Dog Eat Dog World: Limited Edition Bundle (Black Dog)

by Hailey Edwards

  “Thierry,” Mac bit off my name.

  Anger set my teeth on edge. “I’ve. Got. This.”

  Red slapped the bandana on his head. While his hands were otherwise occupied, I drew back my arm and punched him under his left eye. He rocked back, bound hands clutching for a hold on me. He toppled backward, and I scissored my legs, twisting my hips to flip him off me. This time I clamped my hands around his ankles and spat a stronger restraining Word. Cold magic snapped them together. Anger simmered in his eyes. He tensed his abs, levering his feet in a kick that almost clipped me on the chin.

  All day I had sipped and sipped and sipped when what I wanted was to let magic sink its teeth in one of these guys and rip out chunks of soul-meat to quiet the steady grumbling in my poor stomach. Snacking like this was worse than crunching rice cakes to fill the hole where a thick-cut T-bone ought to be.

  Grabbing Red by the pants, I slammed his feet to the ground and crawled onto them. He popped up into a sitting position like a pissed-off jack-in-the-box, and I swung my arm hard, the ridge of my knuckles uppercutting his jaw. Red grunted. His back slapped dirt, and the air whooshed from his lungs. Panting, he peeled his lips back from his teeth, and core muscles tightened to launch another attack.

  Caution forgotten, I lunged forward, pinning him under me. His heart beat steadily beneath my palm, and my magic zinged from my fingertips and sliced into his chest in search of that most precious commodity. His soul. As black and withered as it was, my inner scales had no trouble balancing. He deserved death for his crimes. Willing as I was to mete that justice, Red was not mine to punish. So instead of slurping his essence down like a tasty oyster on the half shell, I made a tight fist and reined in my power. The teeth of my control snapped at him. Tiny bites. Tiny bites. Nibbling. Not killing him. Not crossing the line Mac had drawn for me and not filling my cramping gut, either.

  “You can’t…kill me,” Red wheezed.

  “Probably not.” I patted his cheek with my right hand. “That’s kind of why you’re here.”

  Mac had chosen fae impervious to true death. Gulp this guy’s soul and it would regenerate. All he had to do was keep his bandana damp with fresh blood and his magic would revive him. Eventually.

  A giant shadow fell across my face. “How close are you to finishing?”

  I squinted up at the brawny correctional officer monitoring his inmate charge. The plastic name tag on his shirt read T. Littlejohn. “Ten minutes?”

  “Make it five.” He jabbed a thick finger toward the prison entrance. “It’s time for shift change.”

  Blocking out my audience, I shrank the thrumming cord of magic wending through Red’s chest until only a wispy filament of power remained. Oh so slowly, I withdrew every spark of my strength from the redcap’s body. There. Done. Somebody call time. I shoved off him and staggered to my feet.

  I had fed, sort of, and my donor was still breathing. If this had been a case assigned to me by the conclave, I could have led him to the office like this instead of dried out and rolled up under my arm. Wary of leaving Red with so much of my blood—blood he could use to work all kinds of nasty magic on me later—I squatted beside him, pinched his bandana between my fingers and held it up so I could get a good look at it. No wards stung my hand. No spell-scent flooded my nostrils. No magic vibes hit me at all. From here his lifeline seemed no different than any dirty rag due for a toss in the washing machine.

  “No need to be cruel, Marshal. Give ol’ Red back his do-rag.” The guard lumbered over with his hand outstretched and waited for me to toss him the bandana. He caught the rag in his meaty fist then slid it onto the redcap’s head. “He’ll die without contact with it.” He wiped his hand clean on the redcap’s pants. “Not that I care, but the higher-ups do. His execution is on the books, and I’m not going to be the guy explaining to Sarge why we’re short a prisoner for the chair that day. He gets cranky when things go sideways.”

  “The chair?” I whistled. “As in electric?”

  His lips pursed while he rolled his answer around in his mouth. “Something like that.”

