Bad Blood Wolf (Bad Blood Shifters Book 2)

by Anastasia Wilde

  Bad Blood Wolf

  (Bad Blood Shifters Book 2)

  by

  Anastasia Wilde

  Bad Blood Wolf

  Copyright © 2017 by Anastasia Wilde

  Copyright © 2017 by Anastasia Wilde

  First Electronic Publication: June 2017

  All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be used, reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning, uploading, or distributing via the internet, print, or any other means, without written permission from the author.

  This book is a work of fiction. The names, characters, places, and incidents are products of the author’s imagination or have been used fictitiously, and are not to be construed as real. Any resemblance to persons, living or dead, actual events, locales or organizations is entirely coincidental. The author does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for third-party websites or their content.

  Published in the United States of America.

  Cover by Jeanne Gransee Barker

  Fall in love with the Bad Blood Shifters!

  Smokin’ hot shifter men with hearts of gold; the strong, passionate women who love them; secrets, lies and danger; naughty, steamy love scenes—and happily ever afters.

  Books by Anastasia Wilde

  Silverlake Shifters Series:

  Fugitive Mate

  White Wolf Mate

  Tiger Mate

  Silverlake Enforcers Series:

  Silverlake Shifters – The Enforcers: KANE

  Silverlake Shifters – The Enforcers: ISRAEL

  Silverlake Shifters – The Enforcers: NOAH

  Bad Blood Shifters Series:

  Bad Blood Bear

  Bad Blood Wolf

  Bad Blood Leopard (Coming July 2017)

  Chapter 1

  Jasmin Wildacre sat crouched on top of a stall door in a broken-down barn, waiting for the bleeding to start.

  In front of her was a crowd of half-wild testosterone-hyped shifters, all of them male, almost all of them wolves. Even though they were in human form, the scent of fur and sweat and alcohol-fueled aggression was thick in the air.

  Beyond them, in the open part of the barn floor, was a metal fighting cage.

  One more fight to wait through. Just one, and then it was her turn.

  Women are soft. Worthless.

  Soft things get crushed.

  Jasmin’s head was buzzing, the words from deep in her past reverberating in her skull.

  No!

  She was hard, hard as steel, invincible. Her inner jaguar was pacing, desperate for the fight and the triumph of the win. Hot blood in her mouth, claws raking fur and skin, and that potent, intoxicating scent of fear.

  Her jaguar fed on fear—the fear of those who thought they were strong, thought they owned the world, thought they had the right to crush the weak, that nothing could touch them.

  The moment when their arrogance turned to fear was the sweetness her jaguar craved. The blood was just a bonus.

  Jasmin knew it was messed up. Everyone in the Bad Blood Crew was messed up. But Jasmin lived in fear of what would happen if she stopped feeding the craving, if she had to face the darkness without this release.

  Just one more fight, she always told herself. I don’t need this anymore. I have a crew now, a decent place to live, maybe even a shot at a semi-normal life.

  I have friends that are on the way to becoming a fucked-up dysfunctional semblance of a family.

  But the words never helped for long. Eventually, the feeling came over her again. Her skin grew itchy and tight. Her jag clawed at her insides, and half-assed fights with her crew didn’t make the feelings go away.

  Going jag and hunting in the forest didn’t make them go away. Only this. Illegal shifter fights, forcing the wolves to submit and tap out, proving over and over again that nothing and no one could make her submit or surrender.

  Not ever again.

  Just one more, she promised herself.

  She was stronger than any wolf, she reminded herself. Stronger than anyone. That was important. But it didn’t matter until they knew it. To end the fight and get out of the cage, they had to submit. They had to admit she was stronger—that she was to be feared.

  The two wolves who were fighting next were on opposite sides of the cage, still in human form, stripped naked and waiting to be announced.

  “In this corner,” the announcer was saying, “the White Tornado, with seventeen wins, taking on a challenge fight from the newcomer, Gray Thunder, who earned this challenge by winning his first fight tonight in a record three minutes and twenty-two seconds.”

