. “The club’s not gonna like it.”
Honestly? I don’t care if the club likes Marly or not. They just have to leave her the fuck alone. Let her get on with her life. I drop the bags behind me and cross my arms over my chest. She doesn’t get hurt, not on my watch.
“I’ll be there.” I’m not going back inside until he’s gone and out of my territory—we both know that.
Fang waits a few minutes, and then he runs the engine and heads for the street. He’s screwing with me, pushing to discover my limits. He’s gonna discover that I have none where Marly’s concerned. Her staying safe is nonnegotiable.
The pack I grew up in was small—the Alpha, my mother, myself, and a couple of young males. A few females joined us at some point, but the Alpha was our fucking Great Wall of China, holding off other aggressors who tried to move in on our territory. Strong was the only option. Fight and defend was a monthly occurrence. In the end, he was more like the pin in a grenade, because when he fell in a challenge fight, our whole pack blew to hell. The new Alpha moved in, took my mother as his mate, and ran me off. I could see the bruises, hear what happened when he mated her. At nine, I was too weak to challenge. Was working up to it when I came back one night and he wouldn’t let me into the den. Just growled and lunged, snapping and biting, until I had to turn and disappear into the dark or let him kill me. I swore then that it would always be female’s choice after that. Fang doesn’t get to go after Marly—not on my watch.
After the sound of the bike’s pipes fades away, I hoof it back up to my place. She can’t wear my shirt forever, and it’s not like she had shit she could take away from Big Dog’s cabin. Since she’s my temporary mate, it makes sense that I take care of her needs. Can’t have her walking around naked, much as I’d enjoy the view.
I drop the bags on the island in the kitchen and rifle through them. Tina’s picked out a couple pairs of jeans that are gonna hug Marly’s ass, tank tops, sweaters, and a pair of come-fuck-me boots. Tina’s got an eye for this shit, which is why I sent her. I take it all out of the bags, to check it out. I leave the tags, though, so Marly knows they’re new. While she’s mine, she gets nothing but the best.
I’ve had her under my roof for less than twelve hours. Still feels like a dream, so I plan to enjoy the moments I’ve got left. Pretty soon she’ll be gone, and I’ll be whacking off to the memories, which makes me a sorry-ass bastard. And because I’m feeling sorry for myself, I decide I deserve a
little treat. Marly’s pussy is off-limits, but her panties are fair game. I fist the pretty, silky scrap, pulling the soft fabric through my rough grasp. It’s sick, but there’s no one here but the two of us, and fuck but I want to wrap her new panties around my dick and tug until I come.
I slept with her last night. Bet she wouldn’t believe me, but that’s the first time I’ve ever slept with someone. She’s my first, and she doesn’t even know it. Fang’s got a point, though. She’s a problem and the pack will be gunning for her. Will she keep her mouth shut? How will she handle the wolf pack? I’m tired of the violence, the fighting. When I’m with Marly, I feel… peaceful.
So I’ll protect her while she’s here by my side, before she heads on out into the world and gets the hell away from Baton Rough, the pack, and the uncertainties of being wolf. Because she’s… mine. I leave the bags on the bed beside her, and I don’t look more than once or twice at her pretty, sleeping face. Then I get the hell out of there.
MARLY
I’m alone when I wake up.
This is a good thing, or so I tell myself.
Any day you’re not tied naked and spread-eagled to a bed has to be a good one, right? I take a moment to stretch. No ropes, no restraints. In fact, there’s absolutely nothing and no one keeping me here in this spot. No Ware.
Huh. I’ve lost my unwanted, unwilling mate already.
I bolt upright. I’m absolutely, one hundred percent alone in Ware’s bed. He’s not big on furniture. The bed is a big-ass mattress parked square in the middle of the floor. He’s got some quality sheets, though, and a big, black duvet that’s currently sliding south of my boobs. I’m still wearing his T-shirt and not a stitch more, but it’s not as if I packed for a weekend getaway. I do a quick survey of the room, but no wolf. Ware’s gone.
Honestly? I’m disappointed.
Clearly, I didn’t learn anything from my bayou sojourn, because I barely restrain myself from belting out his name. Instead, I stagger out of the bed with a groan. I’m more than a little stiff from being tied up, but apparently Ware’s thought of that. He’s lined up a picnic by my side of the bed in a neat, soldierly row. Advil, bottled water, a package of Hostess cupcakes (the bachelor power breakfast?), a stack of clothes, and a set of car keys. It’s hard to miss the hint there. I’m surprised he didn’t draw me a map. This way to the exit.
I knock back the Advil and retreat to the bathroom. Looking in the mirror doesn’t improve my mood any. My hair stands on end, and I’ve got a red pillow crease on my cheek. I haven’t seen make up, moisturizer, or a decent shampoo in weeks, and apparently I’m more high maintenance than I thought. I look used up—and lonely.
I can’t hide in his bathroom all day, so I go back to the bedroom and move on to steps three and four in Ware’s master plan: cupcakes and clothing. I haven’t known him for long. When I do a quick mental count, I come up with less than twenty-four hours. In that handful of hours, however, he’s looked at my wide-open pussy, committed murder for me and buried the body, helped me commit arson, and then driven the getaway vehicle. He’s given me a place to crash, loaned me the shirt off his back, and made zero sexual demands. If I’m being fair, he’s also growled, snapped, threatened to spank me, and warned me that I’m a threat to the local werewolf pack.
