by Anne Marsh
I’ve always been the lone wolf—and I’ve never minded the space from other people. Why load your life up with other people? Why invite them in when they’ll only piss you off? Being alone is easier and exactly what I deserve.
Jace curses. Then I practically see him start thinking my shit through. He wants what’s best for me—and that’s what makes him such a good Alpha. Because he won’t let me hurt if he can go to bat for me. He’ll have to find some way to square what I want with what the pack needs, however, and that’s gonna be a challenge. Jace can kick ass, patch up relationships with the other Louisiana packs, and keep our wolves safe. So I know he’ll want to fix me. I’m his, and he won’t let me be busted on his watch.
“You need to think before you go after her. You need a plan. Some words. A reason for her to trust you. Christ knows, springing the werewolf thing on her won’t do it.”
I nod because he’s not wrong. I fucked up when I kept the truth of who I am from her. I was happy as a lone wolf, and when I wanted company, I ran with my brothers. Meeting Poppy changed all that. She literally crashed into my life and shook me up. She made me want to be different, to be more. To come out and take a look at the world with her.
It sounds stupid, doesn’t it?
And now she’s told me she doesn’t need anything from me… and that hurts. I want her to need it all. I need her to need me, to let me in. She’s proposing being a pack of two, but surely there has to be room for three? For me?
Sometimes when boy meets girl, boy doesn’t get the girl.
She’s Beauty. I’m the Beast. That story’s already been told, and life’s fresh out of happy endings.
Three months earlier
Gator
My Alpha grunts something impossible.
Back in the old days, when we had a different Alpha, my next words would have been grounds for an ass kicking or worse. Things have changed for the Breed recently, however. Changes that, by and large, have been for the better. We kill way fewer humans now, even if some of my club brothers have mated with human females. To each his own, I guess. But this newfound freedom has me opening my mouth and asking for a little clarification. No way I heard what I think I heard.
I question him. “You want me to do what?”
He stares straight ahead, a smile curling the corner of his mouth. “You heard me.”
I respectfully disagree with that statement. I kill the engine on my bike because the noise must be the reason I heard what I did. Or maybe it’s the whole mood music thing we’ve got going on at the clubhouse. My brothers don’t embrace silence voluntarily—they like it loud, wild, and thumping. The party raging tonight at the clubhouse is nothing out of our ordinary. A bonfire rages in the center of the courtyard, the half-dozen kegs lined up against the outside wall announcing that the clubhouse is well and truly open for business. The music pounds, and a crowd of half-dressed, super-lit, and perky females dance to the beat. I recognize a few of them. One or two I may have met and fucked in a local club just down the street where they bring in DJs, the girls dance up on the stage, and, oui, clothing gets removed after a judicious application of dollar bills. I don’t judge, and as long as everybody goes home happy, it’s good. I want sex; they want money. This is what makes a free market economy rock.
The girls do like to dance, though, even if it’s a fully clothed freebie on clubhouse time. They whoop it up, and my brother Fang’s all over them, his hips doing a swivel-and-thrust that would put the Chippendales to shame. Chippendales. Fuck me. Do those guys still dance? Or are they part of the old timers crowd, whooping it up in some nursing home somewhere? My pop culture references are turning into fucking antiquities, and I can’t bring myself to care.
Jace grunts again and folds his arms over his chest. My Alpha doesn’t give a shit for dress codes. Tonight may be a party, but he’s wearing his usual black T-shirt and jeans. His leather vest is a twin to mine and announces that we’re members of the Breed motorcycle club. He takes pity on me, however, and repeats his request.
His motherfucking, impossible, fetch-me-a-rock request.
“I want you to find me a scientist,” he rumbles. The corner of his mouth quirks up. He sounds like he’s ordering takeout. I’m fucking sick of pizza, so how about Chinese?
I bet they’ve got awesome scientists in China, and that’s one place I haven’t been yet. If I don’t get some goddamned clarity on what he needs from me, I’ll take my ass there and get him what he claims to want. Fuck knows this party is getting old anyhow. I prefer to be alone, and silence is way better than this racket.