  Gray Thunder was by far the bigger of the two, a huge barrel-chested man with crazy in his eyes. He waved at the crowd when he was announced, baring his teeth in a throaty growl to acknowledge the cheers and applause. They’d had to pull him off of his unconscious opponent to keep him from ending his first fight with a kill, but that didn’t bother this audience. As long as nobody actually died, the more violence, the better.

  And this crowd was mostly from the Nashville wolf pack, anyway. Violence and cheating was a way of life for them. Jasmin’s crew, the Bad Bloods, knew that better than anyone. The wolf pack had nearly killed her whole crew a couple of months ago, as collateral damage in a bid to get rid of Nashville’s interim alpha, Jesse Travis of the Silverlake pack. Another reason it was insanity for her to be here. Another reason it was so satisfying to crush them under her paws one by one, and make them submit.

  Backstabbing assholes.

  Despite White Tornado’s winning record, he got almost no applause, but he didn’t seem to give a fuck. He barely acknowledged the crowd.

  Jasmin watched him, the way she always did. Not because he was rip-my-panties-off-bend-me-over-and-take-me-from-behind-right-fucking-now sexy—though he was, if you were into wolves. Six-three, shoulder-length blond hair like a Viking, with unusual blue-green eyes and an old scar that ran from his hairline down across one of his sculptured cheekbones. He was completely ripped, but lean like a cat, from his pecs to his eight-pack to the v across his hips, to his tight ass and the impressive dick between long, well-muscled legs.

  Okay, maybe it was a little bit because of that. But mostly she watched him because she couldn’t read him, and that made her jag nervous. She didn’t understand what drove him. The rest of them reeked of blood lust or frustrated desires or suppressed rage, of the desperate need to prove themselves, of the need to cause pain, of sheer insanity.

  The White Tornado had none of that. He didn’t seem to have any friends, either, despite his scent marking him as part of the Nashville pack, and not one of the few outsiders that were sprinkled through the crowd, like her. This wolf got more boos and taunts than applause, no matter how many times he won.

  He was about to fight, and there was no adrenalin hype in his body language, no excitement. He didn’t even look like he wanted to be here.

  And yet, he kept coming, kept fighting—week after week, each opponent getting tougher, getting closer to beating him.

  And still he came, as though defeat itself was what drew him, watching it hurtle toward him like a deer frozen between the headlights of an oncoming car, seeing the end coming but no longer able to get out of its way.

  The gates clanged open and the combatants entered, Changing to wolf with a rippling shimmer of skin and fur, and the loud pops of bones breaking and re-forming.

  Gray Thunder was a monster, as big and barrel-chested in gray wolf form as he was as a human. The White Tornado wasn’t quite white—more a light c
ream color, with a sprinkle of silver-gray around his ears and cheek ruffs, and down his back. His wolf eyes were blue instead of golden, making him look more like an Alaskan Husky than a wolf.

  He paced Gray Thunder, watching, waiting. And then, with a howl, Gray Thunder attacked, and the cage shook with the clash of bodies.

  It shouldn’t have been a fair fight—Gray Thunder had weight, strength, and sheer insanity on his side. White Tornado lived up to his name, moving through the cage like a whirlwind, snapping and darting away, forcing Gray Thunder to constantly change force and direction, using up his stamina.

  Of course it pissed the big wolf off. He lunged over and over, trying for full body contact, getting more and more frustrated because the smaller wolf continually eluded him, twisting back for an attack before moving again.

  Jasmin could see the rage building in Gray Thunder. Now… yep, he had White Tornado backed into a corner and was coming on like a freight train, going in for the takedown.

  Good luck with that.

  Jasmin jumped off the edge of the stall and headed for the ready area. Her fight was next, and she knew how this would end.