  Clicking sounds sent his gaze seeking past my shoulder. His thick brow creased at what he saw. I turned, curious at what he found so interesting. Shaw stood with one hand spread like a claw where it hooked through the fence. His other palm rested against the nearby pole. The razor nails on those fingertips tap, tap, tapped. The anti-violence enchantment coating the metal sparked with his intent.

  “I’ve never seen an incubus up close. We don’t keep them here. Not enough guards with natural immunity.” His gaze flowed over Shaw, assessing the washed-out skin and claws, the blunt fangs set in a cutting smile. “Are they supposed to look like that? I thought they were all…sexy.”

  Wild laughter burst from me in a rush that left me sagging, dependent on the arm he threw out to steady me. Otherwise I might have collapsed on top of Red during my giggle fit. But Shaw had been pushed hard today, too, and that innocent touch made the air thick with tension between the two men.

  Shaw’s guttural claiming rumbled through the air. “Mine.”

  I grinned, tiny bubbles bursting in my chest. What can I say? Jealousy looked good on him.

  “Your hotness meter is busted,” I told the guard. “He’s the prettiest incubus I’ve ever seen.”

  Behind me, Shaw snarled. He probably wished I had used deadliest or most dangerous or other words I couldn’t argue described facets of his personality, all attributes I admired, but pretty fit too, and ever since we’d kissed and made up, all I could think about was him finally being mine. Mine. No take backs.

  Now if we could get more than five minutes alone to celebrate, preferably naked, that would be awesome.

  Three days had passed after the magistrates had sequestered themselves in their chambers, and Mac had stuck to me like glue since then. He was crashing on the couch at the apartment I shared with my best friend, Mai, and he invited himself along every time I stepped out of the building, which sucked.

  Behind us, the fence hissed and spat. Or maybe that was Shaw.

  Between the beatings I had taken today, which he’d had a front-row seat for, rousing his protective instincts, and the tiny problem of my father dubbing himself my new bodyguard to replace the ones who had betrayed me, thereby limiting make-up and make-out sessions, Shaw was close to snapping.

  I was too. But I couldn’t fault Mac’s logic. After witnessing Shaw drink me down one too many times, he’d decided to educate both of us on how not to kill each other via our feeding circuit. We both appreciated the advice. That he felt our lessons were best learned celibate? Well, that was just icing on the cake.

  Guess he was trying to make up for all the years of being an absentee parent by smothering me with his fatherly wisdom and concern.

  The guard unclipped the radio from his utility belt and called for a relief officer to escort Red to his cell. He refastened it, jerked his chin up and called to my guys, “You can pick her up around front.”

  Shaw was out of sight before the guard finished mouthing the last syllable.

  Fifteen minutes or so passed while I was patted down for contraband and signed out all official-like. A female guard passed me a baby wipe to clean my face. Scrubbing off all the sweat and blood made me feel human again. Human as I ever got anyway.

  A buzzer sounded, and she gestured toward the booth. “Push through the next door on your right, and you’re a free woman.”

  I tucked the used wipe in my pocket while locating the hulking male guard. “Hey, Littlejohn, what did Red want in exchange for his cooperation?”

  The prison had taken volunteers from a small pool of Mac’s preapproved candidates.

  “He got one last taste of fae blood—half-fae blood at least. Any blood will work. He’s been living on pig’s blood for about sixty years now.” He rolled his shoulders. “You got your practice, and he got his last meal. Even trade.”

  “Yeah.” I shivered. “I guess so.”

  I left before
he filled me in on what the others had wanted. Pretty sure I was better off not knowing.

  Past the guard booth and the sparse reception area, I walked through a metal detector and startled the new guard on duty with the amount of blood I was wearing. After assuring him I was fine, I shoved through the front entrance. Out on the sidewalk leading into the parking lot, Shaw waited with his hands stuffed into his pockets. The quarter hour since we parted in the yard had given him time to find a slice of calm, and he no longer resembled the whited-out feral incubus the guard had insulted.

  No. This was Shaw in cucumber mode. As in cool as a. Faded T-shirt stretched over a wide chest. Worn jeans low on his lean hips. Scuffed boots encased his tapping foot. Okay, so cool might have been stretching it.

  Shaw was always hot, hot, hot as far as I was concerned.

