If he survived this round of werewolf versus vampire, she was going to knit him a jacket from the skins of a thousand heads of garlic—maybe a matching scarf and a jaunty hat.
The group’s voices grew louder, more frantic by the second, full of heated words and angry snarls, making her stomach lurch with fear she could taste on her tongue.
She crept closer, staying downwind and behind a large maple. Her ears homed in on Courtland’s taunts as he shoved Irish up the set of narrow steps leading to the interior of the camper while the Road Dogs egged on their new alpha and the Fangs hovered in the background.
Why wasn’t anyone doing anything to prevent Irish from going through with this? The Fangs were all hanging back, practically giving each other pedicures and sipping herbal tea, while Irish was going to be charged with murdering an alpha he didn’t murder.
This was insane, and there was nothing she could do to stop it. Sure, she could probably take out Courtland, if she took him by surprise and was quick about it. But could she take on six or eight of his crew, too? Would the Fangs back her or would they leave her to the business of her pack?
And what had Liam been alluding to when he’d said to trust him? What was Irish up to?
So now what, Claire?
She didn’t have to wait long to find out.
A biting breeze shot up from nowhere—and on it floated Courtland’s bone-chilling scream before he and Irish plowed through the flimsy trailer door and fell onto the frozen ground in a tangle of fists and limbs.
The Fangs rushed in, piling on top of Irish and hauling him off Courtland, while the Dogs scrambled to help the werewolf to his feet.
Courtland strained against the grip Rosy and Twinks had on his arms and shoulders, his chest puffing out, the veins in his neck thick and purple. “What the fuck is going on, McConnell?” he roared, baring his teeth.
Irish shook the Fangs off with an angry jerk of flexing muscles, with orders to step back, before he confronted Courtland. “I told you, he was there just last night, Dodd. I dumped his mean ass right here. Now back the hell up before I eat your face off!” Irish bellowed.
As the wind picked up another notch, driving its icy talons into Claire’s fur, Courtland screamed, “Then where the fuck is he? What did you do to my brother, you son of a bitch?”
Irish squared his shoulders, his body language changing from confrontational to antagonistic, and he smiled at Courtland, slow and easy. “I told you what I did to him. Maybe he just didn’t like dead and got up and wandered off? I’m undead proof that can happen,” he said, to the tune of laughter from the Fangs. “Orrrr maybe he didn’t like the location? I made sure I picked out the perfect trailer for him, too. But they say where you pick your resting place is as important as where you choose to live. It’s like real estate. Location, location, location.”
Courtland let out a low, threatening growl, his booted feet scraping the ground as he tried to pull from the forceful grip of his crew. “You’d damn well better tell me what happened, McConnell! How the fuck did he end up dead?”
Irish assessed Courtland with a critical scan of his body from head to toe. He was buying time—buying time to make up some ridiculous lie that was only going to dig him a deeper hole.
“Here’s how I see it—there’s no body. So as far as I’m concerned, he’s not dead.”
Courtland’s head fell back on his shoulders. His wail of anger struck Claire’s ears like a gong, echoing until her head throbbed. It was a howl of pure rage and infuriation. He dropped to his knees, saliva dripping from the corner of his mouth while Twinks and Rosy held tight to keep him from springing into attack, knowing it would only create all out war between the two clubs.
The Fangs moved in, surrounding Irish, their bodies tense like bows, their fists clenched. But Irish clapped Courtland on the shoulder. “So, we’re good, right? No body, no problem?”
When Courtland raised his head, his eyes full of unadulterated hatred, he spewed, “I don’t know what kind of game you’re playing, McConnell, but I’m gonna get to the bottom of this. I have a witness who says that hoity-toity Claire is in on it, and when he makes an official statement, I’ll make you watch the bitch die!”
Irish squatted in front of Courtland, gripping his jaw with a gloved hand, squeezing until the werewolf’s cheeks puffed outward. “Call her a bitch again, and meet your maker. Maybe you can ask Him where Gannon is,” he spat with a flash of his fangs before shoving Courtland away and rising, directing his crew and Liam to go back to the club.
