Jesus Christ, she was everything. From the fiery cascade of auburn hair falling around her shoulders in shiny curls that he wanted to grip in his hand, to her pretty blue eyes. Claire was alluring, sweetly rounded, strangely olive-skinned for a redhead, and luscious-lipped.
Also forbidden, Irish.
Always.
Werewolves and vampires didn’t mix in this town. Ever. They really didn’t mix when the one woman you wanted more than you wanted to drink to sustain your immortality was mate to the alpha of a rival biker club. A rival biker club you were forced to live with.
But that had never stopped him from wanting Claire Montgomery. From wanting to splay her legs, rip off the scrap of panties she wore beneath her demure dresses, spread her wide, and take a long lick of the flesh he’d craved for five years.
Irish gritted his teeth. Claire didn’t know it, and he’d probably eat two heads of garlic followed by a swig of Holy Water before he’d admit it, but at all costs, he’d protect her.
And she was right. Gannon was a pig. A douchebag piece of shit who didn’t deserve someone like Claire Montgomery. But in the interest of keeping the peace, and keeping alive the gig he had going with Dodd’s club for synthetic blood, he stayed the hell away.
When she’d admitted how she felt about him last year at the town Christmas party, when she’d pressed her soft body to his, tried to capture his mouth in a kiss, his head had almost exploded right off his neck.
And he’d shunned her. Just like he was going to do now, even though he’d go home with her vanilla-wafer scent filling his nose and the memory of her breasts pushing at his chest, begging for him to run his tongue over her tight nipples.
The threat of vampires dying because they couldn’t live without the blood Gannon’s club provided was too real. Dodd would have taken that shit away in a heartbeat if he’d had even an inkling that Irish wanted Claire.
Irish and the Fangs ran the synthetic blood illegally. The same kind of blood on which humans had placed a tax so high three years ago, lower-middle-class vampires were starving, even dying painful deaths by the dozens.
Just another “fuck you” from the human government after they’d discovered it was unconstitutional to round up the paranormal and kill them all, which had been the original plan until the otherworldly revolted with the threat of a blood-sucking, entrails-eating uprising the likes of which humans had never seen.
Yet, even after the peace treaties and bullshit summits between both human and supernatural leaders, they were still at the government’s mercy just by virtue of their minority in numbers. The government used that against them, subtly, while trying to take them out by withholding vital necessities.
It was also considered too dangerous for paranormals to mingle with humans, so they’d sent them to obscure places like Rock Cove with the threat of mass extermination if they didn’t comply with the new laws. They’d given them towns to call their own, and left them to run them as they saw fit, leaving some paranormal territories in states of anarchy.
But not Rock Cove, Maine, where Irish had been forced to settle with his clan when the government had run them out of his home in New York, where he’d been a corporate attorney and only part-time bike enthusiast.
No one knew where Gannon got the blood, or who created it. But he’d cornered the market, and Irish had no intention of sacrificing the many with his painful lust for just one woman. It was a battle he fought every day, but he did it.
Still, this whole scenario wasn’t sitting right. She was hiding something—he just couldn’t pin it down. Claire wasn’t a murderer. Not without cause. He knew that much…smelled that much.
Claire swung the phone in his face, baiting him. “So, text? Or the more personal phone call?”
Irish pushed off the bar, mostly because he couldn’t stand another second spent so close to her. Even in the midst of this mess. “So, explain why you killed him. Please.”
“I’m not explaining anything to you, vampire. The less you know, the better.” She hopped off the bar, her feet slapping the floor.
She made her way over to Gannon’s awkwardly sprawled body, grabbing him by the feet and pulling him toward the door as though she were pulling a sack of potatoes from her car after a shopping trip. No emotion. Not even a twitch.
Irish blocked the exit. “What are you going to do with him, Claire? Bring him back to the Dogs at the club and just drop him off? Did you also lose your mind during your killing spree?”