  Rich mahogany hair curled over his ears. His eyes were molten copper when they met mine, and my gut tightened when his lips hitched in a slow smile that sent warmth spreading through my chest. Heat raced up my arm when he took my hand.

  He touched my bruised cheek. “How bad is it?”

  “Not bad.” I squeezed his fingers. “Sore and hungry, but I can handle it.”

  The sound he made wasn’t a happy one.

  I tugged on his hand. “How are you feeling?”

  With us bound together and me feeding lighter these days, that meant he was too. Our diet made for shorter tempers and general crabbiness, but when Shaw stepped into me, his arms circling me, his hands sliding into the rear of my jeans pockets to squeeze my butt, I forgot the pain and grumpiness of the past week and let him mold me against him. I had his ear between my teeth and my hand sliding down his chest when I heard rapid static zaps that lifted hairs down my arms.

  My father stood three feet behind us holding a stun baton like the ones some marshals carried. It was a twenty-one-inch-long piece of telescoping black metal with a one hundred thousand volt arc running the length of the entire unit above the molded plastic handle. The click, click, click told me Mac had powered up in case our necking required a four milliamp intervention.

  The stun wouldn’t hurt Shaw, but it would make him think twice before using his mojo.

  Wearing a pleased smile, Mac had dressed for our training session in crisp, dark wash denim jeans and a faded Metallica shirt he’d found in my bathroom. His arms hung at his sides, the baton’s hot spot pointed downward, toward the cement.

  He flexed his trigger finger again. “Six inches of personal space, please.”

  A soft growl pumped through my chest as I leaned my forehead against Shaw’s chest. No fair.

  Mac took a step closer. “You must not complete the circuit until you have each mastered the control required.”

  “Complete the circuit?” I turned my head so I stared at Mac when I said, “You mean have sex?”

  A pained expression twisted his features, and the soft green glow emanating from his left hand caused his new toy to splutter and go quiet.

  “Stop traumatizing your father.” Shaw rested his chin on top of my head and clenched his hands, drawing me closer, forcing a whimper past my lips. “All this is for our own good.”

  “Stop sucking up to him,” I muttered.

  True, I had almost devoured Shaw when the circuit first snapped into place. Truer still, Shaw’s control had eroded over the past year without regular feedings. Right now he functioned in feast-or-famine mode. And possibly truest, there was a real possibility that sex, which generated its own energy and sated his hunger without poaching from me, was hella dangerous until we found our balance together.

  But parts of me—the portions currently pressed against him from hip to chest—were willing to gamble.

  He nuzzled my cheek. “I’d rather be sucking up to—”

  This time the low growl wasn’t mine. Apparently, Mac wasn’t a fan of dirty talk. At least not where his daughter was concerned.

  Shoulders bouncing with laughter, I tilted my head back. “I’m grabbing a shower at the office.”

  “I should head back too.” Shaw’s eyes smoldered. “Got to get ready for tonight.”

  “Movie night,” I agreed with a nod.

  Mac approached us and pried the ruined baton between our chests until we separated.

  “There are several showers if I recall correctly,” Mac said thoughtfully.

  During his first and only visit to the communal showers, he had worn a dayglow yellow panther-sized cat skin.

  Diode. Crazy to miss someone who never really existed, but there you go.

  “Yes,” I answered cautiously. “There are six.”

  “Excellent. We will wash and then go to dinner together before your movie night.” He patted my head like I was a good pup who had made her sire proud. “Good thinking.”

  Good was not the word I would have used. Bad worked. Terrible really fit the bill.

  But nothing iced sexual frustration quicker than showering with your father in the next stall.

  Chapter 2

  Midway into my lather-and-rinse routine, a wide palm flattened against my shower curtain. With a grin hooking my lips to one side, I placed my hand against Shaw’s, and liquid warmth settled in my bones.

  The shrill grating of curtain rings sliding over the metal shower bar next door made me flinch.

  “Mac.” Shaw jerked his hand away. “You’re naked.”

  “And you’re standing outside Thierry’s stall. Why?”

  “I—wanted to ask her something.”

