The Wolf Princess: The Wolf PrincessOne Eye Open (The Pack)

by Karen Whiddon

  “It doesn’t work like that.” One corner of his mouth twisted. Turning away, he grabbed the remote. Brenna indulged herself, admiring the view from the rear.

  He clicked on the television. A diet cola commercial with a loud, inane jingle came on. Channel up. The local news anchor excitedly described a fire. Camera footage panned in on a roaring blaze. The building collapsed as they watched, despite the fire department’s attempt to save it.

  “That’s the motel we were staying in until last night.” Brenna stared, her heart beginning to pound. “I don’t believe it.”

  Carson swore. “They torched it. They must have thought we were still there.” He thumbed up the volume.

  “At least two known dead,” the news woman intoned. “Several more injured.”

  “Maybe I was wrong about the tracking device,” Carson said slowly. “Obviously they didn’t know we’d moved.”

  “The federal agents.” Unable to peel her gaze away from the television, Brenna’s eyes ached. “Do you think they made it out?”

  “If they didn’t, Hades’ Claws will have hell to pay. The Justice Department doesn’t take kindly to the murder of their own.”

  Witnesses claimed they’d seen nothing. Heard nothing.

  Most had been awakened by their smoke alarms going off.

  “We need to put a stop to this.” Brenna stood, tearing her gaze away from the screen to meet Carson’s eyes.

  “Oh, yeah?” He lifted a brow. “How do you propose to do that? Have you got a cadre of men with AK-47s that I don’t know about?”

  “No.” Glancing back at the news, she bared her teeth, knowing Carson couldn’t see. “But there has to be some way.”

  “When you think of one, let me know.”

  Another commercial came on. Carson stabbed the off button. The sudden silence seemed poignant—and threatening.

  Brenna exhaled. Inhaled. Repeated the process. She had to strive for calm, especially now. The momentary instant of violent rage that had bubbled up inside her had triggered her body to begin the onset of change. Each time, the craving intensified. Each time, subjugation proved more difficult.

  Too bad. She had more important things to think about right now.

  “So what’s your plan?” she asked.

  Carson took his time answering, rotating his neck while massaging the back of it. “I don’t have one,” he said. The stark words sounded bleak.

  “It’s got to get better,” she repeated. “It certainly couldn’t get any worse.”

  His grim expression told her that he thought it could. “Don’t tempt fate.”

  As if on cue, Carson’s cell phone rang. Keeping his back to her, he answered. The conversation was brief. She could only make out a few of his monosyllabic replies.

  He snapped the phone closed. His sudden tension indicated the information he’d received hadn’t been good. With a major effort of will, she waited.

  “You were right about one thing.” He flashed her a humorless smile. “Something good is going to happen today—for you. You’re going home.”

  For one heart-stopping second she thought he meant something had happened to Alex. But no, his savage expression contained no satisfaction, just anger.

  “Only if you go with me.” She smiled, knowing he would do no such thing. “And since we’ve covered this before, I’m not going anywhere.”

  “You’ve got to leave,” he said. “It’s too dangerous for you. If you won’t listen to me, listen to your brother. He warned you. He was right. Pack your stuff. I’ll take you to catch a bus.”

  Her heart stuttered. “Was that Alex on the phone just now?”

  “No.” Jaw clenched, he bit out the single word. “That was Jack.”

  “Your informant?”

  “Yeah.” His hooded gaze was bleak. “Only, this time he said he had a message for me from the Claws.”

  “They know he talks to you?”

  “Apparently so.”

  Moving forward, she touched his arm. “He’s in trouble, then.”

  To her surprise, though he went very still, he didn’t shake off her hand.

  “More than trouble. This isn’t like some TV show. He has something to tell me. He thinks they’re on to him. I’m meeting him at the bus station in an hour. He’s got to get out of town, too, or he’s a dead man.”

  Chapter 12

  Her hand on his arm felt like a brand. When she touched him, Carson froze. They had sixty minutes before they had to meet Jack. Suddenly, fiercely, he wanted to make love to her, take her swiftly, furiously, mindlessly.