I don’t usually attend our parties—the scene’s not my kind of thing. I like plenty of alone time, and too many people definitely make me want to kill someone. I’m the pack’s enforcer, the man in the shadows, the rough hand of justice. I knock you on your stupid ass and then I go.
“You want me to kill this scientist?”
Jace shakes his head a little too quickly. Guess I barked up the wrong fucking tree there, but killing’s kinda my specialty.
I take another stab at interpreting find. That’s such a vague word. Two minutes with my phone and Google, and I could find him a scientist—but I don’t think that’s what he wants.
I look him in the eye. “Any particular one you want me to go shopping for?”
While Jace chews that over, I keep half an eye on the cluster of brothers checking out the ladies over by the bonfire. Those girls don’t get hurt while I’m around. Hell, they don’t get hurt ever. Some of the girls just dance to make the cash they need, and I make sure they get their green and get home. Some, however, want a little walk on the wild side, and they come out here to the clubhouse.
Here’s some advice for all you ladies. I’m not judging. I know the reputation we bikers have in some circles. We’re bad boys who ride like the wind, and we’re walking, fucking billboards for an adrenaline rush and an orgasm or six. If you want that, you come and get it. Just don’t make the mistake of thinking that picking out a patch-wearing, Harley-riding bad boy gives you a shot at happily ever after because we leave faster than most, breaking all known speed limits.
“Yeah,” he drawls finally. “I’ve got one in mind. Poppy Burkhart-Jones. She’s new in town.”
No shit. I’ve never heard of her, although since I don’t exactly run in scientific circles that’s no surprise. It’s not my place to question my Alpha, but I’ve never played by the rules. I’ll do whatever Jace needs doing because I vowed to have his back, and I’ve never broken my promises to him—but I’m still gonna ask questions. A shitload of questions. I learned that the hard way under the last Alpha.
“Easier ways to date,” I tell him.
Yes, I know I’m pushing my luck. Jace hooked up with the former Alpha’s daughter. On the one hand, fucking Keelie Sue cemented Jace’s position as the anointed one and the next to rule. On the other hand, once he took down our old Alpha, he made it plenty clear that Keelie Sue was in his life because she fit there perfectly—and not because of who her daddy had been. I’m not looking for love and never have been, but it’s clear the two of them think they’ve found something special, and I’d be glad for them if I knew how.
Jace peels his lips back from his teeth, canines elongating slightly as he snarls at me. “I’m done with that.”
He sounds happy about it too, and I don’t blame him. While there’s plenty of pussy on offer at tonight’s party, it’s about as impersonal as it comes. Case in point? Fang. Our brother is working his dubious charms on a dancer in a teeny-tiny blue dress that’s more New Year’s Eve than bayou throw-down. He says something into Dancing Girl’s ear, and she throws her arms around his neck—and then scissors her legs around his waist, flashing the rest of the party a black thong. Christ. At least she wore panties. Fang hauls her off into the shadows, laughing.
I nod at Jace. “So Poppy’s for me because you’re concerned about my love life. Don’t be.”
Fact is, I don’t date. Or love. Or even screw
much anymore. I’ve had almost two centuries to get that out of my system, and the novelty’s worn off. Women break too easily, and they want things I can’t, won’t give. I’m better off alone. Jace mutters something under his breath. Fuck him. I’m certain a dick can’t rust for lack of use—it’s not that kind of handle. I don’t think he appreciates good science because his next words are both louder and clearer.
“Doctor Burkhart-Jones is not your next blind date.”
What the hell kind of name is that? It sounds like an English country estate or one of those hoity-toity suburban new home communities with gates and a community pool. That shit’s great if it’s what you’re into, but it’s about as far from our biker world as Antarctica is from an all-inclusive beach resort in the sun.
“She’s armed and dangerous? Stole from the club? Dating the wrong guy?” Because if she’s any of these things, color me shocked. I’d have killed her already, and we wouldn’t be having this conversation.
He shakes his head. “She’s a research biologist. She claims that red wolves have been reintroduced into the Louisiana bayou.”