As Irish stalked off toward the thicket of pines, Claire skirted the shadows, following until she was directly behind him.
“I told you to go home, Claire-Bear,” he chanted, just before turning to confront her, walking backward, a smile on his face.
More Irish smiles? That was two in two days. And Claire-Bear? It made her wonder if she shouldn’t be listening for horse hooves and preparing her doomsday kit.
He gazed down at her, stopping in the middle of a patch of snow. “This is killing you, isn’t it? You all in-shift, unable to nag me for an explanation. For the record, as much as I enjoy our heated debates, I like this side of you. It’s…what’s the word I’m looking for, Librarian? Oh, wait. You can’t tell me, can you?” He chuckled at his joke, turning once more to saunter off.
After she’d nearly lost a life worrying he’d end up fried to a pork rind, he was going to make jokes about it?
Oh, no sir.
Leaning as far back on her haunches as she could, she settled on them, planting her front paws on the ground to get good leverage just before springing forward, one goal in mind.
Taking Irish and his smug ass down.
Claire zeroed in on his back and the patch he wore on his jacket to represent the Fangs—it made a perfect bull’s-eye. As she soared through the air, she fought to keep from howling her joy, calling out her rebel yell in euphoric release.
She landed on Irish, creating a resonating crack when he hit the ground, dropping him as if she’d just cut down a big oak with a chainsaw.
He landed in the snow with a harsh grunt, sprawled out and still as beautiful face-first in the snow as he was when mocking her.
He fought to turn over but Claire wouldn’t let him. Instead, she let her full body weight press down. She weighed far more in shift; her muscles were heavier, sharply defined from so many pack runs over the years.
Leaning into his ear, Claire panted heavy and hot, making him swat at her nose. “Aw, c’mon, Claire. Can’t you take a joke?”
She growled, low and rumbling. It was no laughing matter when the man you liked far more than you should—or was allowable, for that matter—had scared twenty-years off your life in a mere thirty minutes.
Irish finally managed to twist his body, leaving her to rest on his chest. He grabbed her face between both hands, a single eyebrow propped upward. “Is this any way for a damsel in distress to treat the man who saved her from her band of vicious pack members?”
Claire bared her teeth, narrowing her eyes.
Irish’s gaze, black as the surrounding night, glittered with amusement. He gave her muzzle a shake. “Whatsamatter, cuddlebunny? Feeling out of the loop? Shift back and I’ll explain.”
If her eyes were laser beams she’d burn a hole in his forehead. She couldn’t shift here in the middle of the damn woods. She had no clothes; she’d freeze to death. Claire pawed at his jacket to indicate as much.
Irish nodded his head with a wink. “Ah. I get it. Your clothes are shredded. Yet another outfit ruined because of Gannon, huh? That bastard. Even in death, he’s making a shambles of your life,” he teased.
Catching her off guard, he rolled from beneath her, rising to his feet in a blur of motion and color. He hitched his jaw toward the lights of town, running a finger over her ear. “C’mon, Lassie. We’d better hurry before Timmy gets stuck in the well.”
As he began to walk away, Claire made a face at him in her mind.
Irish didn’
t even turn around when he said, “Now, now, Claire. Don’t be ugly. I’ll explain everything at your place. You know, when you can add your two cents with those luscious lips.”
She huffed at him, following behind his long strides, forcing herself to avert her eyes from his yummy backside.
Jerk.
As they strolled out of the woods, his hand occasionally reaching for her ear, Irish asked, “So, tell me, fair maiden, did you shift because you thought you’d have to save me? Little ol’ me? I’m so incredibly touched I’d cry if I had the ability to shed tears.”
Yep. She was going to kill him.
Chapter Eight
While Irish texted Liam to grab his bike from the library parking lot, Claire changed into a pair of jeans and a sweater, cursing him the entire time, fighting the urge to walk right out into her living room and knock his head against a wall.
What he’d done wasn’t just foolish, it was dangerous. If Courtland grew angry enough with Irish for making a game out of something as serious as the death of his brother, he’d lash out without thinking. When the Dogs didn’t think, really bad things happened. Bad things that would only lead to a war between races.