  Her small hand on his arm wasn’t nearly enough. He could cover her hand with his, slide his palm up her arm to her shoulder, then cup her chin. One step would do it. One step, one move, and he could have her in his arms, where he could kiss her senseless. One touch, one kiss, would be enough to make both of them temporarily forget about this mess.

  The light floral scent she wore made him think of Easter in the dead of winter. Renewal. The phone call, Jack’s panicked voice, had brought everything into focus, made his emotions, desires and needs more intense. Enough was enough. He was tired of death. Once, just once, he longed to celebrate life.

  The ache in his side felt inconsequential now. The cramped room, the trouble with Jack, all of it faded as he contemplated giving in to his newly awakened, raging libido and taking her, hard and fast and furious.

  “What did Jack find out?” Brenna’s worried voice broke through his thoughts.

  Jack. He’d always tried to take care of him, slipping the kid a little extra so he could eat. How could he think of sex when Jack was in trouble? Furious at himself, he moved away. Though they had an hour, he needed to use the time to figure out a way to help Jack, to make sure he got out of town safely. Since Jack had been helping him, the younger man’s trouble was now his responsibility, his fault.

  “Hello, Carson?” Brenna repeated. “What about Jack’s message?”

  His priorities finally in order, he swallowed and hoped she wouldn’t notice his raging arousal. He edged toward the bathroom.

  “I think he’s worried about you. He warned me to get you out of here. You’re next, he said. His voice was shaking. First time I’ve ever heard him rattled.”

  “He’s young.” Her voice had gone soft, similar to the gentle way she spoke to Phelan. When she noticed Carson looking at her, she started toward him. Out of reflex, he stepped back, ignoring the pang he felt at hurting her. Then she lifted her chin, eyes flashing, and he told himself he’d only imagined it.

  “We’ve known all along they’re after me.” He held up a hand to prevent her from moving. “And Jack, too, because of me. Now they want you, too. They’ll kill you, do you understand? That girl, Jack specifically said.”

  “Why?” Her clipped tone showed anger, which surprised him. He would have expected fear. “Did they give a reason?”

  She constantly surprised him. Most women would have reacted with fear. But then, nothing about Alex’s sister was ordinary.

  “It’s like I’ve been telling you all along. You’re with me. You might be my girlfriend, for all they know. You might know too much. Who knows how the hell they think? Most of them are borderline psychopaths.”

  “Psychopaths?” She sounded disbelieving.

  “Yeah. Most killers are. So pack your stuff. I’ll dress and then take you to the bus station. Jack thinks I should put you on the bus with him.” He headed for the bathroom again.

  “It could be a trap to distract you. They want you more than me.”

  He didn’t turn around. “Could be. But that doesn’t change anything. You’re leaving.”

  She didn’t reply. Maybe she finally understood. Hah—that would be a good one. He closed the bathroom door, sagging against it. Though Brenna hadn’t seemed to notice, the front of his jeans still bulged conspicuously. Muttering to himself, he ran a hand through his longish hair.

  “Ready?” he called, opening the door. “The bus station is downtown,
near Main Street. If you need bus fare, I have it.”

  “Quit it.” Crouched over, stroking Phelan, she didn’t raise her head to look at him. He noticed she’d twisted her hair into a knot on the back of her head.

  “I’m not going anywhere.”

  He should have known. “But—”

  “Carson. I’m staying. Live with it.”

  Her casual choice of words cut deep. “I can’t live with it, Brenna. There’s no way I can live with another death on my hands.”

  She lifted her head and rose, graceful in tight jeans. Barefoot, she padded over to him. Before he understood what she meant to do, she wrapped her arms around him—careful of his side wound—and laid her head against his shoulder.

  He tensed—couldn’t help it—and tried to summon up the strength, the desire, to push her away. He couldn’t find it. So he stood, frozen, knowing she could feel the proof of his desire for her. He waited for her to speak. When she didn’t, merely held on, he breathed in her scent. Brenna. She’d somehow stormed her way inside his heart.

  He should have felt angry. He should have felt miserable. Instead, he felt a dawning sense of wonder. She made him feel as though he had a future to anticipate, as if he still had hope. Such possibilities shouldn’t exist—not in the gray aftermath of his bleak world. Since he knew them to be utterly, completely false, the very thought hurt a thousand times worse.

