Wolf's Cross: Book 4 (Loki's Wolves)

by Melissa Snark

  "Do you want to drive?" Sawyer asked. At a glance, he appeared relaxed, but underlying tension defined the set of his shoulders. Notes of aggression and unease overlaid his base scent, which was clean and musky. Her hyperactive olfactory sense noted the recent use of an offensively powerful soap and aftershave.

  Her nose twitched, and then she sneezed.

  "God bless you," Sawyer said.

  Squinting through watery, itchy eyes, she waved a hand while battling another sneeze. "Please, I don't need that sort of complication."

  Sawyer laughed, and then walked around to the passenger side and opened the door. For an instant, she assumed he wanted her to drive but he just stood there—waiting. Confused, she hesitated. What manner of misplaced chivalry was this? Was he seriously holding the door for her?

  Under her stare, Sawyer's cheeks turned pink, but he stubbornly stood sentry. At last, to end the awkwardness as much as to spare them both further embarrassment, she entered the car, and fastened her seatbelt. She cast a glance over her shoulder and confirmed the location of the hunter's folded coat and holstered .45 on the backseat.

  "You're not wearing your gun? Don't cha feel naked?"

  "It's hot." Grinning, he rounded the vehicle, and got in on the driver's side. Before he put the convertible into gear, he settled in and adjusted the radio to a rock station.

  Listening to music, they rode without talking while he backed the car out of the driveway and navigated the narrow private road that led toward town. The tension failed to improve until Victoria could stand it no longer. Reaching over, she laid a hand on his forearm. At her touch, he glanced down and then up, a question in his chocolate-brown eyes.

  The empathic connection flowed at a trickle instead of the full-blown rush she shared with most of the pack, but it was enough to permit a glimpse of his mood—a vital blend of protectiveness and possessiveness. Even though he wasn't a wolf shifter, Sawyer had all the right instincts to make a good Alpha. While she counted his hotheadedness as a mark against him, he was only twenty-six. Time and experience would cool his molten temper and forge a steel-hard resolve. If he turned out even half the man his father was…he'd be heroic.

  "Thank you. I'm not used to anyone opening doors for me." She offered a tentative smile which he returned.

  "Especially me?" His tone was rife with irony but his attention returned to the road as they navigated a sharp turn. Sawyer drove in the same manner as he approached everything else—brashly, without a hint of fear.

  "We've come a long way since the last time you tried to kill me." She infused her tone with sarcasm. "Though, we need to reset the clock to less than an hour since you tried to kill a member of my pack."

  His jaw hardened. "He started it."

  "I don't have a doubt he did." Victoria's familiarity with Logan extended to his exceptional talent for provoking even the most levelheaded people. The guy possessed an almost preternatural gift for being a jackass.

  "For the record, I wasn't trying to kill him either. Just neutralize him." A great cloud of sullenness hung over the hunter.

  "I'm sure you exercised the utmost restraint."

  He shot her a shrewd glance that slid sideways across her face, but she read his look—he wasn't in the mood to be humored or teased. Well, too damn bad. Victoria sucked in her cheeks and slapped on her angel face.

  "You're cute when you do that," he said, chuckling.

  "Yeah, thanks." Scrunching her nose, she lifted her lip in a sneer.

  "Do you want him taken care of?" His brief amusement evaporated. The hunter's face set into a stoic mask—dead serious. His brown eyes turned flinty, and an uncanny resemblance to his father overtook him.

  He wasn't kidding.

  A thrill and a chill shot along Victoria's spine. Stark fear filled her, not for herself, but for what this man was capable of. At the same time, his willingness to kill for her empowered her and her pack, granting them a more secure life. As the Hunter King's son, Sawyer had the resources of the entire organization at his disposal. If she asked, he'd eliminate Logan.

  "No, absolutely not. Logan is a member of my pack, and so are you. We need to get past this thing where you keep threatening to kill—" She bit off the accusation because it wasn't fair. Sawyer never threatened the female members of the pack or the pups. In fact, she relied on him to keep them safe... And that realization jarred her. She wondered when in the last several months she'd crossed the trust line. She sighed. "Thanks, but no thanks. Please don't kill anyone for me... Well, maybe unless I ask."