“I wouldn’t step foot in that filthy club, and this was not a spree. A spree suggests more than one kill. A binge, if you will. Gannon was just one kill—even if it felt as if he had the grubby paws of a spree of people. Can you even believe I ended up destined to him? Me, a quiet, educated librarian with him, a disgusting…”
Irish’s ears went on alert. “A disgusting what?”
She shook her finger at him. “Never you mind, Coffin Lover. I’m not saying another word. No way am I letting you get in the middle of this.”
Irish crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “Uh-uh-uh. That still doesn’t tell me where you’re taking him.”
“Know any demons?”
She amused the hell out of him. Which he’d never show, but it made it damn hard not to indulge her. “A few, why?”
“Because Hell is as good a place as any to dump him. It’s where he belongs. Do they sell one-way tickets there?”
God. This woman. “Claire, stop being so damn difficult. I’m not letting you leave until you tell me what you’re going to do with him?”
She dropped Gannon’s legs, now becoming quite stiff. They plunked to the floor at a strange angle. “Listen here, Dark One. It’s none of your damn business. Wasn’t it just you who said you were going to turn me over to my pack? You have some phone calls to make, don’t you?”
“This is suicide.”
“Which rhymes with homicide. The noun used for what I just committed.” She reached back down, lifting Gannon’s legs again and throwing them over her shoulders to drag him outside, her heart-shaped face red, her chest rising and falling beneath the square cut of her neckline.
“Homicide does not rhyme with suicide. They only share the same suffix, Librarian.”
Claire stopped what she as doing for a moment and looked up at him, laughter in her almond-shaped blue eyes when she batted her thick eyelashes. “You stop. You know what a suffix is? Why, Irish McConnell, have you been practicing your Dr. Seuss?”
He gave her his best angry glare. “One fish, two fish, red fish, dead fish. Put him down, Claire,” he warned, letting his voice drop to a threatening decibel.
“Epic fail. It’s blue fish. Phew. For a minute there, I considered sleeping with you, Grammar Guru. Now you’ve gone and ruined it.” She leaned at the waist again, ready to hurl Gannon over her shoulder.
“Stop!” he bellowed, yanking Gannon’s legs from her grip and hauling his body over his own shoulder, cracking Gannon’s head on the exit door. Angry that her situation was forcing him to reveal a side he’d rather keep to himself. “The hell I’m going to let them kill you. You do remember the last werewolf to die for an infraction much smaller than this, don’t you?”
He watched Claire visibly shudder, smelled her ripple of fear. Good. Something needed to remind her she was on a suicide mission.
“I do. I remember. Joe Green.”
“And what did Joe do?” Irish asked as Gannon hung from his shoulder, his bulky body swaying to and fro.
Her nose wrinkled in cute distaste. “Had an affair with another club member’s wife or his old lady, or whatever you crazy bikers call them.”
He hated the disgust she held for bikers in general. Hated hearing it in her tone. Hated knowing she thought they were all ignorant, filthy scum of the earth. Someday he’d love to tell her that before the government interfered, he, too, had hidden amongst the humans, working as a very successful attorney, which was what paid for the synthetic blood he bought from Gannon while Ir
ish searched for someone to recreate the formula.
“Right. They strung him up, stripped him of his patch, and burned the club’s tattoo right off his back. You werewolves might self-heal, but I’d bet my immortality it damn well hurt while it was happening. Remember Joe’s screams coming from the woods, Claire? How could you forget? You could hear it clear across town. A little bump and grind is nothing compared to murdering the alpha of your own damn pack. You’re bent out of shape right now, but you might change your mind damn quick if they come for you.”
Her beautiful blue eyes fell to the floor. “Fine. So what do you propose we do with him?”
“I propose you not ask questions. Just clean this place up—clean it good. Use your speedy werewolf skills, run home, get a bottle of bleach and get back here pronto. Leave nothing behind. Who knows who else comes out here? Someone might walk right into this mess if you don’t leave it spotless. Someone who might smell your blood mingled with Gannon’s. I haven’t seen many of the kids in town out here much because we’ve instilled fear in them about getting too close to the borders, but you can’t afford not to be careful, Claire. When Gannon turns up missing, you’re the first person they’ll come looking for. Be ready.”