The peace they’d all managed to keep since the government had shipped them off to their own territories was bliss compared to other regions she’d read about online and watched on the news. She didn’t want that to change because Irish was protecting her.
Why was he protecting her? That was a question she wanted answered tonight. Last night, he had been all about his sister Hadley, and she’d been in full agreement. Nothing was more important than the children.
Just as she was pulling on a pair of socks, Irish pushed her bedroom door open, Mr. Darcy in his arms and purring loudly, as though Irish was the original king of catnip.
She lifted her chin, setting aside the fact that Irish liked cats, which made her heart turn to goo.
And he knows his way around the English language; some might even say his vocabulary is broad. And he saved your hide.
Oh, and his name is likely listed under the word “amazing” in the dictionary. You know, because his bedroom skills, bar none, far surpass anything you’ve ever imagined in your wildest imaginings.
He’d been a fantasy for a very long time—so long now, she’d forgotten what it was to think of any other man. Finding out that fantasy had substance, texture, and knew words longer than three letters was…well, that was no good. He was too attractive on too many levels. Too big, too overwhelming, too much, too…
There was no way for them to be together. Not in this dangerous new world. Which meant this had to stop now.
Right now, Claire Montgomery.
And there was nothing saying he wanted to be with her. Maybe she’d just been a dalliance he’d forget all about. Maybe his words from last night were words he’d used a million times before.
Maybe.
Her heart pulled tight in her chest and her stomach clenched hard at the thought of seeing Irish every day and pretending nothing had happened between them. It had been easier before they’d made love.
Back then he was just a curiosity—something she’d often wondered if she’d only built up in her mind because he was forbidden to her. And the forbidden was almost always more exciting than it was in real life, right?
Now that she’d experienced the reality, and found out he was everything and more, it was going to make anyone after him a complete nightmare
Dropping Mr. Darcy to the bed, Irish plopped down beside her, forcing her to focus on the immediate problem here.
Distance. It was the only way to keep from throwing herself at him. She couldn’t allow what had happened last night to happen again. It would only make it harder for her to walk away. Something Irish was bound to do anyway—for the safety of his clan and, most of all, for Hadley.
Claire hitched back on the bed, crossing her legs and calling Mr. Darcy to sit in her lap as if he were her McGyver version of an Irish-away-a-nator. “First, let me just get this off my chest—”
“Are you going to yell?” he asked, cracking his knuckles and wrinkling his nose. “I have sensitive ears and it’s been a long night, Claire. You werewolves sure know how to howl. Be kind to the vampire.”
Her head almost popped off her neck. Was this some kind of joke? Claire’s blood boiled. “What the hell were you thinking back there, Irish? You could’ve gotten yourself killed, you stupid, stupid man! Why would you do something like that?”
As he prepared to answer, she threw up a finger to stop him. “And something else to think about, Prince Charming, you didn’t just risk your own life, you risked the lives of your clan! And what was all that nonsense about me raising Hadley? Are you so much of an imbecile that you don’t realize how much she loves you—needs you? Or maybe how much Hadley would resent being raised by a woman who allowed her brother to go to his death to cover the woman in questions ass?”
Irish opened his mouth to speak, but Claire was quicker. “And where the hell is Gannon?” She widened her eyes expectantly.
“Is it the vampire’s turn to speak, Miss Montgomery?”
Her lips thinned when she rolled her eyes at him and huffed, “Go.”
Irish leaned back on his elbows, crossing his ankles. “First of all, where is your gratitude, young lady? I saved your sweet little behind back there and I don’t even get a kind word? Not one?”
“Irish—”
“Don’t you ‘Irish’ me. You don’t have to give me medals or even bring me flowers, but wow. I did keep you from being flayed alive. Would a kind word break you?”
Sucking in her cheeks, she tamped down the urge to knock his teeth out and wipe that smug smile from his gorgeous face. “Thank you for saving me and quite possibly getting yourself killed.”
