“I know. It’s shocking if you’ve never seen them like that before.” Quinn eyed her reaction, gauging her every move.
Slowly, she lowered her hands from her mouth, her eyes still fixed on the image. She had to play dumb. Had to make it look like she had no clue who he was. “Who is he?” she asked.
“Meet Wes Calhoun, former packmaster of the Wild Eight.”
Naomi’s heart stopped. Former packmaster?
“He disappeared three years ago after one god-awful bloody night in which he left the bodies of an innocent human woman and his monster of a predecessor—his father, Nolan Calhoun—in his wake.”
Naomi was shaking her head. No, this couldn’t be true. It couldn’t. It had to be some sort of cruel trick. This wasn’t the Wes she knew. Not the man who’d risked his life to protect hers on countless occasions, even when she’d been a total stranger, who’d fought the very wolves Quinn reported had once been his brothers to save her life.
He removed the top photo to reveal another. Naomi gasped again, not bothering to hide it. The photo depicted the corpse of a woman in a white linen bed. Blood poured from her neck, which appeared to have been mauled, torn to pieces by an animal.
By a wolf…
Hot tears stung Naomi’s eyes, and her hands shook. She tucked them into her coat pockets, where Quinn couldn’t see. Wes was the newest member of the Grey Wolf Pack and clearly had a bone to pick with Maverick, for reasons she hadn’t even begun to fathom…
The realization that the information might be true, that it fit every missing puzzle piece, dawned on her.
“Calhoun’s a monster. A murderer. We’ve been trying to find him, but he’s been off the grid. We have reason to believe the Wild Eight are resurging in membership, and we’re eager to find out if that means this bastard is back in the game.”
Naomi continued to shake her head. Though she couldn’t deny the validity of the information, there had to be some reason for his past actions, something the hunters were missing. She had to believe that no matter how rough around the edges he might be, the man who’d saved her life, the same man whose kiss twisted her insides and haunted her dreams, the man who had given her her first small taste of freedom couldn’t be a cold-blooded, malicious beast.
She refused to believe it. Not until she heard it from his lips. She’d sworn fealty to the Grey Wolves, and though it’d been no more than a means to an end at the time, she was a woman of her word. And the Grey Wolves included Wes. What would it say of her if she was so quick to believe the worst of him? A tear slipped down her cheeks, pooling on the black plastic seat of the ATV.
“It’s horrifying. I know.” Quinn must have interpreted her horror as a sign that she didn’t know the man in the photograph, because he didn’t press her further.
Naomi nodded and swiped at her tears with the back of her hand. Collecting herself, she searched for something to say. “Three years. Wouldn’t that be a cold case?”
“It is a cold case, but I have a personal interest in it.”
“Personal?” Naomi raised an eyebrow.
Quinn nodded. “She was a fellow hunter. She was undercover working alongside that monster when he killed her.” Quinn closed the file. He tucked it back into his briefcase. The locks clicked closed, and he turned back toward her. “And she was my wife.”
* * *
He was a glutton for punishment.
Wes decided this as he stood in the middle of a godforsaken alley in downtown Billings and pounded his fist on the steel door to the Midnight Coyote Saloon. Adrenaline buzzed beneath his skin. A cold gust of early November air whipped through the alley, sending a chill down his spine. In the past, he’d longed to come here countless times. Coyote’s had once been his home away from home, but after his betrayal, he might as well have been stepping into a pit of vipers. The Midnight Coyote resided firmly in Wild Eight territory, run by a warlock known only as Boss, who, though not exactly affiliated with the Wild Eight, was far from averse to serving them. Wes showing his face here was tantamount to a death wish.
The door to Coyote’s swung open.
The bouncer took one good look at Wes and swore. He turned his head over his shoulder and bellowed, “Boss! Get your ass out here.” Then he turned back to Wes. “My night just got a whole helluva a lot harder.” His Jersey accent still sounded out of place so far out west.
Wes smiled. “Nice to see you, too, Frank.” He pushed past the man and stepped inside.
Dim lighting barely illuminated the back-hall entrance, but Wes’s nocturnal retinas instantly adjusted.
