Cowboy Wolf Trouble

by Kait Ballenger

  She was a fighter after all. She always had been.

  The binds at her hands reminded her of that.

  Abruptly, the rocking came to a stop. She fell to the ground, her shoulder hitting a piece of craggy mountain rock hard enough to send a jolt of pain down her arm. If she hadn’t been conscious before, she would be now. Whoever had been carrying her had tossed her aside like a sack of flour. Struggling in the grass, she wiggled herself into a sitting position.

  Though seeing in the dark of the woods presented its own challenge, the moon lit the forest enough that she could see the outline of a group of male figures standing nearby. One male stood at the center, barking orders at the others. A chill ran down her spine as she recognized the voice. Donnie, and the other wolves with him were clearly Wild Eight. From the surrounding flora and fauna, they were in the Crazy Mountains, firmly in Grey Wolf territory.

  She held no illusion that she could outrun them. She’d tried that before with Wes and hadn’t managed to get more than a few feet. She racked her brain for some way out of this, some way she could save herself. Finally, she did the only thing that came to her. She screamed, hoping, praying that any Grey Wolf would hear her. Hell, even Malcolm would be a better choice than none.

  The sharp sound pierced the quiet night, but a forceful kick to the stomach silenced her. The air flew from her lungs, leaving her gasping for breath. She doubled over in pain.

  “You’re lucky we’re not closer to Wolf Pack Run, you bitch,” the Wild Eight member who kicked her spat out. “Pull something like that again, and you won’t have vocal cords to scream with.”

  The sound of duct tape screeching as it was wrenched from the roll alerted her moments before the sticky adhesive sealed her mouth.

  She heard the grin in Donnie’s voice as he said, “Much better.”

  He stepped away from her and pointed to several of his men. “You four watch over her. We need to keep moving. If the Grey Wolves don’t know already, it won’t be long before they realize we’re in their territory. We need to charge them before they can prepare.” Donnie glanced down toward her, as if she were nothing more than a bug beneath the heel of his boot. “I’m going to lead Wes back here, away from the battle, then we’ll see how quickly that bleeding heart surrenders once I threaten to slit her throat.” As Donnie headed into the forest, he shot one last glance over his shoulder at the Wild Eight wolves guarding her. “Rough her up, and make it convincing.”

  Chapter 22

  A thin strip of pale-yellow light peeked over the cerulean skyline, casting grim shadows over the sturdy pine trees. A thick layer of fog had settled over the mountain landscape, the dew and mist brightening the remaining green shortgrass to an eye-popping emerald. Nearby, the occasional singsong call of a meadowlark or the rustle of a rabbit or small fox navigating through the bushes were the only sounds. To the naked eye, the mountainside remained a peaceful, deserted terrain, untouched by man. And the Grey Wolves wanted it that way.

  Wes crouched beneath the shade of a large pine and a heavy patch of bushes, gazing out into the open meadow before him. He drew breath in slow, steady movements, careful to blend into the surrounding wilderness. He was armed to the teeth with a blade strapped to each ankle, along with one in his hand.

  Several crows squawked their dissent, fluttering off into the air on the other side of the meadow. A sure sign that someone approached. If one remained still, the birds acted as alarm enough.

  When the first Wild Eight packmember broke through the trees, Wes recognized him immediately. A wolf named Lawrence, who’d been a brutal but efficient grunt man, the type of man one called when there were bodies to bury. He strolled into the meadow as if there was no reason for discretion or careful footing. A small mob of heavily armed Wild Eight members emerged behind him. Donnie was nowhere in sight.

  They would come in waves, small groups of infantry meant to tire out and exhaust the Grey Wolf fighters, saving the vampires and their half-turned monsters for a final sweep. Luckily, the Grey Wolves planned to mimic those tactics, per Colt’s orders. But more than several miles from Wolf Pack Run, this first group of Wild Eight had clearly expected the Grey Wolves to still be formulating their plans inside their fortress. It had been Wes who had suggested otherwise. He’d presented the plan to Colt, who’d worked out the logistics. The Wild Eight would reasonably assume the Grey Wolves would take all the time they could to prepare, lying in wait to ambush as the Wild Eight came to them.