  Sawyer produced a sound between a grunt and a snort. "Who is this Logan guy, anyway?"

  Victoria hesitated. Fuck, talk about awkward situations that defied ready explanation. No easy way to say it, so she launched into a rambling response. "He's my mate's son and legal heir. When Arik died, Logan inherited everything—the house, the land..."

  "You got nothing?"

  "It wasn't like that. There was no prenup or anything... In fact, there was no wedding." Her face heated, although, she would have signed one if Arik had asked her to do so. Her interest in his financial security had begun and ended with his fitness as an Alpha, his ability to protect and provide for her pack. "I can't believe Morena hasn't told you any of this..."

  Sawyer stabbed the radio power button, silencing it. "Morena's told me some, but I'd rather hear it from you. Anything she tells me is suspect."

  Victoria snickered. "She likes screwing with you. Just to see if she can get a rise out of you."

  "Yeah, I get that but some of her stories are so preposterous, I'm never sure what to believe. For instance, last week I took her bow hunting, and we killed a buck. I was going to bring it over but she discouraged me. Said I should be careful about bringing over food or I might wind up in a whirlwind werewolf courtship..."

  Victoria stiffened and fell silent.

  He cast a glance over, caught a glimpse of her face, and his smile dropped. "She wasn't kidding?"

  "No, she wasn't kidding. It's an old custom. Among my people, a man offers food as a gift to the she-wolf he desires. The more impressive the gift, the more status he's accorded. If she accepts, he has gained her consent and may court her, including the right to challenge his rivals."

  "Rivals being the other suitors?" Sawyer's inflection was frustratingly neutral.

  A bitter smile touched her lips. "Correct."

  "And if she rejects the gift."

  "He's SOL." Victoria turned her head to stare out the window at the passing scenery. Thick copses of trees bordered either side of the road, but they were almost to town. Once they passed through Sierra Pines, they'd head south toward U.S. Route 50. Broken Bend was another ten minutes. Thankfully, the ride would be over soon.

  The hunter offered no response, so Victoria decided it was high time to change the subject. "Logan allowed us to stay at the house while he's been away. We owe him."

  "Owe him for not throwing a pregnant widow, an old woman, and a teenage girl out on the street? Yeah, he sounds like a real prince."

  She flushed hot with anger, not embarrassment. Her face jerked toward him. "He didn't have to. He could've kicked us out and sold the house. And don't let Sylvie catch you calling her an old woman. She'll smack you upside the head."

  "Yeah, probably, but this isn't about Sylvie, is it? Where the hell has this jackass been all this time?"

  "I don't know." Her hands shook.

  "Where was he when you and my father were still at each other's throats?"

  "I don't know!"

  Yanking the wheel to the right, Sawyer slammed the brakes. The Chevelle fishtailed but he compensated and brought her to a smooth stop. With a quick stab, he hit the release on his seatbelt and twisted around to face her. His aura formed a solid wall of male aggression; anger rained down upon her.

  "What do you know?"

  "How is any of this your damn business?"

  Victoria snarled in the face of his wrath, refusing to be cowed or intimidated. Unwilling to rem
ain restrained when he was free, she undid her own seatbelt.

  "I'm a member of this pack. You made me." His teeth ground together, creating a nerve-grating crunch. "He left you undefended. You're carrying his sister, right?"

  "Half." She winced. "Arik was Logan's father."

  At the moment, she had no appreciation for the hunter's bluntness. Sawyer had a talent for going right to the soft underbelly and eviscerating the gut of the matter. Nothing, absolutely nothing, having to do with Arik's death or Logan's abrupt departure was easy for her. She wore nonchalance and confidence as armor, but a surface scratch beneath, her emotions were raw.

  "Doesn't he have some sort of duty to protect you?"

  "It's complicated." Her hands clenched to fists.

  "I don't get it. Why are you defending this asshole?" His hard eyes burned holes in her soul. No mercy. No understanding.

  "It's complicated." Biting her lower lip, she looked away again.

  "You're defending him. Why? I don't get it. You of all people. Are you afraid of him? Did he threaten you?" His hands locked on her shoulders.