“Not even an inch, huh? Damn, you’re hard to impress.”
Claire’s heart fluttered like a petal falling to the ground, but she forced that from her mind, too. He had no business trying to impress her, because no impression would let her risk the town falling to ruin while their people engaged in an all-out war. “Stop trying to impress me and tell me what gives.”
He grinned, batting his eyelashes at her, his playful side yet another surprise she was earnestly fighting not to like. “Honestly? It was impulse. When I was pulling up to Ahab’s, I used my special vampire ears and heard Courtland and his sideshow gearing up to light their torches on your behalf while they were all huddled in a brainless circle, drinking and wondering where Gannon was. I admit I didn’t put a lot of thought into it. I just reacted.”
More heart fluttering. But she’d changed her mind. It was probably better she didn’t know why he was protecting her. Do not ask why, Claire. Don’t do it. “So you made all that up to protect me?” Oh, she’d gone and asked. Damn him and his magical smiles and heavenly lovemaking.
“Yes, ma’am, I did.” His expression grew serious, his eyes intense. “C’mon, Claire. You didn’t really think I was going to let them haul you off to werewolf jail, or wherever it is you go when you’re in pack trouble, did you? Gannon was a douchebag. I don’t know why you killed him, but my instinct tells me you had good reason. Now, I want to know what that reason was.”
Claire shook her head, eyes piercing his. “Oh no. I’m asking the questions here. I told you last night, and I’ll tell you again now, I’m not divulging anything. If you don’t know, you can’t be forced to tell anyone.”
Never. She would never tell a living soul until she had proof Gannon had deserved to die. It made her stomach pitch all over again, the thought of how she’d have to go about getting that proof, but she wasn’t giving anything up until she could bring irrefutable evidence to the council.
Once she had it, not even her pack would deny Gannon’s death was inevitable. Until then, and for the safety of the people who lived in Rock Cove, no can do.
Irish lifted an eyebrow. “I’m really uncomfortable not knowing your motives, Claire. Truth be told, it makes me wonder i
f this whole thing is much bigger than you, because you’re not exactly the girl most lycan to commit murder.” He grinned, likely patting himself on the back for his play on words.
Claire kept her expression bland, but her heart raced. She couldn’t risk it, but she wanted to. For the moment, she’d eliminated the immediate danger, and that was all that mattered. “Aren’t you funny? But I take comfort in the fact that at least you don’t think I’m some cold-blooded killer. Now, where’s Gannon’s body? Please say you buried it somewhere no one will ever find it, because it has my scent all over it.”
Fear sizzled up her spine again at the mere thought. If the Dogs found Gannon before she could do what needed to be done, she’d be screwed.
Irish looked at her for a long moment, clearly trying to read her thoughts. But she knew a thing or two about vampires, and he couldn’t read her mind unless she invited him in—or so she’d heard.
She busied herself forming a mental picture of a big red stop sign, just in case, while she stroked Mr. Darcy and waited for Irish to answer.
He rolled his tongue in his cheek. “I took care of your scent. If I couldn’t smell you on him, no one can. And I promise I buried him somewhere no one will ever find him.”
“So you led the Dogs on a wild goose chase, risked being staked at dawn, all for me?”
Dear heart, please stay in my chest. Love, Refuses To Be Wooed By The Forbidden Alpha Vampire.
“Yep.”
“You jerk.”
“Again with the name calling,” he teased, folding his hands over his deliciously flat belly. “I don’t like your brand of gratitude. Not one bit.”
Cocking her head, Claire gazed at him in wonder. She’d never seen this half of Irish. Not even with Hadley, and she wasn’t just confounded by it, she was also a little thrilled.
“Who are you, Irish McConnell? What’s with all the smiles and jokes these past couple of days? It’s like someone stole your will to spread your angst. You’ve always been moody and brooding. Suddenly you’re all cotton candy and swizzle sticks? Did you find your heart, Dark Overlord?”
Fangs of Anarchy - Forbidden Alpha (Part 2) Girl Most Lycan: A Werewolf Vampire Shifter Romance Page 2