  “Go ahead.” Mac pinched the edge of thin plastic shielding my modesty and smoothed it flush against the tile. “She can hear through plastic fine.”

  A dejected sigh passed Shaw’s lips. “It can wait.”

  “I thought so.”

  All hopes of Shaw stepping into my stall to help scrub those hard-to-reach places vanished in a puff of hot steam and fatherly disapproval.

  “I’ll wait for you outside,” Shaw muttered.

  “Thierry,” Mac warned. “Finish your shower.”

  I stuck my tongue out where he couldn’t see, because I’m that mature.

  Metal rings scraped and plastic shower curtain crinkled next door as Mac reentered his stall.

  To avoid any awkward getting-dressed-together moments, I stayed under the spray until I was pruney and a gust of cool air announced his exit from the room. Only then did I slink out to dress in jeans, a purple I got your back, Pluto T-shirt and sneakers. Afraid to leave the boys alone together, I towel dried my hair and then French braided it out of the way.

  I walked very casually into the main room of the marshal’s office and caught Mable’s eye.

  She was possibly the best perk the job offered, and her cookies were phenomenal.

  Today she wore a coral blouse with puffy sleeves and peach-colored corduroy bellbottoms. The vest buttoned over her curvy figure was a shade of salmon, and her boots were magenta snakeskin. With her powdery white hair pulled back in a bun, her rosy cheeks and her fuchsia glasses, she could play Mrs. Claus for the local tree farm and folks would line up to inspect her shirt for reindeer hairs.

  Her bow mouth drew up in amusement when she spotted me. “How are things, dear?”

  I narrowed my eyes at her. “You’re enjoying this way too much.”

  “Macsen is a good man, Thierry.” She clicked her tongue. “Don’t give him such a hard time.”

  “Me?” I squeaked. “You have no idea. None. That man—”

  “—is your father,” she said patiently.

  “Not the point.” I tugged on the collar of my shirt. “He is driving me insane.”

  “He loves you.”

  The words zinged straight to my heart. “He’s got a funny way of showing it.”

  Just because my deadbeat dad was in the running for Father of the Year in everyone else’s eyes didn’t make him a contender in mine. He had never reached out to me. Not once. Nineteen years without as much as a hello. Let alone an I don’t regret your existence, and oh yeah, your mo
m’s a pretty cool chick too.

  Mac claimed he had watched over me, yet he let me come into my powers ignorant. He let me go through my magical awakening alone, let me kill my best friends and didn’t even offer a shoulder for me to cry on afterward. How did I forgive him for those deaths when I hadn’t forgiven myself?

  The best thing Mac had ever done for me was when he wrote the conclave’s unlisted number for Mom on his way out the door and out of our lives. That foresight had brought me to Mable…and Shaw.

  Hearing the exhaustion in my voice, I asked, “Which way did they go?”

  She pointed at the front door. “They’re waiting in Shaw’s truck.”

  I had given her a jar of lemon blossom honey on my way in, so I waved. “Thanks.”

  “Thierry.” She hesitated. “How is Shaw?”

  I pulled up short. “He’s good.”

  “He seems…” she struggled for the word she wanted, “…at peace.”

  Tension drained out of my shoulders. “He does?”

  A knowing expression crossed her face. “You haven’t noticed.”

  I fidgeted with the hem of my shirt. “I’ve been busy.”

  “I see.”

  I blushed clear to the roots of my hair. “Not that kind of busy.”

  “Mmm-hmm.”

  “I’m just going to go.” Chin to my chest, I sidled past her with scalding cheeks. “Later.”

  “Enjoy your dinner,” she called.

  Out on the porch, I sucked in a breath of humid air and shook off the ominous feeling tightening my skin. Shaw had mentioned getting ready for tonight, but movie-night fixings were already at my apartment. We just needed to hit up a Redbox. Mac had made a going-to-dinner-together reference earlier too. With Mable making a third mention of the impending meal, I got the feeling more than food would be on the table.

  Mac or Shaw or Mac and Shaw must want to negotiate the terms of our upcoming trip.

  Well, at least I was getting a meal out of it.