  "No. None of this is his fault." She shook her head. Tears blinded her, and her heart raged. She resented his timing and questioned his motives. Why couldn't he just leave her alone with her scars and her trauma?

  "Damn it, Victoria. There's something you're not saying. You're swimming in guilt. I can feel you drowning in it—"

  Seriously, who was he to lecture anyone on guilt? Back in December of the prior year, in the aftermath of Daniel's murder, Sawyer had succumbed to a murderous rage. He’d come after Victoria and almost killed her...a couple times. People had died in the crossfire, including members of her pack—Rand. Although he refused to discuss it, she was convinced the guilt was the source of his depression.

  "Amazing you can perceive anything beyond your own guilt—"

  "Low blow."

  "Sorry." Victoria ducked her head. He was right—it had been a cheap shot. He had her on the defensive or she wouldn't have resorted to such pettiness. Time to get this conversation back on track. "Look, Logan comes across as abrasive at first but he's actually a good guy..."

  Oh wow, she sounded lame even to her own ears.

  "A good guy," Sawyer repeated in a flinty tone.

  "He's got good reasons to be angry with me."

  "Yeah? What's he got on you?"

  She compressed her lips, stubbornly silent, and hunched beneath her onerous guilt. She didn't wallow the way Sawyer did. She had done everything in her power to make restitution. But so long as Logan blamed her, she harbored regret.

  "Victoria, I can't protect you if you're not honest with me. Tell me the truth, or I swear the next time I see that bastard, I'll put a silver bullet right between his eyes." His piercing gaze locked with hers, boring into her soul.

  "I got him killed! Me. He died. My fault." The furious words bust from her in sheer defiance of her will. Her hands fastened on his shirt, twisting knots in the cloth, as she hauled him toward her. She got in his face to complete her confession. "He fought his own father because of me. Arik murdered his own son while I just stood there and watched. Logan's blood is on my hands."

  Consternation etched his face. "I don't get it. He's alive."

  "I brought him back from the dead. Just like I resurrected…”

  Sawyer paled, and the unspoken resonated between them— Just like I resurrected you. In the months since his death and rebirth, they'd never actually discussed the matter. Averted, ignored, skirted, and circled; a grand old game of pussyfooting around.

  "I admit. I'm having trouble with this..."

  "Why? I healed your father. I healed you. Lately, it's how I deal with all my problems. Get someone killed—bring 'em back." Bitterness poisoned her voice.

  "What god—"

  "Freya. I'm her priestess, remember?" Victoria closed her eyes, took a deep breath, and then opened them. How could Sawyer, of all people forget that?

  "Oh, yeah." His mouth puckered as if tasting something sour.

  Freya's disapproval brushed Victoria's mind. He and his father would prefer that you forget me.

  My Lady, I could never forget you. Victoria scrambled to offer assurances of her fealty. The goddess had good reason to doubt her priestess. Guilt ate at her insides. She had no one to blame but herself for the awful divide separating her from her deity.

  Odin desires to estrange us. Watch and wait. Soon enough, he will press you to choose sides again. Smog of darkness accompanied the goddess's displeasure.

  "Are you talking to Freya?" Sawyer asked.

  Victoria's startled gaze flew to him—total attention restored. She mouthed "How?" even though the dreamy, distant look on her face must have been a dead giveaway. Sometimes, she even talked out loud.

  "Can I help?" Sawyer extended an open hand, palm up.

  She started to reach for him but hesitated. If his father hadn't been a god, Sawyer probably would've been an atheist. He simply couldn't understand her commitment to her goddess. Being a priestess was more than a profession or a calling; it was her heart's passion.

  "Look—" She pressed her palm to his chest over his breast. Heat and strength radiated through the soft cotton. Solid muscle and a fierce heart; steadily beating, strongly beating. The throbbing rhythm of the man's life. Hidden beneath his shirt, Sawyer's chest bore a silvery handprint. The indelible mark she had left upon him.

  "What?"

  "Logan's got the same scar right here," Victoria said. "My hand print."

  "Okay, you brought him back." Sawyer managed to make the confession sound skeptical. Victoria pressed her lips tightly together. She got how he managed to get under his father's skin. "He's alive,” Sawyer continued. “What's the problem?"