  Wes waited, still unmoving in the bushes as the men approached the center of the meadow. An arrow swooped through the air, landing straight in Lawrence’s shoulder. He staggered in surprise as the wound hissed and sizzled. Eyes wide in confusion, Lawrence reached down to pull Colt’s silver arrow from his shoulder as he raised his eyes toward the tree line in alarm.

  The first Grey Wolf charged.

  The sounds of battle cries, shouting, and feet pounding against cold rock broke the mountain silence. Wes tore from his spot among the trees as he threw himself into the fray, knife drawn and at the ready. As he ran, he noted the tree line in the distance where another surge of Wild Eight emerged. They’d broken from their old tactics in favor of a different approach.

  Let them come, he thought.

  Knives and fists clashed around him as he tore through the meadow, past the spilled blood and cries from both sides. He had only two goals in this fight. Find Naomi, and kill Donnie where he stood.

  A Wild Eight recruit he didn’t recognize jumped in front of his path, slashing his knife in menace. Wes snarled. If it was a knife fight this pup wanted, he’d give it to him. Wes brought his elbow down over his opponent’s, stepping into the other wolf’s attack and bringing the young wolf down. Wes charged onward. He fought several more wolves along his way, each time besting his opponent with skill and speed. The image of Naomi at Donnie’s mercy drove him. He had to find her.

  His blade was pushed hilt deep into the belly of a Wild Eight member when he caught sight of Donnie in the distance. All sound ceased, and time slowed around them as the two wolves met eyes. Donnie stepped toward him as if in challenge, and then ran. Coward that he was. Wes chased after him, running through the meadow and into the trees.

  Donnie continued to run, leading him away from the main battle in order to get him alone. It would have been a sound tactic if Wes hadn’t anticipated it, if the Execution Underground’s intel hadn’t already told him that Donnie planned to use Naomi as bait.

  They ran until they reached a small thicket among the trees, far outside the battle. But the sight before him wrenched him to a sudden halt. Naomi stood on the other side of the clearing, Donnie behind her, his knife poised straight between her breasts, the tip angled for her heart. From the bruises and cuts that covered the skin of her arms and face, the Wild Eight had beaten her. White-hot rage seared through Wes. He would murder any man or wolf who ever laid a hand on her. A crude piece of duct tape covered her mouth to keep her from screaming, but her dark-brown eyes met his. A tempest built inside Wes’s chest, but on the surface, he remained calm, collected, the eye of the storm.

  “I should have killed you when I had the chance,” Wes snarled at Donnie. He’d regretted that moment ever since.

  Donnie pulled Naomi closer to him, sidling up behind her until she pressed against him. “Don’t move or I’ll gut her,” he sneered.

  Wes lifted his hands in a sign of good faith, his blade still clutched in his right hand. “Let her go, or you’ll live to regret it.”

  Donnie scowled. “Perhaps you don’t understand…” He reached up to Naomi’s mouth and tore the duct tape away. Naomi yelped in pain. The adhesive left her dark skin red and ruddy around her mouth. Donnie’s knife pressed into her breast, and she cried out.

  “Okay, okay.” Wes rotated the blade so that the hilt faced outward. Another Wild Eight member emerged from the surrounding foliage and stripped it from him. With b
oth of Wes’s hands empty and a knife at the throat of the woman he loved, Donnie held a distinct advantage. For now.

  All Wes needed to do was keep him talking.

  At the sight of Wes unarmed and outnumbered, Naomi’s eyes grew wide and panic-stricken. She was afraid he wouldn’t be able to save her without his knife—foolish, wonderful, knife-fighting woman that she was. He tried to convey everything to her in a single glance, but fear clouded her vision. If only she realized…

  “Let her go,” Wes commanded again. “I’ll do whatever you ask, but don’t hurt her.”

  “Let me guess…because you love her, just as you loved the other human bitch,” Donnie spat out.

