by Renee Jordan
“Then you better get out and open the gate so we can get inside,” I growled, clenching my hands on the steering wheel. It wouldn't be long before Shane would be out of my life. Once we had Michael, he would be free to go back and forget about me for another three years.
Then he could stop pretending he loved only me. What a pathetic lie. And he did not come back after three months. I would have remembered seeing him. I would have taken him back. I was desperate for him before I gave up and had my first booty call with Ajax.
He grunted and climbed out. He hurried to open the gate. The chain rattled then metal groaned as he pushed the swinging arm open. The arm shook when he released it, the noise loud. I winced and glanced at the distant slaughterhouse through the trees, the building rising black against the night sky.
Was Michael watching us? He must have hard that squeaking gate opened.
“Let's hope he's still here,” I said as Shane hopped in. “Jimmy's very late. If it spooked Michael—”
“Then we keep looking for him. Together.”
“Let's hope he's here,” I snarled. “Probably is. Jimmy's such a fuck up, I doubt Michael expects him to show up anywhere on time. He's as useless as other guys I know.”
Shane sighed.
I should let go of my anger. It was time, but I couldn't. Everything was such a damned, tangled mess, my emotions tied up into a knot that Gordian, whoever that was, would be proud of.
I pulled the car up to the building and left it running. If we had to flee, it would be ready and waiting. I climbed out, my hand on my gun. I drew it as I rushed towards the door. Shane came up behind me, his .45 drawn, held in a tight grip as he leaned on the door.
I gave a silent count to three and then burst into the open door of the warehouse, my vision and gun sweeping as I went right. Shane came in behind me, his loafers thudding on the wooden floor of the warehouse, looking left.
I inhaled. And sneezed.
Dust thickened the air. The warehouse smelled of rot and mold and the faint, lingering scent of butchered pig. The stench of mold was strong, making it hard to detect anything over it. I searched for the scent of a werecoyote as we moved into the factory. The production line, where the carcasses were butchered into different slices of meet, remained, dominating the space. Moonlight streamed through broken windows along the room, adding splashes of silver about the darkness. I glanced up at the office, searching for movement.
There was plenty of movement.
I froze. On the walkways above, looking down on the factory floor where we were, shadows moved. Rising. Metal clinked and coyotes snarled. I froze, fear hammering my heart. We were surrounded. We had walked right into an ambush.
The Donovan clan opened fire.
Chapter Thirteen
You would have thought being shot at before would give me a better reaction than standing stupid like a rigid mannequin before a horde of ravenous women when the doors opened on Black Friday. But I was just so flummoxed. There had to be at least twenty of the Donovan Clan in the walkways above, and they were firing at me.
That asshole Jimmy had lured us into a trap.
Shane slammed into me from behind, pushing us both behind a piece of machinery as the bullets slammed down around us. Tongues of flames lit up the walkway above as the coyote shifters unloaded at full auto with some type of submachine gun or machine pistol. My ears exploded with pain, far too sensitive to take so much abuse of gunfire. It echoed through the room as I winced in cover, gripping my 9mm, Shane's body over mine, protecting me.
And then, in the midst of my hammering fear, I felt the warmth of Shane's body. I smelled his spicy musk. The fear, the concern, the love. Not fear for himself or concern for his own life, and certainly not love for himself. It was directed at me.
“Are you hit?” he growled into my ear.
“I don't think so,” I answered.
Adrenaline spiked through me. It was hard to tell if I was injured. I've heard enough cop stories of guys who were hit a dozen times and never noticed the wounds until the adrenaline wore off. Only then did they realize they were bleeding to death. When they did, the consequences of their wounds would hit them and they would collapse.
“I don't smell your blood,” he growled.
“You hit?” I asked.
“Oh, are you concerned now?” The bitter hurt stank his scent.
“Yes, dammit. I may hate you, but I don't want you to die. I...” I clamped my jaw shut. One heroic act wasn't going to make up for what he did. I wasn't that weak.
The gunfire ended. Their magazines ran dry. And we weren't hit. It took me a moment to realize why they had missed. The coyote shifters were all petty criminals. They were thugs. They rarely fired guns, using them more for intimidation. And they certainly weren't experienced with fully automatic weapons.