  White Tornado would let Gray Thunder attack, and then sink his teeth in and refuse to let go. Refuse to let the blood and bites and claws and pain deter him. He won every fight by latching on to his attacker and just not fucking giving up. This one would be no different.

  Over in the ready area, Jasmin began rotating her arms and legs, loosening up her muscles though she didn’t really need to. Her jag was hypervigilant, always on guard against attack, always ready to fight. And her animal’s fluid movement didn’t need a warm-up.

  But it focused her mind. She had the adrenalin jitters that jonesing for a combat fix always gave her.

  Women are soft. You’ll be crushed.

  No. She had to block out everything, tighten her emotions to a laser focus so only the steel remained.

  Losing was not an option.

  The announcer came on the PA. “And the winner, by knockout, the White Tornado!”

  There was a noticeable lack of applause.

  The gate near her opened, and Gray Thunder was carried out by two bouncers, followed by White Tornado, back in human form. He looked almost as beaten up as the loser, covered in bruises and claw marks, with a nasty bite on his thigh and blood running from a gash at his temple and spilling down on the taut muscles of his chest.

  He didn’t look triumphant. He just looked tired.

  He turned his head, as if he could feel Jasmin’s gaze. Their eyes met, and something electric spilled down her spine. Excitement, curiosity, and… fear. Not his fear. Her own.

  If she kept coming here, one day she’d have to fight him. But he had no arrogance for her jag to feed on, and no fear.

  Nothing to fuel her rage and soothe her cravings.

  At that moment, she knew, deep inside her, that the White Tornado would be the one to take her down.

  Chapter 2

  Brody Jameson, aka the White Tornado, sluiced himself off with one of the buckets of warm water they kept in a corner of the barn, where the concrete floor sloped down to a drain. Fuck, he was so sick and tired of this.

  Only the seven hundred dollars he had coming to him made it worthwhile. Cash money, off the books. Getting beat to hell was the only thing that could keep that much untraceable cash coming in as fast as he needed it.

  As long as he won. He didn’t know what the hell he was going to do when he lost. That was the day his life would come crashing down, and all he could do was keep moving forward until that day came.

  He wiped the rest of the blood off him with one of the rags they kept ready, and toweled himself sort-of dry before he moved over to the brick-and-board shelves where the contestants kept their gym bags. Clothes, shoes, car keys, flasks, bandages—all tucked away and watched over by one of the Nashville bouncers to keep the rest of these assholes from stealing it.

  Brody downed a couple of ibuprofen from the bottle he kept in his bag, washed down with whiskey from his personal flask, and then pulled on his jeans, commando. His leg was still bleeding from a couple of the deeper cuts he’d taken, but he didn’t even bother with bandages. Maybe the bloodstains would come out, maybe they wouldn’t. He just didn’t fucking care anymore.

  The floor manager came over and handed him his winnings. He waited while Brody counted it, and then slapped him on the shoulder and congratulated him. The only person here who had—or would.

  “Monday night?” he asked, stylus poised over his tablet, where he kept the fight schedule.

  “Yeah,” said Brody. Monday night. Wednesday night. Friday night. Into infinity, until his perilously balanced house of cards collapsed and crushed him.

  He pocketed the money, then pulled a t-shirt over his head and zipped up his gym bag. He wanted nothing more than to get home and crawl into bed, but the Demon Queen of the Amazon was about to fight.

  She was so damn beautiful it took his breath away. Her jaguar was poetry in motion: sleek and sinuous, with fur and ears that looked soft as a house cat’s, coupled with blinding speed, deadly grace, and a flat-out crazy streak that made her fight until every wolf she took on begged for mercy.

  Damn, the number of times he’d fantasized about her tying him to his bed and making him beg. Or vice versa—he was nothing if not adaptable. He wanted to run his fingers through that long silky black hair over and over, while she wrapped her legs around him and screamed his name.

  But she was way out of his league. And a cat. And a member of the Bad Blood Crew, who not only had a hatred of the Nashville wolves, but who were certifiably batshit crazy, every last one of them.