  Still, he couldn’t summon up the necessary will to make her release him. Maybe he’d become a masochist of sorts, for in the midst of such pain he found a bright blossom of pleasure.

  Brenna.

  How long they stood that way, he didn’t know. Forever. Not long enough. Then, with a soft sigh, she finally released him. Silently moved away. Now, his weakness revealed, he couldn’t bring himself to look at her, to meet her eyes. He’d stupidly made himself vulnerable, and there was no way he could deal with the pity he was sure to see. And pity she must feel. Compassion could be the only reason for her tenderness, though he’d certainly done nothing to deserve it.

  Not quite steady, he tried to regain control of himself. The scent of flowers—roses? tulips?—lingered, out of place in the dingy hotel room. In the course of his job he’d stayed in a hundred similar places, each of them impersonal, a stopping place, a bed to sleep in. How he’d longed for home then, the brightness of his family’s laughter and the comfort of knowing he was loved. He’d known how lucky he was each time he returned to the aroma of fresh-baked bread and his daughter’s soft kisses, though he’d never truly appreciated the scope of his blessings. Not until they were savagely ripped from him.

  Afterward, while he’d lain in his hospital bed willing himself to die, he’d had one question. The same question that surely plagued every other person who walked away from a fiery car crash, the lone survivor. Why? Why them and not him? Why had he lived while they died? Why?

  Unable to find an answer, he’d finally gained some measure of understanding. He must have lost them because he’d never deserved them to begin with.

  “Let’s go save Jack,” Brenna said, bright-voiced, as if nothing untoward had occurred.

  He glanced at his watch. “We have forty-five minutes. I’ll take the dog out before we go.”

  “Phelan.” Her quiet tone rebuked him. “His name is Phelan.”

  “Fine. Whatever.” He grabbed his jacket. In the small room, with her scent still fresh in his lungs, he felt uneasy. Maybe, if he went outside and breathed in deeply, the sharp air of the winter afternoon might clear his head.

  If he let the scattered patches of unmelted snow dampen the bottom of his boots, he might be able to remember what was most important. Justice. Vengeance. Not gentle brown eyes and soft skin. Not a beguiling smile and come-hither body.

  He spun, meaning to scoop up the puppy and go. But Phelan had heard Brenna say his name and was right there, under Carson’s foot. He stumbled, the puppy yelped, and Brenna rushed over. They both bent at the same time to comfort the young dog, heads nearly colliding.

  The front window shattered. Something hit the carpet, rolling into the bathroom. A second, a heartbeat. Carson recognized the oddly shaped gray cylinder—a pipe bomb.

  “Down!” He jumped on Brenna, pushing her to the floor and covering her body and Phelan’s with his own.

  The world exploded.

  After that, time existed only in flashes.

  Searing heat. Fire. Move. He scooped up the shocked puppy, grabbed Brenna’s arm. Smoke. Couldn’t see. Burning.

  Flames reached for them, attempting to lick at their jeans, hair, skin. Hurt.

  Stop, drop and roll. No time. Need air.

  More smoke. Heavy and blistering. More heat. Fire. Frantic, he sought a way out. An exit. There. An opening where the wall had been. Furious, hungry, the fire roared in front of them, behind them, surrounding them. Death.

  Brenna clutched his hand. He caught a glimpse of her face. Her eyes were red and wide with terror.

  “Jump,” he shouted, throat raw. “Our only chance. Now!”

  Together they leaped.

  Then they were through. Free. Outside.

  Run. He felt each footstep as they pounded the ground. Lungs burning, he sucked in air, cool and fresh. He rubbed his eyes. They were full of soot.

  Brenna stayed with him. In the shimmering mirage caused by the heat, her movements seemed animal-like, powerful. Alien.

  He didn’t care. Live, he silently urged her, urged himself. Live. His heart pumped, pounded. Proof of life.

  The sharp bite of icy air seared his lungs. Still running. Away from the motel. He’d parked the Tahoe around back, out of sight.

  In the distance, sirens screamed.

  Run.

