by Abigail Owen
Grudgingly, he had to give her that point. “I had hoped all the wolves would be too occupied with me.”
“Mother told me wolves go after the biggest threat as a pack, so I guess that was a solid assumption.”
“Not this time.” Brand was still kicking himself in the balls. First for missing the wolf shifters’ presence, then for assuming they’d focus on him.
“Don’t get too down on yourself.”
Brand frowned. He’d kept his voice completely neutral. How had she guessed that he was blaming himself? Probably that overprotective act he’d put on a second ago.
“They must’ve thought I wasn’t a threat, or they wouldn’t have risked their people to follow me,” she said.
“You sure proved them wrong.” He gave a mental chuckle as the memory of her pointing that loaded shotgun at the lead wolf struck him again.
Kasia’s husky chuckle sent a bolt of need through him. Fuck. How could he go from furious to torqued up that fast?
“Bluffed them, you mean,” she said.
“The means don’t make a difference, as long as you get results.”
“I guess.” She sat silently for a little while, blatantly thinking hard. Brand wished he could see her face, her posture, to figure out what she was worrying over.
“Do you think wolf shifters could protect someone like me?”
Brand rumbled a protest, his rejection of that idea instant and violent. The beast inside him still lurked too close to the surface, and that side considered Kasia his. His to protect. His to claim. Separating from her at Ladon’s would be an exercise in willpower.
Brand took his time answering. “Is that what the dark gray wolf told you?”
“He offered me a choice. One that didn’t involve mating.”
Options.
Kasia had insisted options were always available, but Brand’s entire life proved otherwise. Yet here she was, with options. Not good ones, but more than one.
“Dragons would be better.”
“Duh.”
He could just picture her rolling her eyes. “You asked for my opinion.”
“Of wolves, not dragons. Don’t compare them for a moment. How would wolves fare?”
Brand stayed silent as he considered her question. “Dragons consider wolf shifters inferior, so most would tell you there’s no way those mutts could protect you properly.”
“You said dragons, but what do you think?”
“I wasn’t raised by dragons,” Brand admitted. Not after his parents died, at least.
A bolt of unease stabbed through him. Other dragons knew he was rogue. The wolves did, too, apparently. There weren’t many rogue dragons out there. Rogues didn’t survive long—hunted by their own kind and not trusted by other species, which meant they had no place to go—but Kasia didn’t know that, or so he assumed. So why was he admitting it now?
“What were you raised by?” she asked.
He should’ve known the question was coming. Brand remained silent.
“Fine. Don’t tell me.”
Her ire reminded him of a hissing kitten. She was kinda cute when riled.
“Do you think wolves are inferior?” she prodded.
He sighed. She wasn’t giving this up. “In many ways, yes. The wolves’ strength lies in the pack and how it functions. They may exist in smaller groups, like the one we encountered today. But the entire nation of wolf shifters works together like a well-oiled machine. I’ll admit they are relatively strong creatures individually, but there are bigger, stronger individual creatures…”
“Like dragons?”
“And bears. Some of the bigger cats. But that’s just shifters. I’m also thinking of creatures like vampires. A smaller pack will be able to do only so much against those bloodsuckers.”
“I see.”
“But you piss off one wolf, you piss off his pack. And if you come after a pack, you end up with the entire nation with their teeth at your throat. That’s the biggest card they have to play in protecting a phoenix.”
“That’s a good card to play.” She adjusted her hold on his spike.
“Yes.”
“I hear a ‘but.’”
“But wolves already live in peace, at least among themselves. My people have barely survived our infighting. We’re not at war, technically, but the kings in charge have stripped their people of wealth, of livelihoods, of life sometimes, of mates. You name it. The colonies are dealing with uprisings already, and with Ladon’s rebellion, the clans now face it directly. They haven’t acknowledged it openly yet, but that’s just a matter of time. You could end that, according to legend.”
She let out a heavy sigh. “That’s a heck of a thing to put on one person. So much responsibility.” She paused. “But you said the kings were bad. All the kings?”
He could see where she was going with this. “Ladon’s different.” The only king Brand trusted.
“I see.”
Damn. Again, he needed to see her face. That one sentence gave him no clue into her thoughts. Worse, what got to him about the conversation was his driving need to help her, not to manipulate her into the decision that benefited him.
When had he become someone who gave a shit about others? No one gave a shit about him. His survival depended on him, and him alone. And right now, his plans were directly tied to dropping her in Ladon’s lap with a big fucking bow.
Screw helping her. He was too close to having the leverage he needed. “I’m not risking my ass like this to give you to a bunch of mutts.”
She made a sound at the back of her throat that sounded a lot like disgust. “Don’t worry. I told the wolves I was going with you. If all you care about is what I can do for you with the king and what that earns you, then that’s what you’ll get.”
VII
Kasia hung back as Brand confidently walked up to a questionable wooden structure situated, as far as she could tell when they’d circled it from air, on the side of the road in the middle of a Robin Hood−style forest in the low mountains between Manchester and the Scottish border. A bunch of mean-looking motorcycles, all leather and chrome, were parked outside in the gravel lot. No sign hung above the door, but she could hear music and the rumble of mostly male voices from inside.