  Her frustration mounted, and with it the overwhelming desire to cry. She gasped, shoving her grief down deep, struggling to get the lid back on the bottle. But too late... A whimper escaped from her. "Damn it, Sawyer, haven't you listened to a word I've said? I got him killed. Fighting a challenge with his own father over the right to become my mate."

  "He's alive. It's stupid to feel guilty. Let it go."

  "I could say the same to you. You cling to guilt with both hands." A sob strangled her throat. Pain, but no tears.

  "Hey, don't cry." Sawyer seemed torn, unsure of what to do. Then his arms closed around her, hands against her back. He hauled her against him, a rough and uncalculated motion. When he lifted her, the gear shift struck her thigh hard enough to elicit a grunt from her. It hurt to the bone but wasn't worth even mentioning; it would heal faster than she could take her clothes off to check it.

  "I'm not crying." She made the denial in a strangled voice, and she spoke the truth. Her cheek settled against the thick swath of muscle across his shoulder. His chest supported her. He settled her atop his lap, wedged between his chest and the steering column, but his arms sheltered her from the wheel. If not for her petite size, her tummy would've gotten in the way.

  "You cried in that ruined gas station—where my brother died. It's the only time I've ever seen you cry. Before or since." His open hand buried in her hair, fingers threading through loose locks. For the first time, she became aware how many strands had come free from the plaited braid.

  "Alphas don't cry. Leaders don't show weakness." But she wanted to—more than anything. She ached for the outlet.

  "There's no one here but you and me. I'm not going to think any less of you." In other words, he accepted her as his leader. Her insides turned all warm and fuzzy, and the last glimmer of distrust she harbored toward him dissipated. Amazingly, that didn't matter to her. Sawyer wasn't a threat but rather an ally.

  A friend.

  "I know. I want to. I do." But she couldn't. A cork bottled up her emotions, and the pressure built. Sooner or later she'd explode without release.

  She turned her face into the thick cotton of his shirt. She inhaled hard so the material was sucked against her nostrils, drinking in the comforting heat and tang of
his body. Male. Virile. Once, she'd scented him and automatically equated him to his brother, but the space of a few months had granted her a period of mourning. Sawyer wasn't Daniel, and she no longer confused the two men.

  Intensity and tension abided between them. Air thick, humming. A vibrant splash of primary color through their blended aura. Desire hardened his body, and she hungered for him in return. The one kiss they'd shared lingered in her memory. Oh, she questioned everything. The right. The wrong. This man, this hunter, Jake's son, Daniel's brother... He wasn't—

  Not for her.

  Still, she wanted him. She would already have consummated their mutual attraction if it weren't for the myriad complexities: One, she'd loved his brother. Two, it wasn't fair to Sawyer to use him as a substitute for Daniel. Three, it wasn't fair to her either.

  And four, Sawyer wasn't Daniel.

  She breathed in his scent, earthy and inviting, uniquely Sawyer, and luxuriated in the marvelous rarity of being held. Safe. Five, she no longer confused them or needed to. Maybe...

  Sawyer's warm lips pressed to her forehead, and his arms tightened in a gentle hug. "I'm here if you need me."

  "Thank you." She accepted his decision to end the embrace before things escalated beyond their control. It was the right choice. Their relationship—whatever this was—would progress at a natural and comfortable rate. Sawyer had to have reservations about becoming involved with a pregnant woman, especially since the baby wasn't his or his brother's. She sighed. Pragmatism dictated nothing would ever come from their mutual attraction.

  It wasn't right—but it wasn't wrong either.

  Chapter Seven

  Sessrúmnir, Freya's hall in Fólkvangr

  Freya frowned. "I don't know what a 'Philadelphia Lawyer' is."

  "No, you wouldn't... I agreed—" He cocked his head and continued in an eminently smooth delivery. And he quoted the words he'd spoken on that frozen February night a few months before, "To sacrifice my mystical bonds to my mate and my pack. My mate and son will be allowed to assume I died in the fight with the witch, Hrafnar. I will accompany you to your hall and serve you in any and all capacities you deem appropriate."