  At the edge of the trees, he collapsed. Brenna dropped to the wet ground beside him, coughing. Phelan whimpered, struggling to be free. Carson let him go, and the puppy staggered a few feet before dropping to the ground.

  “Is he—”

  Brenna crawled forward. She ran her hands over Phelan’s immobile body. “He’s all right, except his fur.” Her voice sounded like sandpaper. She combed her fingers through the dog’s short coat. “Singed.”

  “Check yourself,” Carson ordered, discovering he, too, was unable to speak above a hoarse whisper. “For cuts. Burns.”

  He coughed, causing a sharp jab of pain in his side. The knife wound. Minor. Ignoring it, he pushed himself to his knees and crawled over to Brenna, hacking and wheezing like an old man.

  Damp and clammy, the ground was still snowy in spots, though mostly from old moldering leaves and mud. The numbing moisture felt good on the palms of his hands, dampening his jeans at the knees.

  He couldn’t seem to stop coughing.

  “Are you okay?” She squinted at him.

  When he could speak again he managed a nod. “Getting the smoke out of my lungs.”

  Though the night air felt crisp, he removed his jacket and spread it on the ground for her. “Here. Sit.”

  Once she was settled, he dropped down next to her. Phelan had staggered away, sniffing. He seemed intent on exploring the trees.

  Brenna straightened and opened her mouth. Now she coughed, the spasms doubling her over. Feeling awkward, he reached out, patting her back. She jerked away, glaring at him, still hacking. Finally she wiped her mouth with the back of her hand.

  “They found us,” she said.

  He nodded.

  “Maybe we should go to the police.”

  “You know we can’t.”

  “Phelan,” she called. “Phelan.”

  The sirens grew louder. Across the field, a fire engine raced into the parking lot, lights flashing white and red.

  His stomach clenched, remembering another time, another ambulance. That time help had come too late to save his family.

  Brenna touched his arm, bringing him back to the present. “What do you want to do?”

  “The Tahoe,” he said. “It’s all we have. We’ve got to get to it now.”

  Sh
e nodded and pushed herself to her feet, staggering slightly. Joints protesting, Carson did the same.

  More sirens—police cars following the ambulance and fire truck. It wouldn’t be long until the Feds from their last motel showed up, if they were still alive. If not, there would be others. Since a bomb had been used, ATF would be called in, as well. That meant DEA, FBI, ATF, as well as local and state police, would be swarming the place. Exactly what he—and, he would have thought, Hades’ Claws—wanted to avoid.

  A crowd began to gather in front of the burning motel. More cars raced up—most likely curious civilians—and pulled into the parking lot. Others stopped on the shoulder of the road, onlookers emerging to gawk at the inferno. Now, before the rest of the circus started, would be their only chance.

  “Wait here,” he said. She nodded, and he sprinted for the Tahoe. Gasping for air, he felt the beating his lungs had just taken. But he made it to the edge of the parking lot, slowing his pace, pretending to be another curiosity seeker watching the fire. Hoping the firefighters were too intent on the blaze to notice him, he unlocked the door and started the engine. In the confusion, no one paid him any attention. Slowly he drove to the edge of the pavement and stopped.

  Brenna emerged from the darkness, Phelan in her arms. She climbed in, yanking her door closed with a resounding thunk. She smelled of smoke and soot.

  Both silent, they pulled onto the highway, heading north. Lights flashing, sirens wailing, two police cars sped past them on the way to the disaster. No doubt this and the fire the night before were the most excitement Hawk’s Falls had seen in years.

  Leaving the fire behind, Carson finally exhaled. Driving with blind luck, he located another of those deserted dirt roads that appeared to lead to nowhere and turned on it.

  Because his hands and arms felt like rubber, he only went a couple of miles before he pulled over on the shoulder and killed the engine.

  He looked at Brenna. Wide-eyed, she stared back.

  “It’s cold,” she said, her voice husky.

  Was she in shock? Most likely, though the dampness of the chilly night did tend to seep into the bones. He gathered her in his arms, holding her tightly in his lap. Only to keep them both warm. Nothing more. Unable to help himself, he dropped a kiss on the top of her head.