They were damned hard to aim well. The recoil of shot after shot jerked the weapons up, making them more spray-and-pray than accurate weapons in untrained hands. And even trained soldiers, or cops, missed a lot. On a target range it was easy to aim and hit your target, but with adrenaline spiking, it was damned difficult. Your hand shook. Your vision blurred.
As I pondered my revelation about the Donovan clan's big mistake, I rose from cover, ready to return fire. Shane moved with me. I aimed at the dark shapes on the walkway, picking one at random. I had a Beretta 92A1 with fifteen rounds in the clip and a sixteenth in the breech. I sighted on the shadow and fired.
I pulled the trigger smoothly, emptying five shots at the first target before he flinched and dropped, then pivoted and put my remaining shots at another shadow. Sparks burst off the railing and the werecoyote flinched and dove. I tracked him, hitting him as he rolled and he flopped onto his belly. Beside me, Shane emptied his handgun on the other side.
“Reloading,” I shouted as I ducked down.
He dropped with me. Above, the remaining Donovans slapped in their new magazines and released the slides. Gunfire erupted. Bullets slammed into the cover and hissed past us. They weren't holding down the trigger this time, but firing off short bursts, aiming between each one.
“We're fucked,” I snarled. “I have two clips remaining.” I slammed in a fresh magazine. “You?”
“One. I dropped two.”
“Same.”
“Six left.” He rose and emptied half his clip at the walkway before he flinched and ducked back down, sparks bursting off the metal in front of his face. I smelled the hot surge of blood. A cut oozed across his forehead.
“Missed,” he snarled.
They moved above us as I leaned out and fired my pistol. I hit one in the leg and he limped on before the gun emptied with a loud click, the slide locked back. I ejected the magazine and slapped in another one as coyotes howled above.
“They're changing and coming to finish us off,” Shane snarled and fired his last shots, missing with all of them. He trembled, the tiger howling in him.
“Good,” I snarled, the wolf howling in me. “I'd rather die that way.”
“I'd rather you live,” he growled and changed. His suit ripped as his body expanded. Orange fur stripped black, a magnificent beast rising above me. Bullets hissed as they slammed down at us. Wood splintered at his feet.
“Live,” he growled and ripped at the floor, revealing the crawlspace beneath the factory.
I covered him as he yanked up beams, shooting at the werecoyotes charging down the stairs. One fell, tumbling down towards his packmates farther down the stairs. But they leaped, nimble in their transformed bodies, and landed to the side of the stairs, yipping with excitement as they spread out through the factory. I pivoted, firing, pulling the trigger, my gun barking, brass casings tinkling on the ground.
And went dry. “Empty,” I snarled and dropped my gun.
“Go,” Shane growled, looking up from the hole he made. “There are too many to fight. I'll hold them off.”
“But,” I protested, realizing what he was doing.
“Go before—”<
br />
The boom of the shotgun cracked through the warehouse. Shane pitched forward, blood spurting from his furred body. He crashed to the ground behind the machinery, his tail twitching, a yowl of pain snarling from his lips.
I changed into the wolf. Fur sprouted as I howled my fury. Someone had shot my mate. I salivated for blood. My vision dimmed red with fury. My clothing ripped, my uniform bursting as I became my true form. Sleek, strong, powerful. A predator. A wolf. My jaw elongated. My teeth became fangs.
Fangs for ripping, tearing, maiming the bastard who hurt my mate.
I turned and came face to face with Michael Donovan. A lanky man in a bad suit that belonged in the eighties. White and too big, a bright-blue silk shirt beneath. His black ponytail swung behind him as he pivoted the shotgun to aim at me. Smoke curled from the barrel.
He racked the slide, the shell clicking into the chamber.
“Veronica,” he snarled. “You were one of the bitches that wounded my baby sister. You tore her up. She's ugly now as she rots in prison.”
“And I loved clawing the bitch up.” I stared at the barrel. I had to charge. I had to take the chance he would miss me at such close range. The fury pouring off his foul scent left no choice. He had come to murder. To get revenge.