Every couple of years, some guy claims that he knows a guy who saw a wolf when he was plowing a field or out in the swamp shooting shit, or just parked on his front porch. Sometimes this guy even waves a couple of grainy photos around to prove his point. He’s wrong. There are no red wolves left in Louisiana; the humans culled their asses decades ago. Any wolf sightings are of the werewolf kind—and a mistake.
“Words are cheap.” This Poppy Burkhart-Jones can talk all she wants—it’s doing anything to back up her claims that could pose a problem.
Jace grunts something I decide to take for agreement. “She’s setting up trail cameras in the bayou. She thinks she can prove once and for all that there are wolves here.”
The Breaux brothers run one of the local packs, and their wolves won’t be caught on tape. The Breed, however, got sloppy under the last Alpha. Some of our brothers think with their dicks rather than sparing any brain cells. There are also a handful of true lone wolves out there in the bayou. Those wolves won’t know—or likely care—that this scientist woman is not-so-secretly recording them, and that means her odds of catching them on tape just went up significantly.
Okay, then.
“No killing?” It’s worth double-checking.
“Christ,” Jace growls. My Alpha might actually be praying. “No. She stays in one piece.”
“You want her scared?” Because fuck knows my face scares most people. The scars make them nervous—or worse.
Jace hesitates. Good enough for me. One scared scientist coming up. And maybe I am the wolf for the job after all. I have zero people skills. I don’t like humans. Hell, I don’t like most wolves unless they’re part of my pack.
“Just discourage her,” Jace rumbles finally, looking pleased that he’s coming up with a nice, safe word somewhere between kill and scare into having a heart attack.
“Might want to put one of the other wolves on her,” I suggest. Not that I really give a fuck if this scientist strokes out when I scare her, but Jace seems to want her in one living, breathing piece, and I don’t leave unicorns, rainbows, and happy vibes in my wake.
“She’s trespassing on your land,” he says mildly.
That definitely makes her my problem—I’m just wondering why I haven’t noticed her before. I don’t like anyone in my space, which is the point of my expansive real estate speculation. When you’ve lived as long as I have, you accumulate cash. Putting it to work for me in the form of exclusive acreage just seemed prudent and gives me the legal right to run anyone off.
“You know exactly where she’s been working?” The bayou is not just wild—it’s goddamned large, and I own a significant portion of it. Combing miles and miles of swamp for one misbehaving scientist could take weeks, but since Jace is concerned that she might actually catch one of us on tape, he must have a good idea of where she’s working.
“Pretty certain.” Jace texts me something from his phone, so I pull my own out and look. He’s sent me a map of the bayou. Thick black arrows trace what looks like some game trails and a couple of old fishing docks. Still, it’s a lot of space. Covering that much ground will take significantly longer than running down to the corner store for some milk. “Check these out.”
Fucking fantastic. My new mission in life is to look for a pain-in-the-ass biologist who’s convinced that red wolves have been reintroduced to the bayou. Doctor Burkhart-Jones… that’s a fancy name for someone who hides in the bushes watching animals fuck and then picks through their scat. One thing still needs clarification, however.
I eye my Alpha. “What exactly do you want me to do?”
Jace flashes me a grin. “Make sure she doesn’t find anything.”
Lot of fucking room to work with that request.
Since it’s better than hanging out at a party, I nod my agreement and head out. No one checks me as I go. They all know I’m not into the party scene. Instead, I get on my bike and open her up, the steamy air whipping past my face. I ride balls-out, hitting the road fast and hard, the wind in my ears and the dark around me making it seem like I’m the last wolf in the world. I have an island and a house not too far from where this Poppy has been working. I’ll spend the night there, and then I’ll be ready and waiting for her in the morning.
By then I’ll have a plan worked out. It’s gotta look natural though. I could take a tire iron to her boat, but that might just put her back up seeing as how she’s obviously got a curious streak wider than the goddamned bayou. A boat crash might just do the trick, however. I can fix it so she rams into me, or I ram into her, and that ought to get the ball rolling in the scaring-her-off department.