He saw her bravado hit low tide when she said, “Shit. I didn’t think of that.”
Irish clenched his jaw. “There’s plenty you didn’t think about. Now handle this.” He turned to leave, wishing like hell he could stay. Claire put her hand on his back to stop him.
Just that small touch was all it took to create a rush of need in him so deep, so primal, it would scare the hell out of her. It scared the hell out of him.
“Thanks, Irish,” she whispered, the sweet lilt of her voice wrapping around his eardrums.
Walk away, Irish. Use those vampire legs and get the fuck out.
He nodded his head before pushing his way out of the bar and heading for his bike, trying to shake off the indelible scent of Claire.
The crunch of icy snow beneath his feet made what he was about to do real. Very real. Something he’d die a gruesome death for if he were found out.
Setting Gannon’s body on the back of his bike, he used a bungee cord to tie him upright to the seat. His silhouette under the moonlight made for a macabre image.
But Irish chuckled at the sight. He couldn’t say he was sorry the son of a bitch was dead. The werewolf had had it coming for a long time. He was a cruel pack leader, and an even crueler president to his club. He and Irish clashed often but they’d managed not to kill each other.
When the government had dumped them all here ten years ago and left them to their own devices, things hadn’t been so bad. At least not while Gannon’s father Hardy had ruled. The two clubs had managed to come to a peaceful, albeit tenuous understanding, enforcing laws as needed and, in general, keeping at least a modicum of the order one would expect to find in a small town run by humans.
They’d prospered together during a time when survival was dependent upon your neighbor. They’d moved into abandoned houses, made them their own, put their government supplements to good use, created families, went to school, hosted town events, lent each other helping hands.
But when Hardy got himself killed trying to cross the border into Canada and Gannon was handed the alpha role of his pack—shit went haywire, and it had been an effort ever since to contain the asshole and his cronies.
So whatever he’d done to Claire had to have been pretty shitty. She didn’t have it in her to hurt a fly—Irish knew that instinctively without question. She was spicy, no doubt. Her tongue was sharp, her mind sharper, but she was no killer.
Irish stared down at Gannon, the moonlight shining on his round face, his rubbery lips slack in death. Slapping the dead man on the back, he asked, “So, Gannon, what the shit did you do to make sweet, well-mannered librarian Claire Montgomery kill your dumb-fuck ass?”
Chapter 3
Claire let herself into her small house on Rose Meadow Lane at exactly three-fifteen, exhausted but satisfied she’d rid Boomer’s of the scent of death—and the grisly aftermath of Gannon Dodd’s murder. She’d stopped at the stream adjacent to her house to rinse away the blood on her body, each splash of water a reminder of what she’d done.
Stripping off her dress, she decided burning it was the only way to ensure Gannon’s odor didn’t linger. Claire balled it up, grabbing a match from the hearth and striking it, throwing it into the fireplace where fresh kindling awaited.
As the flames grew, she forced herself to block out the horror of tonight and focus on the fact that she was free of Gannon.
Free.
Whatever that meant in this day and age of paranormal segregation.
It means you don’t have to mate with the vilest piece of trash to ever roam the earth.
Lobbing her dress into the fire, she watched it turn to ash before heading to the shower to more thoroughly wash Gannon’s filth from her skin. Her stomach rolled. Even as a were who was raised on the blood of the hunt, she’d never seen so much carnage.
She kept waiting for regret to sink in, for remorse to penetrate this haze of adrenaline she was experiencing, but so far all she felt was enormous relief that Gannon would never hurt anyone else again. He also wouldn’t darken her doorstep or humiliate her in front of her book club by stomping his big, ugly feet through her beloved library to remind her she was his mate.