The large bouncer was shaking his head as if he couldn’t believe his eyes. “You’re asking for trouble coming here, Wes.”
Wes knew that, but apparently, he was desperate enough not to give a shit. He ignored Frank’s comment. “How’s the wife?”
Frank lifted his large shoulders in a shrug. “She’s good, real good, but you didn’t come here to talk about Nic.”
The two men lingered in the doorframe.
Footsteps echoed down the short hallway. Wes turned to find himself face-to-face with the bar owner himself.
“You shouldn’t have come here, Wes.” The words dripped with warning, but Boss’s low voice wrapped around them like smooth velvet. The dark-skinned cowboy peered through the darkness at Wes. Beneath the rim of his hat, one brown eye and one green narrowed in an unsettling stare.
“You kicking me out?” Wes knew the answer before he asked. Boss never denied anyone entry. Wild Eight or otherwise. As long as they checked all their baggage at the door.
Rules or no, that didn’t stop a fair number of fights from breaking out at the bar. Considering the supernatural types who frequented the establishment—and it was well known that the Wild Eight were frequent and valued patrons here—those fights quickly turned into spilled blood and frequent death. But that didn’t even begin to speak to what lay in the Coyote Saloon’s basement.
Boss shook his head. “I like you enough to prefer not to see you killed, and I won’t offer you protection from them.”
Wes’s eyes flashed to his wolf’s. “I wasn’t asking for it.”
Boss clapped him on the shoulder. With that, he nodded toward the door leading to his office, beckoning Frank to follow him. As the bouncer and the warlock stepped inside, Boss shot a glance over his shoulder. “When you disappeared, some thought you were dead. I’m glad that wasn’t the case.” With that, Boss closed the door to his office, leaving Wes alone.
Bracing himself for what lay ahead, Wes inhaled a sharp breath and sauntered down the hallway toward the main room. Stepping through a cloud of smoke, Wes prowled toward the far side of the bar top, his boots creating an awful crunch with each step. Country music blared through nearby speakers, and the bar reeked of whiskey and peanuts. What was it with western bars and the need to drop peanut shells all over the goddamn floor?
Wes sauntered up to the bar top and took a seat. The bartender had her back turned, polishing a beer mug.
“Trixie,” Wes greeted her.
She spun to face him, and her eyes grew wide. The bar towel slipped from her hands. She quickly snatched it up off the garnish tray and let out a low whistle. “Well, I’ll be damned. If it ain’t Wes Calhoun in the flesh.”
“Say that a little louder, and you’re likely to start a brawl.”
She grinned. “Well, ain’t that what you’re here for, darlin’? You didn’t come in here looking for a good time.” She winked at him.
Wes smirked. Back in his Wild Eight days, Trixie had offered him plenty more than a good time on multiple occasions over the years, but he’d never accepted, and he had no plans of starting now.
Though maybe the barmaid would serve to get someone else out of his mind. He scanned Trixie as she shelved the beer mug she’d been cleaning, but his cock didn’t so much as stir. The image of Naomi splayed o
pen before him on her porch seared into his mind, and then his dick was doing far more than stirring. Apparently, his body had decided there was no other woman for him. Wes tried not to think about the implications of that.
Trixie poured a glass and clapped it onto the bar top in front of him. Maker’s Mark bourbon. Four fingers worth. Enough to work through his alpha-wolf metabolism.
“You know me well.”
“I drowned you in enough of these bottles over the years to know old troubles die hard.” She grabbed a lemon from the fridge and a nearby knife and started chopping some garnishes. Trixie always kept the bar fully stocked for mixed drinks, though Wes had never seen anyone order anything other than beer or straight liquor.
Her eyes darted over Wes’s shoulder. “Speaking of which, old trouble is headed straight toward you.”
He turned to find two Wild Eight members prowling in his direction. That hadn’t taken long. He hadn’t even started his drink. He only recognized one of the two men. Years ago, he’d known every member of the Wild Eight, which meant the one to his left was yet another new recruit. Of course, Donnie wouldn’t think twice about increasing the pack’s numbers indiscriminately. He wouldn’t think about the long-term consequences, wouldn’t care whether he’d be able to control that many young, reckless wolves, whether he’d devalued the pack with subpar members.