  Never stick your dick in the crazy. That’s what his dad had always told him. Good advice.

  Not that that kept his dick from trying to jump out of his pants when he watched her fight. Or walk. Or do pretty much anything.

  He turned around to see those smoky cat’s eyes fixed on him.

  It was like a sledgehammer hitting him in the chest. He froze, their eyes locked.

  And then Bastian, one of Nashville’s junior lieutenants and biggest assholes, stepped up to Jasmin. He flicked Brody a dismissive glance.

  “You ain’t lookin’ at the traitor just on account of he took down a newbie, are you, kitten? ‘Cause if you want a good ride, don’t mess with that second-rate bull. I got you.”

  His two minions, following a step behind as usual, snickered.

  Oh, such a bad idea.

  Brody watched, still frozen, as Jasmin turned slowly and raked her gaze up and down Bastian’s beefy, over-muscled body. He had his shirt open to show the bare-breasted mermaid tattoo on his left pec, positioned so her boobs joggled when he flexed, which he did now.

  So classy.

  Jasmin raised her eyes to Bastian’s face and answered in that sexy, gravelly voice that Brody had only heard once or twice.

  “You,” she said to Bastian, “do not fucking ‘got’ me, puppy dog.”

  His minions snickered again, this time at Bastian’s expense. His face went tight and angry. “Just bein’ friendly,” he said. “No call to be a bitch, when everyone can see you need a real man to put you in your place.” He grabbed his crotch.

  Jasmin didn’t blink.

  Watch out.

  “I do?” she purred. “Then what are you doing here? Because I would fuck a traitor, an omega or a house cat before I’d let you have even a teeny little taste of me.”

  Oh, shit. Now she’d pissed him off. Bastian’s face darkened, and he reached out to actually fucking grab her breast. “Looks like that’s all you got, bitch. A little teeny—well, you can’t rightly even call that a rack, can you?”

  Jasmin went totally still.

  Brody started over there to punch Bastian’s lights out, but stopped at the look on Jasmin’s face.

  Bastian’s hand froze in mid-air.

  Moving as slowly as a stalking cat, Jasmin peeled off her own shirt. She was wearing nothing underneath,
and her breasts were—well, only an idiot like Bastian would think they weren’t amazing. Smooth, sexy, kissable rounds, moving with her sleekly muscled chest.

  Bastian had clearly changed his mind about the inferiority of the boobs, because his jaw went slack. Brody would have called him a freakin’ perv except that he was staring just as hard, and his boner had started up again.

  Jasmin reached out to Bastian, still moving in hypnotic slow motion. With a flick of her fingers she manifested her claws, and then slowly raked one down Bastian’s chest, right through the busty mermaid, splitting the skin and cutting her boobs off.

  Bastian’s eyes widened in shock, and blood ran down his chest.

  Jasmin looked from her own chest to Bastian’s. “There,” she purred. “Now she doesn’t have a rack either.”

  She turned and walked off toward the bag area, tossing her long black hair over her shoulder, showing them her back to underscore that she didn’t have any fear of them at all.

  Damn, Brody thought. He might have just fallen in love with the crazy.

  Jasmin took her pants off and tucked her clothes into her bag, then let one of the fight security crew escort her to the cage. Deep inside, she could hear her grandmother’s voice.

  How dare you do that to a man? He’ll come after you! He’ll hurt you! Say you’re sorry!

  She shoved her layers of steel over the whining weakling they’d tried to raise her to be. She told herself she was grateful to the buzz-cut now-boobless-mermaid guy, whoever the fuck he was. Dealing with him had forced her to slow down and focus.

  And it had fueled her jaguar’s rage. Arrogant prick, trying to intimidate her. But she’d given him nothing. No fear.

  Only pain and humiliation.

  She stood in front of the gate, waiting for the announcer, blocking out everything—the noise, the crowd, the fact that she was totally naked in a barn full of hyped-up dominant male wolves.