She’d spent the entire flight here quiet, and honestly not paying much attention, because she’d been worrying about her sister the entire way. That wolf who’d talked to her…Bleidd, he said his name was…had given enough proof to know Angelika was with them. She still couldn’t get over that. Their mother had sent Angelika to wolf shifters in the Pyrenees?
Gods, nothing made sense anymore. And now she was outside this dump with a man who thought a biker bar in the middle of nowhere was a good place for a pit stop.
“This is where you think we’ll be safe for the night?”
Maybe he’d smacked his head during that stumble he took on landing when his still-healing leg gave out, though he did manage to keep from realizing her bug-squishing scenario.
Brand paused and turned back to face her. Seeing her staring with open doubt at the building, he glanced over his shoulder, as if reassessing it. “It’ll be fine.”
“And saying so makes this place safe how?”
He ignored her and held out his hand. “Come on.”
She refused to budge. “This is a biker bar, if I’m not mistaken?”
“Your point?” he asked.
“I’ve heard they can be pretty rough places.” Granted, she’d been in plenty of rough places much of her life, but then she’d had her mother to watch over her and figure things out.
He set his feet and crossed his arms, staring her down. “I’m a dragon, and you can light on fire,” he pointed out in low tones, like someone might hear. “Trust me.”
Her visions told her that her faith in him would not be mis
placed, and so far, everything he’d done was about keeping her safe, proving her point, even if he refused to admit it. But walking into this place, looking for all intents like a yuppie out for a stroll after not showering for two straight days, sounded like one of the dumber ideas in the history of her life. Not to mention, her red hair tended to act like a beacon to every asshole who wanted to see if she was a true ginger.
Somehow, she’d bet Brand had never dealt with that particular problem, but living in out-of-the-way shitholes with her mom and sisters on and off for centuries, Kasia definitely had. In most of those places, the good, down-to-earth folks of the world balanced out the asshole contingency. But not always. What were the odds of that happening here?
She sighed and closed the distance between them, pausing to stab him in the chest with her finger. “I hope this person you trust is a friend.”
He snagged her wrist before she could pull back, and everything inside Kasia slowed and focused on that touch, hot against her skin.
“What?” Her brain had zapped out on her, short-circuited by the physical contact, and now her damn nipples were springing to buzzing life.
“I wouldn’t call him a friend, exactly,” Brand said.
Which meant what? More than a friend? Or not a friend at all? Did the man consider anyone a friend? No one could be that much of a loner. Sad to think of him that isolated. At least she’d had her sisters.
Not your problem. How many times would she have to tell herself that? This man was nothing more than a bodyguard transporting her to the UK.
“He basically raised me after my parents were killed. I’d holed up in the mountains, and he found me there.”
She froze. What did one say to that? She suspected Brand would be uncomfortable with questions or sympathy. Kasia shook her head. “Even so, he’s going down if one of those bikers so much as breathes in my direction.”
She snatched her arm back, breaking his hold, and marched past him.
“Everybody has to breathe,” he called after her.
Shoving through the rickety door that wobbled like it was about to come off the hinges, Kasia blinked as her eyes adjusted from the bright sunlight outside to the dim lighting indoors. Then she blinked some more, because she couldn’t be seeing this.
“No. Freaking. Way,” she murmured.
The bar on the inside was nothing like the dilapidated shack it showed the world on the outside. Inside was all polished chrome, freshly painted orange walls, top-of-the-line pool tables, and a mahogany bar, beautifully oiled and cared for. Even the mirror behind the bar gleamed, reflecting her own astonishment. It smelled nice in here, too—an underlying scent of cleaners below a stomach-growl-inducing waft of food. Not greasy bar food, either.
Kasia sniffed the air appreciatively. Garlic. Did they serve Italian food here?
This place was…classy.
“You have no idea,” Brand muttered at her back as he stepped inside. “If anyone asks, you’re a dragon shifter, like me.”
“What?”
But he didn’t answer, prodding her around the corner of the long narrow bar, which was empty of people sitting at the stools, and into the larger room beyond. Again, she slammed to a halt and stared, then scowled up at Brand.
What the hell was he thinking, bringing her to a place like this?
She’d been expecting tough customers—all tatted up and with a hardness that couldn’t be faked. Instead, lounging around the matching tables and barstools, and some playing pool, was the strangest assortment of supernaturals gathered in one place that she’d ever come across.
At first glance, she wasn’t able to identify all the creatures. Most were in some sort of human or humanoid form. She bet a few types of shifters were in the mix, but no way could she miss the elf, almost beautiful with his pale skin and hair, delicate features, and pointy ears. Nor could she look past the man who had to be some kind of spider species. The extra arms, or legs, or whatever, sticking out of his back was a creepy giveaway. A vampire’s eyes glowed red as she took in the scene, and she had to stop herself from stepping back. One encounter had been enough. And, of course, there was the massive creature in the back corner.
Was that a…? No way. So Bigfoot did exist.