“You’ve got a lot of nerve coming here.” The new wolf’s hands clenched into fists.
Wes took a calm swig of his drink as if he had not a care in the world. The liquid burned down his throat. “I’ve been coming here since you were a pup.” He shot a glare to his right. “Since both of you were pups.” Wes’s gaze finally fell on the new wolf’s companion. “Finally swore in, I see…”
Gabe stood in the shadow of his overly confident friend. The years had made a lifetime of difference. The young wolf had filled out his lanky limbs, coming into the width of his shoulders and starting to look like a man instead of a boy. Gabe glared at Wes with anger in his eyes. There had been a time when Gabe’s gaze had been nothing but pure admiration and respect when he looked at Wes. Neither of which Wes had earned or deserved.
But Gabe had been hell-bent on becoming a Wild Eight, and at the time, Wes had been packmaster. He’d thought the wolf too young for the life they lived.
“No thanks to you.” The hatred in Gabe’s eyes seared into Wes. “Newly joined.”
“And did it work?” Wes asked. He took another cool sip of his whiskey.
Gabe’s features twisted in confusion.
“Did it make you feel like a man? Like your balls finally dropped?” Wes intended for the words to sting, to make the young wolf see that he was no more fulfilled by this life than he’d been in the years Wes had known him. If Gabe had just been sworn in, he was still green enough to save.
Gabe’s face flushed red with a mixture of anger and embarrassment. “You’ll be eating those words inside the ring, Wes.”
And there it was. Exactly what he’d come here for. While the upstairs of the Midnight Coyote Saloon remained neutral, what lay beneath the floorboards was anything but. The downstairs boasted a supernatural fighting ring, the level of fighting rivaled only by those used by professional MMA fighters. Two in the ring. No seconds to tap out. The wager: whatever the opponents agreed to, sworn and bound by the Boss’s magic. And the only rules in the ring were that no one stopped until someone hit the floor. More often than not, that someone never got up again.
Call it barbaric or animalistic, but for an elite fighter, it was a helluva way to get information or favors they wouldn’t come by otherwise, and that’s exactly what Wes intended to do.
“You challenging me to the ring, Gabe?” Wes was prepared to fight the young wolf if he had to. A match between them would present barely any challenge. It might as well have been a fight between a pit bull and a Chihuahua. The Chihuahua might have heart, but the pit bull’s jaws would snap him in two every time.
A smug grin crossed Gabe’s lips, and for a second, Wes almost thought the young wolf was stupid enough to accept the challenge. Gabe shook his head. “No. Not me. But I’ll wager a bet that Ethan will.”
That’s when Wes saw him. Prowling across the bar toward them was Ethan Lawrence.
A deep growl tore from Wes’s throat. That was no worse outcome than if Wes had been forced to fight Donnie himself. Ethan came to stand in front of the group, crossing his powerful arms over his chest. Immediately, Gabe and the new recruit stepped behind him, flanking his back and falling into line to show their deference like the errand boys they were.
“Wes,” Ethan greeted him.
Wes didn’t bother to respond with the bastard’s name.
“You came here for a fight.”
“I came here for retribution.”
“Then lead the way, Packmaster.” The moniker was intended to taunt.
The words stung exactly as Ethan had intended, but Wes’s expression betrayed nothing. He cradled the rage deep inside him, prepared to release it when they were in the ring. “Boss,” Wes hollered.
The warlock appeared from the hall where Wes had entered moments earlier. He didn’t even need to say the word. Boss simply shook his head and beckoned the group of werewolves down the nearby stairs. At the sight of the group of wolves descending the staircase, a collective whoop erupted among the bar patrons, who quickly downed their drinks and followed.
Patrons hungry for violence formed a ring around Wes and Ethan.
Boss stood at the center with them, his dark features indifferent. “The terms?”