That was why he was here. Payback because his dumb bitch of a sister tangled with my pack and paid.
“Shame only you came, Veronica. Was hoping to get more of your mangy pack. But Shane did show up. That's—”
Shane crashed into Michael. Bleeding, wounded, snarling in pain. My mate somehow found the strength to keep protecting me. The shotgun went off. The blast blew past me. My fur rippled as the pair fell to the ground. Michael snarled, changing into a coyote, and threw Shane off of him.
My mate landed on the ground, blood dripping off his hide. He rose, eyes thick with pain, and snarled. Blood flecked his saliva. Michael answered, tearing out of his hideous suit. He was smaller, leaner than Shane, but he wasn't wounded. He wasn't shredded by buck shot.
It wasn't a fair fight.
The two shifters crashed together. I tensed, growling. My mate needed help. He was under attack. I would tear Michael—
Coyotes jumped on me. They yipped and yowled like annoying lapdogs as they fell on my body. Claws scratched at my hide. Burning pain shot down my side. I twisted, throwing one off me into a third coyote, the pair falling to the ground in a tangled heap. I twisted my muzzle and bit into a shoulder.
The yip of pain was as satisfying as the hot blood. I thrashed and threw the coyote from me onto the ground, my claws tearing at his exposed belly. He whimpered. I would have killed him, but the other two recovered and advanced.
I met them with bloody muzzle, howling my rage. We fought, twisting, dancing, their teeth trying to bite, to rend. Their claws flashed. Other werecoyotes prowled the corner, howling, urging on their brethren, but too cowardly to join in.
My teeth found a vulnerable neck. I bit as the second coyote fell on my back. His claws scratched at my hide, his breath foul as he tried to bite my neck. I twisted, avoiding his teeth, and rolled, slamming him into the ground as I broke the first coyote's neck.
I wrestled with the second, thrashing. His teeth bit into my shoulder. I howled my pain. We crashed into the machinery. He yipped in pain as my claws tore at his flanks. We flew apart for a moment, blood matting both of our furs, and then we clashed together again, kicking up the dust covering the warehouse floor.
I howled. I was a wolf, not a mongrel coyote. I would not lose. My fury propelled me. Blood thickened the air. I couldn't tell whose was whose. Shane growled in the background. A coyote yipped in agony as I threw my opponent to the ground.
I turned, snarling at the others. They backed away. Fear thickened their scent. “Yes, come, if you want to die,” I growled. “Already three dead Donovans. Let's make it more.”
Shane snarled to my right. He was on Michael. My mate's long, sabre-like teeth ripped at Michael's throat. Blood gushed. The coyote spasmed as he died. My mate let out a primal, jungle roar. He had won. He had prevailed. He was stronger than the coyote alpha.
And the beta's fled.
Shane collapsed.
Chapter Fourteen
Pain knifed into my heart as Shane's fur blurred, retracted, his body shrinking into a human form. His caramel skin glistened in vast patches of black blood. It poured out of him. The shotgun had peppered his skin, ripping it to shreds in places. Michael had inflicted further damage as they fought, deep scratches and savage bites rending Shane's flesh.
I went to him, ignoring my own wounds. There was so much blood on Shane, staining him in thick, deep smears of scarlet. I stared in horror, not sure what I could do for him. My own vision fuzzed. Blood pumped out of me. A dizzy wave passed through me as I reached Shane. I stroked his head, staring down at his face. Besides the scratch on his forehead, his face was untouched.
His eyes opened at my touch, staring into mine. I shivered, remembering the night, the imprint, how powerful it was. I stared into those eyes and saw the same love I did in the hotel room. I stroked his cheek.
“You do love me,” I whispered.
“It took me a while to realize it,” he grunted then coughed. Blood spat up.
“Hush,” I said. I needed to find my police radio. Call for backup. My gun belt had burst off of me when I changed. Where had it fallen?
“I did come back to...to Moonrise for you. Three months...after...I left. Guess...I should have called...”
“What are you talking about?” I asked, spotting my radio lying beneath a conveyor belt. I moved to go for it, but his hand caught mine.