  “No, it’s different.” Wes meant that he had never loved Delilah as deeply as he did Naomi. The human rancher had been destined for him from the start. He realized that now. He couldn’t escape the pull between them if he tried. But as he said this, Naomi’s eyes filled with fresh tears, and he knew she’d heard something different, knew what the pain he’d inflicted on her had caused her to hear.

  Wes shook his head slowly. If only she knew that he lived, breathed, and bled only for her.

  She’d woken him from a life no better than death.

  Don’t cry, Miss Kitty. It’s not what you think, he wanted to say. In a perfect world, she would chuckle at that godforsaken nickname, and he’d pull her close, claim her mouth, and make up for all the hurt he’d caused her, every ounce of pain, because he did love her, fierce and true and forever. Regardless of the pack rules that had forced them apart, she’d made him whole again, and if he had to choose between her and the Grey Wolves, then so be it. He’d choose her, every damn time. But he’d hurt her, and he intended to make it right. Oh, how he wanted to make it right, but now was neither the time nor the place to confess his love, no matter how true.

  “You hear that?” Donnie hissed. “He doesn’t care for you, not in the way he did Delilah, and look what happened to her.”

  “That’s not true, Naomi, and you know it.” Wes stepped forward and reached out a hand. A rustle in the nearby woods told Wes he’d waited nearly long enough.

  Donnie dragged Naomi farther backward and shook his head. “Don’t listen to him. He tells a pretty story. A tragic hero framed for the murder of the innocent woman he loved. But she wasn’t innocent, and neither is he. There was no knife held to his throat, no gun to his head as he slaughtered our enemies. He murdered in cold blood and just as swiftly took the life of his own father, like the lives of so many others.”

  So this was how Donnie was going to play it? Draw upon his sense of guilt, his pain, his anger, and convince the woman he loved that he was a monster. Sure, Donnie wanted to kill Wes, but first and foremost, his goal was pain. He intended to hurt Wes in any way he could muster.

  But what he didn’t realize was that Wes had finally come to terms with who he was. He may not be worthy or deserving of Naomi’s love, but now that he had it, it wrapped around him like armor, making him invincible, impenetrable, as long as he had her by his side.

  Wes nodded. “You’re right. I am a monster.”

  Donnie’s face hardened at Wes’s admission, the faintest sign that it had shocked him.

  Wes gestured between them. “You and I are cut from the same damn cloth, Donnie. We grew up together, rose in the Wild Eight’s pack ranks together, killed together.” Wes chanced a cautious step forward, but Donnie was too focused on his speech to either care or notice. “I called you my brother.”

  Donnie’s eyes flared with rage at the reminder.

  “I’m still that same wolf, just as violent, stubborn, and ruthless.” Wes took another step. This time, Donnie reeled farther back, bumping into a nearby tree.

  Just a few seconds longer.

  “But the past is the past.” Wes dared a glance at Naomi as he said this, urging her to see the truth, the meaning in his eyes. He knew this now. She’d shown him. It didn’t matter if he’d been a good man. He could be one to her, with her. If she’d still have him…

  “I’m stronger now, because there’s one major difference between you and me…” Wes continued. One step farther.

  Behind Naomi and Donnie, Maverick’s face came into view. As planned, Maverick and several other Grey Wolves had followed Wes at a distance, slowly picking off Donnie’s packmates one by one while the Wild Eight packmaster was distracted.

  Donnie scowled and inched farther back. “And what’s that?”

  Slowly, Naomi’s eyes widened as Maverick slipped his knife into her open hand from behind. Gently, Naomi’s palm encircled the blade.

  Wes smirked and met Donnie’s eyes. “Now, my packmates keep their word.”

  Several things happened at once. Naomi chose that moment to stab the blade Maverick had just given her into the muscled flesh of Donnie’s forearm. Donnie cried out, releasing her. She stumbled out of his grasp and toward the tree line just as Maverick appeared, prepared to guard and protect her. Wes lunged, shifting midjump, and then he was on Donnie. Tearing, pulling, ripping with the strength of his teeth.