Ethan pointed one large thumb toward his chest. “If I win, I take him bound and tied back to the Wild Eight clubhouse. Serve him up to Donnie on a platter.”
The crowd’s eyes turned toward Wes. “If I win, you tell me why the Wild Eight is now involved with vampires and what Naomi Evans has to do with it.”
Boss gestured them both forward. “Shake on it.”
Wes’s hand collided with Ethan’s in a shake that could only be described as pure aggression. Boss’s hands hovered above theirs. Purple light coiled around Wes’s and Ethan’s wrists like a snake, twisting and turning until the bond seared into their skin. They were bound to their word now. Short of death, Boss’s curse was unbreakable. If honor didn’t compel them to keep their word, the curse and the pain it inflicted would.
When Boss lowered his hands and stepped back, Wes and Ethan released each other’s grip and fell into fighting stance. The walls echoed with jeering shouts, egging them on.
Wes waited, shifting on the balls of his feet. In his Wild Eight days, he had fought and struck in blind fury. Little plan. Little strategy. Nothing but flying fists and rage. At times when he thought back to then, he realized he had been asking to die. Not because his life, his position, required it, but because he’d longed to feel. Pain. Pleasure. Anything. Anything that would take the numb edge off.
Then in the span of a night, his life had crumbled to pieces, and suddenly, he’d felt everything too much. The pain. The guilt. The betrayal. He’d felt them so acutely that he’d run.
But he wasn’t running now, and this time, he didn’t intend to gamble with his life. He would harness his rage, fuel his hate with strategy. And he would win.
Ethan hovered, waiting for Wes to take the first punch as he would have in the old days.
“Come on, Wes. You scared to throw the first punch?” Ethan taunted.
“I could say the same to you.”
Ethan charged, his pride getting the better of him. He raised his fist, lunging toward Wes. The move was sloppy, dramatic, and easy to dodge. Wes countered with a jab of his own, landing a blow in Ethan’s solar plexus. Ethan sputtered for air, and then Wes was on him. He punched the other man in the jaw, his fist connecting with bone. Ethan’s whole body twisted from the weight of the blow. But he harnessed the momentum, circling around with a
punch of his own. The large man’s fist collided with Wes’s eye. Wes’s head snapped back, causing him to stumble. Pain seared through his cheekbone and eye socket, throbbing with the beat of his pulse. A groan sounded from the crowd. He’d sport a shiner for certain.
Ethan dove for Wes’s legs, and the two men crashed to the floor in a heap of tangled limbs. Ethan had the upper hand in weight and size, but Wes was faster, and he would use that speed to his advantage. Before Ethan could pin him, Wes rolled and jumped to a crouching position. Ethan turned his head toward him, wolf eyes blazing and canines bared.
Wes lunged, leaping onto the other man’s back. He wrapped both arms around Ethan’s neck, pulling the bastard into a choke hold. Ethan clawed at Wes’s grip as he struggled for air. Using all his strength, Ethan pushed himself up from the floor, Wes still clinging to his back. With slow, pained movements, he rose to his full height. Damn it. Wes pressed harder against Ethan’s throat. The bastard had to be close to passing out. Shit.
Ethan threw himself backward, body slamming Wes to the floor. Rage coursed through him.
Before Wes could scramble to his feet, Ethan shifted into his wolf. It was an unfair move, shifting when Wes was down. It changed the playing field completely. But there were no rules in Boss’s ring, which meant Ethan could fight as dirty as he pleased. His paws hit Wes straight in the chest, pinning him to the ground. Sharp canine fangs sank into Wes’s shoulder, tearing at flesh and muscle. A garbled roar of pain ripped from Wes’s throat. The Wild Eight members of the crowd released a victorious roar.
Ethan shook his head back and forth, ripping into Wes as if he were a particularly juicy steak. Wes’s vision blurred. Cold. He was so damn cold. He could feel the blood draining from his face.
He was losing blood fast. He had no choice but to shift as soon as possible. He would heal faster in wolf form. But he couldn’t focus through the pain in order to shift.
Cowboy Wolf Trouble Page 18