“Too scared. Feared you would be mad. W-wanted to talk face-to-face... Admit I was a coward. Swallow my pride... So tough.”
“Male pride usually is tough to swallow.”
“Like overcooked steak,” he laughed.
“Shane, save your strength. We'll talk about this later.”
“Just wanted you to know. I did...come back. But a man was with you. You were... And I couldn't deal. I fled.”
I froze, my stomach curdling. Memory of the first time I hooked up with Ajax after Shane left me rose in my mind. Had it been three months after the hotel when I first cheated on Shane? I remembered, after sleeping with Ajax, I felt such guilt I imagined I smelled Shane, his spicy musk. Tears burned in my eyes.
I didn't imagine his scent.
“Y-you saw me. With Ajax?”
“That his name?” He swallowed. “Does he take care of you? Like I should have.”
“No.” My voice trembled. I had to get the radio, but it was so hard to think. My head swam. “He's just a fuck buddy. Nothing. I... Christ, Shane, I gave you my heart. You. Fool idiot I was.”
I moved away from him towards anything to help us. Or I tried to. My head swam, and I collapsed beside him, lying on my side. I stared at him, my blonde hair spilled across the floor, soaking up his blood. One of those damned coyotes got me. My legs were cold. I shivered.
Shock was setting in. I had to do something.
“Love you,” he groaned. “Just...too dumb to have you. I'd let you free...of the imprint...if I could...”
“Shh,” I said, struggling to reach out and take his hand. “You can't...let me go. Idiot. That's the wrong thing to do. Why do you have to be so stupid right now?”
“No, I don't want to let you go. I want to...be with you... Too late now.”
“Shane,” I croaked as his eyes closed. “Shane...”
And then it was too much for me. The pain, the fear, my emotions. I drifted, my mind wandering. People found us. I heard Hank shouting. Xavier. Kiernan. Somehow my pack was here as I faded in and out of consciousness. Paramedics arrived. Bandages were applied.
Shane placed on a stretcher and taken away first. Still alive.
And as I drifted, I remembered that special night.
~ ~ ~
Three years ago...
“I wish I had more stakeouts like this,” Shane c
huckled as he popped the Champagne cork, the moon's passion spilling through the window. I trembled on the bed, still shaking from my wonderful orgasms, the taste of his cum salty in my mouth. He had eaten me to so many climaxes. I was so glad we had this “stakeout” date. The hotel room was beautiful. Everything was perfect.
My wolf wanted to imprint him, but I held back. I didn't want to ruin tonight when he rejected it. He was a tiger, not a wolf. I had to remember that. He was only in town for a few weeks longer. We were just having fun.
And what fun we had. My pussy ached from my orgasms. And it wasn't enough. I needed him in me.
Just focus on tonight. On the pleasure. Nothing more.
The champagne frothed out the end of the bottle, white foam running down dark glass to his caramel hand. I shuddered, licking my lips, remembering his dick erupting into my mouth only minutes before. He poured the glasses and walked to the bed.
“Are you writing this date off as an expense to the FBI?” I asked, taking the wine glass.
“Afraid I'm bending the rules?” He arched an eyebrow.
“I'd just rather think that you wanted me enough to spend your own money on this.” I held up my glass to his. “So?”
“My own money.” He clinked his glass against mine. “You are worth it, Veronica.”
The imprint surged again. I took a drink of my champagne. The bubbly liquid filled my mouth. I swallowed it. The liquid warmed my belly. “Mmm, delicious.”
“Not as delicious as you are,” he said, pressing his body against my side, his cock already hardening. He took a sip then a wicked grin crossed his face.
“What?” I asked.
He tipped his glass over. Golden champagne splashed across my breasts. I gasped at the shock of cold on my nipples. He leaned over, licking at the froth up my tit to my nipple. He swirled around it, sucking for a moment.
“Mmm, that's how champagne was made to be drunk.”
“Off a woman's tits?” I arched an eyebrow.
“Yes.”
He licked down my breasts to where champagne puddled between them. He sucked it up and licked while setting his glass on the nightstand. He rolled onto me, hands stroking my side as he licked up the frothy drink. My nipples ached as he nibbled on them.