Most of them wore matching leather jackets or vests sporting one word on the back in an orange that matched the walls. SLINGERS. As in gunslingers? With the collective powers in this room, who needed guns?
One by one, they stopped what they were doing to turn their attention to the man who could easily fit among them and the woman who stuck out like a cowlick that just wouldn’t be tamed.
Kasia gave in and stepped back, closer to Brand, bumping up against his solid chest and staying there. Safe? Like hell. Every one of these guys would probably pay good money for her. Had Brand brought her here to sell her to the highest bidder? If not, she needed to worry that he’d lost his mind.
All she needed was one night of sleep and a shower without being attacked or struck down by a vision. Too much to ask?
One of the men, a djinn maybe, got up from the table where he sat with three others and moved toward them slowly. His bald head reflected the low lights of the bar, and a thick black beard obscured most of his face, making it difficult to tell if he was about to smile or start throwing punches.
The guy was massive, at least six foot three and heavy with it. Tossing a glance at Brand, Kasia consoled herself with the fact that he was taller, and his bulk involved impressive muscles rather than layers of fat. He hooked an arm around her waist and shoved her behind him so that he stood between her and Baldy. His arm muscles flexed, the bottom half of his tattoo moving with it, the pine trees along his forearm appearing to dance in the wind as his hands formed into fists at his sides.
“I think you’re in the wrong place,” Baldy said. “Clear out.”
Kasia hid an inappropriately timed giggle probably brought on by nerves. But seriously, what other bar did he think they’d mistaken this one for? It wasn’t exactly located in a thriving metropolis. The situation wasn’t at all funny, but hadn’t she watched scenes like this in every movie about rough-and-tumble bars? Only this one was more like on a drug trip, given the clientele.
“We’re here to see Hershel,” Brand said calmly. He was laying on a thick Manchester accent now, dropping the h’s and sounding more like their new friend. She had to try not to do a double take at the sudden change. Did he do that everywhere? More importantly, why? Most paranormals didn’t sport a definable accent. Too many years, too many places they’d lived.
The man was a damn enigma.
Baldy paused, giving Brand a more thorough inspection before moving on to her, what he could see of her behind her bodyguard, who kept moving to block her from view even when she moved to peek around him. The speculative light in Baldy’s eyes did nothing for the butterflies throwing a party in her stomach.
“Who’s asking?” Baldy demanded.
“Tell him Brand is here.”
The biker sneered. “Brand? No last name?”
“Kind of like Cher,” Kasia muttered behind Brand’s back, soft enough that the other man couldn’t hear.
But Brand caught it, she could tell by the way his shoulders stiffened.
He said nothing to Baldy, though, nor did his posture alter an iota, but he was laughing inside, she just knew it. She had serious doubts that he experienced the same nervous laughter she was prone to, which meant she’d made him laugh. Genuine amusement. A small glow of triumph, completely ridiculous at this moment, lit inside her.
Like predators sensing blood in the water, several more men got up and joined their bald compatriot facing off against them. Including the vampire who kept sniffing the air. “Oy. Problem, Oz?”
Oh, please tell me his name is Ozzie, because that would be adorable. Kasia paused that thought and gave herself a mental shake. Two days of no
nstop action and not a ton of sleep had apparently muddled her brain.
She glanced down. Or maybe the fact that Brand hadn’t let go of her arm was screwing with her ability to reason. What the hell was wrong with her? How could she let such a simple touch affect her so strongly?
“What did I say about throwing strangers out of my place?” The question was barked from behind the bar in a voice belonging to a man who must smoke a lot of cigarettes.
Strangers didn’t run away screaming from here the second they got a closer look at the clientele?
Immediately Ozzie’s shoulders slumped. “Sorry, Hersh. This feller’s here to see you.”
“I already know that, dumb-ass. He’s a friend.”
At that revelation, the vampire sucked his fangs back in with a scowl and skulked away. If anything, Ozzie’s shoulders drooped even more, and Kasia suddenly wanted to give the guy a hug. He was only protecting his…errrr…people, after all.
“He didn’t know us,” Kasia offered.
Baldy flashed her an inscrutable look. Grateful? Irritated? That beard really hid a lot.
Brand’s shoulders eased a fraction, and the pine trees of his tattoo stood back up straight as he unclenched his hands and let her go. “Yeah. S’all right,” Brand added, still in fake accent mode.
“Don’t do it again,” came that gruff voice. Only Kasia couldn’t see the owner, because Brand was in her way.
“Right, boss,” Ozzie said. He nodded in Kasia’s direction, and the three men wandered back to their seats.
Curious who, or what, considered Brand a friend, Kasia leaned around her overprotective shifter’s broad form to find a man standing there, whom she took an instant liking to.
Totally unexpected, too.
Tall and lanky, the older gentleman had salt-and-pepper hair—more salt than pepper—which he kept short, and a thick handlebar mustache. All that white hair stood out against his dark, leathery skin, which spoke of countless hours in the sun, probably on a bike. Bright blue eyes, undimmed by time, twinkled, and crinkles that she could tell came from smiles easily given fanned out from the corners.