I’d head out into the bayou and spend the night alone. I love my brothers, but I like my space too, and that makes the bayou the perfect territory for me. Out there it’s just me, doing my thing, and no that’s not code for a rapid descent into alcoholism. I like hunting, fishing, and staring up at the stars. Inside my place, which is a century-old plantation house, I’ve got about a million books and a big-ass puzzle that’s been tormenting me for the last two weeks. Fucker has about a million pieces. Puzzles weren’t on your list of top ten things werewolves do with their spare time? I like to surprise.
And after a little alone time in the bayou, I’ll be right on hand to intercept Ms. Nosy Scientist, Poppy Burkhart-Jones.
She’ll never know what hit her.
Poppy
Wolves aren’t high on most people’s list of cuddly, fluffy animals. I mean, how many Internet memes do you see inviting you to hug a wolf cub? It’s all puppies, kittens, and the odd chick or bunny. If you’re having a bad day (or week, month, or year), petting something furry and big-eyed is the least the universe owes you. I get that. It’s just that I’ve always had a fascination with more toothsome lupines ever since I was given a stuffed wolf animal as a child. George was my favorite and constant companion—and he totally kept the bears, bunnies, and dinosaurs of my siblings in line.
So my wolf fetish started young.
I moved on to zoo exhibits and summer nature camps and then got a degree in zoology from UC Davis. My dad suggested I look into the veterinary sciences, but I prefer being outdoors, so I’ve been chasing down grants to pursue independent research out here in the bayou. Some days—like today—I have to question that preference, however. Biology isn’t glamorous, and hunting wolves is even less so. I’ve spent the night crammed into a hunter’s blind, waiting and hoping that the male of my dreams would come strolling out of the undergrowth for a little meet-and-greet. I did mention I’m a biologist, right? So the only penis I’m interested in belongs to something four-legged and furry.
Honestly, wolf penes are way more fascinating than any human dicks I’ve encountered. Nature designed them with a furry sheath that shelters the penis and keeps the sperm warm but not too warm. Mother Nature’s all about the procreation of the species. In another glad-I’m-human
difference, a wolf’s penis contains a bone and he only achieves an erection after sticking it in, the wolf barb joining the happy couple together in Mother Nature’s dirty version of Velcro. Girl wolves have it rough.
There’s no mistaking my blind for a Four Seasons. Since I’m on grant dollars, I sprang for the not-so-deluxe model. My home-away-from-home is a plastic hexagon with windows on all sides and an elevation of five feet thanks to the stand of four-by-fours it sits on. Since it keeps my ass out of reach of the creepy crawlies that come out at night in the bayou, I’ll take it. Plus leaf print is all the rage this year. It’s kind of cute even if it’s smaller than your average New York City apartment.
I climb down stiffly. Sitting cross-legged all night reminds me painfully that I have a date with my tub and some restorative bubble bath where I can drown my sorrows because my date night in the bayou hasn’t yielded the results I wanted. No wolf showed. That’s okay. I already have plans to keep coming out here on a regular basis. When Mr. Wolfy comes strolling down the game trail, I’ll be ready for him.
Don’t judge. So what if sitting in a swamp overnight is the highlight of my love life? My last (and only) relationship was worse. In retrospect, Nathan had more teeth (and tendency to bite) than the gator I watched slide into the bayou somewhere shy of midnight. What started off as a fairytale romance with my suave, sophisticated professor took a righthand turn into hell, and so right now the only male I’m looking for is one hundred pounds of lupine love.
Finally staggering to the bank, I work out the worst of the kinks as best I can. My blind is not only lacking in space, but it’s seriously deficient in bathroom facilities. I pay a quick trip to the bushes (ugh) and then haul myself into my canoe. Since I’m financing this research project on a shoestring, I have the cheapest, most beat up, hardest-to-steer boat in creation. It’s overly long and made out of a cheap aluminum that I’m pretty sure I could dent just by poking my finger into the side. I haven’t tried. The previous owner must have used it to play bumper cars because the sides are pitted with dents and dings of varying sizes. It looks like one good blow would send it to the bottom of the ocean (or the bayou), but so far it hasn’t leaked and it more or less goes in the direction I point it. I named her Carol. Carol the Canoe.