As she made her way to the bathroom, her calico cat, Mr. Darcy, slipped between her ankles, weaving in and out. She scooped him up, hugging him hard, still weak from the night’s events. All she wanted to do, all she’d ever wanted to do, was live quietly in this new way of life her kind had been forced into, and manage the town’s library surrounded by her favorite books.
But when the mate call had come, and Gannon had picked her at the ceremony, everything in her peaceful life had changed.
Tonight, it had crashed down around her, and nothing would ever be the same if anyone found out the truth.
She shivered, dropping Mr. Darcy on the top tier of his kitty condo, pushing that awful mate night from her mind. The night that gave Gannon the right to declare her his in front of their pack members. The very sight of Gannon made her ill. What would it have been like if she’d been forced to be his wife?
What if she’d had to endure his beefy paws and breath that smelled like a thousand rotting souls forever?
What if she told everyone exactly who Gannon Dodd really was? What he was capable of?
Claire pushed the bathroom door open, grabbing fresh towels from the cabinet and flipped the tap for the hot water. She leaned against the wall, pressing her burning cheek to the tile, swallowing back the bile continually rising in her throat. She needed to keep it together. Hatch a story and stick to it at all costs. Never deviate.
And Irish—she needed to be sure he stayed out of this from here on out. Rock Cove couldn’t afford to lose one of the only fair enforcers it possessed. Despite his club’s moniker, he’d kept Gannon and the Dogs in line.
The mere thought of him—and the lengths he’d gone to in order to protect her—made her heart tighten and her gut clench with fear. If Gannon had known how much she wanted Irish, he’d have killed her just for her thoughts alone.
Now she’d put Irish and his people in jeopardy.
Gripping the towels, she forced herself to stay in the here and now, breathing in the steam the shower created, letting her newly remodeled bathroom relax her frazzled nerves.
Whoever had owned this house before being offered something bigger and better by the government in return for leaving their home had taken great pride in the small things. Carved-out nooks in the walls, decorative sills on every window, crown molding, and ivory beadboard on the sides of her kitchen cabinets. When she’d found it and claimed it as her own, she’d kept the tradition of love and care alive, planting roses and verbena along the whitewashed fence out front, hanging pots overflowing with fuchsia and geraniums in the summer on her tiny front porch, planted impatien
s in the window boxes, cramming them with color.
This house was more than she could have afforded on her salary as a librarian back in California. While she was resentful as hell that she’d been forced from her life without so much as a week’s warning, she was grateful she’d landed here when there had been absolutely no choice but to leave or spend the rest of her life in prison.
She lived where she still heard the ocean, where the waves still crashed against the rocks, and the wind blew soft and rose-scented in the summer. Where there was plenty of land to shift and run.
Her cell phone rang, stilling her step into the deep-blue-and-green tiled shower. Who was calling her at three in the morning? The strains of Tchaikovsky’s Romeo and Juliet pulsed in her ears.
Answer? Don’t answer?
Claire dropped the towels, turned the tap off, and ran for her phone, scanning the living room until she spotted it in the bowl on the table in her entryway. Her eyes flew open wide when she picked it up—Freya?
Freya was almost always in bed by eleven, tucked in after a long night of marathon Law and Order reruns.
Panic seized her. Stay calm, Claire. Breathe. She pressed answer and muttered, “Freya?” Thankful her voice was hoarse from all the screaming she’d done tonight; it lent being fake-awakened from a sound sleep some credibility.
“Did I wake you? Of course I woke you. It’s after three in the morning. How silly of me.” Freya’s sleepy yet still-sultry voice soothed her.
“It’s okay,” she offered, pinching her temple. “What’s wrong, Freya?” Something was definitely wrong. She heard it in her friend’s voice.
Freya paused for a moment, the crackle of the line hissing in Claire’s ear. “Are you sitting down?”
“I’m lying down. I’m in bed,” she lied, so effortlessly she might have patted herself on the back if not for the gnawing guilt.
Freya sighed into the phone. “Your intended is missing.”
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