Which brings me back to the rescued me item on the Ware agenda. Who knew white knights rode Harleys? I wouldn’t have pegged him for the sensitive, caring type, but he’s taken care of me. He’s kept me safe. And now he’s given me space. Apparently, my girl parts believe those qualities are stellar and are voting to keep him. Huh.
The clothes are gorgeous—and they’re new. I don’t know where or how he got them, but everything is pretty and expensive. I unfold one pretty thing after another—designer jeans, cashmere T-shirts, a gauzy blue kimono. The La Perla underwear alone costs more than I make in a week because county librarians are sadly underpaid.
When I finish plundering my new wardrobe, I discover a stack of cash at the bottom of the second bag. Six hundred bucks. I’ll bet the truck that goes with those keys is sitting out there in front of the warehouse, probably with a full tank of gas. He’s setting me free, letting me slip out of the cage his wolf pack made for me. I could get in the truck and just drive. Probably, I could go far enough that they wouldn’t find me.
He’s telling me to run, and only an idiot would ignore that message. And yet…
You’re my mate.
That’s what he said yesterday, and I told him I wasn’t in the market for another mate. I’ve experimented with werewolf domination games, and they’re not to my taste. Six hundred bucks will definitely buy me some breathing room, and I should be halfway down the stairs now. Except… I’m not.
I inhale. Exhale. It’s stupid to feel hurt because he’s pushing me away. So what if Ware doesn’t want to have sex with me? I don’t want another captor, and I certainly don’t have a bright future with the Breed MC. Big Dog filled me in on the culture, and at best, I’m a hang-around, a piece of communal pussy they’ll share. At worst, I’m a threat that needs to be neutralized, because I’ve seen what they are and I don’t have a keeper to muzzle me. That’s why Ware mate-claimed me.
I should be grabbing the clothes, the money, and the keys. I should fly out Ware’s front door and never look back. California’s supposed to be beautiful, and moving to the other coast might put enough distance between me and the wolf pack. Or I could emigrate. I love a good beach, and Mexico’s conveniently nearby. Thailand. Dubai. There are dozens and dozens of places safer and better than where I currently am.
Noted. Guess I’m a sucker for punishment, though, because I can’t help but think I won’t be running into Ware in any of those exotic locations. He’ll be here, riding his bike and fighting with his pack. He’ll forget about me, but I’m not so sure I can forget him. I consider my options while I get dressed in the pretty things he bought me. He’s definitely spent way too much time thinking about my underwear, because he’s bought enough for days. Lacy, skimpy, sexy things that cost something ridiculous. If he spent all this money on me, does it mean I mean something to him?
When I go down the stairs, there’s no sign of Ware. I shamelessly ransack his place, looking for clues, but he lives like a goddamned Spartan. He owns a big leather couch, a bed, and almost nothing else in the home furnishings department. His kitchen is almost equally empty. By the time I’ve been through every room, every drawer, I don’t know much more than when I started. He buys Advil in bulk and only owns black T-shirts and apparently one pair of boots… because the boots are gone.
His garage holds considerably more stuff than his house, but the garage stuff is all of the machine parts ilk. Apparently, Ware rebuilds bikes in his spare time. Two Harleys wait for him in various stages of repair, and the workbench is neat and ordered. Yeah. That practically begs me to screw with him. I nudge a few tools out of order, creating little patterns of my own. By the time I wander back inside the loft, I’ve killed an hour.
I should be thinking about finding a phone, finding out if my apartment is still mine and if my landlord has sold off my stuff. I doubt Big Dog paid my rent, and even without checking, I can estimate the pitiful state of my checking account. When you don’t work, you don’t get paid. I should use the keys he left me and go to my apartment. Pick up my stuff or move back in. Call the library and see if I still have a job.
But I don’t do any of that. Instead, when I finish the second cupcake, I head out the door after all, but not to drive toward California or some other safe place. I go to the store and stock up. After all, he’s left me with that wad of cash and my inventory of his kitchen turned up nada. And as I push my cart through the aisles—with a long pause by the meat cases because he’s a wolf and I doubt he’s a vegetarian—I think about Ware. About me. About us being mates in a wolfish, possessive, deliciously erotic way.
And you know what? I don’t want to leave.
There’s no fairytale story, no magic in the way we met
. He’s not the Beast and I’m not Beauty—and he’s definitely no Prince Charming. And yet he feels right. He’s covered with ink and scars, he prefers snarling to talking, and he’s actively trying to get rid of me. It’s this last part that makes me pause. Why does he want me to go so badly? Why wouldn’t he let the MC take care of their Marly-the-Eyewitness problem?
I can think of a couple of reasons.
I’m hoping it’s one insane, sexy, delicious reason: he likes me.
WARE
The Breed’s clubhouse is a former warehouse the pack picked up for a song on the outskirts of Baton Rouge. The neighborhood’s rough as fuck, so we fit right in. Nobody sticks a nose into anyone else’s business here—it’s all might makes right. From the outside, our place looks like standard industrial rundown chic, except for the parking lot full of bikes. Big Red, the last Alpha, ran guns, laundered money (for a cut that made the IRS look like a charity gig), and controlled the flow of illegal drugs. He made money—and he made plenty of enemies too.
Our new Alpha, Jace Jones, isn’t interested in the dirty shit. He’s taking our club more legit. He’s about riding and power—the power to control our own lives, to ride free, fast, and far. Those last three? Yeah. I’m fucking on board. My new acquisition, however, is a potential threat. Most humans don’t know about the wolves, and we like it that way.
When I hit the brakes in front of our clubhouse, a prospect bounds over to take the bike from me. Valet fucking parking. Awesome.