  Donnie drew his knee up between them and kicked Wes back, using the spare moment to shift into his own wolf form. On their hind legs, they crashed into one another, claws slashing and jaws snapping in a wild, feral battle. Though Donnie had grown in skill over the years, Wes would always be the stronger wolf—by blood, by birth, by character. He knew Donnie’s strengths, his tactics. They’d trained together, hunted together, grown together, and Wes knew his weaknesses just as well.

  Knocking the other wolf to the ground, Wes came out on top, pinning Donnie. Within seconds, he shifted, gripping the snarling beast by the throat and lifting him high into the air.

  Donnie shifted beneath Wes’s hands, and once again, they stood in this position. Wes held the power to crush the bastard’s windpipe, to choke the life out of him and end his existence for good.

  “Go ahead,” Donnie rasped, wasting the remainder of his breath flapping his damn mouth. “Kill me.” His eyes darted to the edge of the clearing, where Naomi stood watching with Maverick guarding her side. “Show her the monster you really are.”

  The color in Donnie’s face thickened, turning from a pale pink to a breathless red. Every instinct in Wes screamed to close his fist, to crush the other wolf’s windpipe, or maybe to leave him like this.

  “Wes,” Naomi called softly to him from the edge of the clearing, urging him to let go.

  If Naomi wanted him to spare Donnie’s life, then so be it. If that was what it took to redeem himself, to show her that he loved her, that he wasn’t anything like the wolf strangling beneath his clutch, then so be it. Slowly, Wes lowered Donnie to the ground. As he did so, something flared in Donnie’s eyes, something like victory.

  Let him think he’d won, if it meant one less stain on Wes’s already black soul, if it meant the woman he loved thought him less of a monster, if it meant her forgiveness renewed. He released Donnie with a rough shove, causing the wolf to stumble back. Donnie’s face contorted in a laugh, and that’s when Wes saw it.

  The half-turned vampire released a menacing hiss, springing forth from the trees to leap onto the weakest link. It sank its fangs into Donnie’s throat, and within seconds, Donnie dropped like a stone, dead at the hands of his own monster. It appeared that the half-turned vampires in all their brute glory couldn’t distinguish between a Wild Eight wolf and a Grey Wolf.

  “Wes!” Naomi shrieked.

  He realized then that she hadn’t been urging him to release Donnie and spare him at all. She’d been warning him of the second vampire that approached at his back. The monster sank its fangs into Wes’s throat. Pain seared through him, and he felt himself drop, heard the sounds of Naomi’s scream and the snarl of Maverick’s wolf.

  Then everything went black.

  * * *

  Somewhere off in the distance, Wes heard a faint tapping s
ound. He’d been having the strangest dream. In it, he held Donnie by the throat yet chose not to kill him, which couldn’t be right, because in that moment, he fully intended to disembowel the bastard. That was, until he’d heard that tap, tap, tapping. As he drifted through darkness, the rhythm remained steady and consistent, drawing closer until the sound pounded in his head, a deafening echo. Suddenly, it stopped, followed by quiet shuffling and then a sharp, searing pain at his neck.

  Wes’s eyes flew open as his hand gripped whatever assaulted him, stopping it in its tracks. From the feel beneath his hand, it was another person’s wrist.

  “I was cleanin’ that,” a familiar voice snapped. “’Less you want it infected, lie still.” The wrist tore away from his grasp with brute strength, and the searing pain returned again. Astringent on a still-healing wound. He’d felt it enough times before to recognize the feeling now.

  Vision still blurred, the lights above him swam before his eyes. Wes blinked against the brightness, and slowly, a pair of easygoing hazel eyes in a head full of soft black curls stared back at him. Not the dark, nearly black irises he’d hoped to see, but for now, he’d settle for any but the eyes of his enemies.

  “Austin?” he rasped.

  “Howdy.” The young grey wolf grinned.

  Wes tried to push to a sitting position, but Austin nudged him back down. “I said lie still.”

  Wes followed Austin’s direction. The doctor fingered what Wes could tell were several sutures, likely more. As Austin examined him, the events of the battle with the Wild Eight came back.

  “How long have I been out?” he asked.