“You started this thing between us…”
Yeah. He’d eye-fucked her good that first day. Imprinted on her like a kinky duckling. Flagged her as his. And it was all going to end soon enough…but, until then, he was going to savor this. He was going to drown in her for as long as he could. And maybe, just maybe, he’d break the surface and come out washed clean.
Chapter 17
“I hear you help unfuck things…”
She’d heard snatches of the strange conversation. Sure, Joe had fucked her insensate before and after, but Neha had always been a light sleeper. Couple that with a very tiny apartment in a prewar building where everything echoed and…yeah, secrecy was a concept, not a given. She waited for Joe to address the phone call the next morning. She got cleaned up, changed into another set of Indian clothes, and waited. To no avail.
Joe was a vault, locked up tight, as they navigated the oddities of sudden and forced domesticity. They couldn’t hide out indoors indefinitely. Not with an empty fridge and limited supplies. And Neha was fairly certain she needed to buy stock in cranberry juice after the amount of sex they’d had. Some sort of chafing balm for her thighs, too. A quick check via the basic web browsers on her devices revealed that there was an APB out for Joe already, and constant news bulletins coming through on social media about the courthouse hit. No casualties besides the one guard, thank goodness—not that it was much of a bright spot. One death was a death too many, even if the guy had likely been on the take.
And Joe may not have pulled the trigger, but the blame was falling squarely on his shoulders. Making his capture even more of a priority. They’d have to move on soon, find him another place in the five boroughs to hunker down while she snuck back into Manhattan to work out his legal problems—but, in the meantime, Neha knew that Joe had to blend in.
“Doc…I ain’t so sure about this.”
The borrowed kurta was too tight across his shoulders. Aishneet Auntie’s husband, Saravpal Uncle, wasn’t built like a dock worker. It was a miracle the shirt fit at all. But Neha fiddled with the plain brown shawl, pulling it across Joe’s wide torso like a Highlander’s tartan, until he looked as he should. Olive-skinned, of indeterminate ethnicity, vaguely threatening and more than vaguely brooding. If he kept his mouth shut, it was entirely possible they could pull off this ridiculous charade for another day or two.
“I feel like I’m in fucking pajamas,” he grumbled, while she finished poking and prodding and double-tying the drawstring of his cotton pants.
“You are in fucking pajamas. The word came from India,” she pointed out. “And if anyone asks, you’re my cousin from Punjab. Fresh off the boat. No English.”
“Babe, no one’s going to believe we’re cousins.” The way he looked at her then, all bedroom eyes and filthy promises, certainly ensured his words. They were more like kissing cousins. Okay, cousins who fucked against brick walls. But it was no less ridiculous than anything else they’d already been through. A lawyer and a shape-shifting vigilante who was awaiting trial on the run together from the Russian mob? Who would believe that outside of a Hollywood producer?
“Fine,” she snapped. “You can be my fiancé. Arranged. A nice, healthy Punjabi farm boy who does whatever I say.”
He laughed, the sound more genuine now than it ever was while he was behind bars. “No one’s gonna believe that either. And not just because I’m as white as fuck. You really think you can push me around, Doc? On what planet?”
It was funny that he tried to posture, to pretend he was some kind of alpha male dick, when they both knew he did listen to her. More than that, he listened to what she didn’t say. What her body told him. What her soul screamed out for. This was a man who valued her input, her opinion, her pleasure. And just thinking about that made her breath catch, her limbs go languid. She was turned on as hell, and she wished she could tear off the trappings of desi disguise that she just painstakingly put him into. She wanted to bite all the places she hadn’t yet discovered. Mark them all as hers like he’d marked her.
He felt it, too, of course. They’d only known each other a short time, but he was already able to sense when she needed him inside her, when the craving for sex and connection was too much to control. Maybe he sensed more than that. Like how they were in too deep, too fast. Like how she needed more than his dick; she needed his brain and his heart as well. She needed all of him. She wanted all of him. “Why push you around when I can pull you toward me?”
His eyes went heavy-lidded; his tongue flicked across his lower lip. He huskily warned her, “Doc…” before he grabbed the pallu draped over her shoulder and tugged her close. Despite all the complicated folds and tucks, saris were easy-access outfits. One piece of continuous cloth that could come off with a few quick motions. But Joe didn’t undo her work. Instead, he slid his wide palm around her bare midriff, claiming the skin there. He leaned his forehead against hers, breathed her in. They stood like that for a dozen heartbeats. His fingertips stroked the base of her spine, dipped beneath the border of her petticoat to the cleft of her ass. She was in disguise, too. Undercover as a Hindu. Not that he would know that Sikh women didn’t generally wear saris. And, in this moment, telling him wasn’t high on her priority list.
“Doc,” he whispered again, lips feathering across her forehead, her temple, her jaw. “Ain’t no one gonna buy that a woman like you would marry a thug like me. There’s only one thing I’m good for.” The words were as cruel to him as his touch was gentle to her. “Everybody out there’s gonna take one look at us and know that my dick’s been inside you. You can only be in it for the ride.”
She wasn’t naive. What he was saying had a ring of truth to it. On paper, there was nothing about them that worked—he was white, she was Punjabi; he was a shifter, she was a human—but that didn’t make it any less hurtful. To her. To him. To everything they’d just experienced over the last few days. And she would never let a friend say such a terrible thing about themselves. From someone she’d been to bed with, the sentiment was even more unacceptable.
“It’s a hell of a ride, Joe. But it’s not the only thing I need you for.” She slipped her hands into his hair, gripped the short, bristly strands. “We can make this work. We have to make this work. To keep you safe from whatever they’re blasting out on the news wires. And if that means I have to pretend I dragged you to a gurdwara and traded vows with you to make it believable, I will.”
She would never really take Joe to a gurdwara. No. After the 2012 massacre in Oak Creek, she couldn’t even conceive of bringing the threat of violence into a place of peace. Yes, they would gladly offer shelter…but all Neha had to offer in return was death. She valued her family’s faith—and basic common sense—enough to know that the option was totally off the table. And she valued Joe, too.
He was quiet for a long time. Kissing her. Touching her. Having an entire conversation in silence. And then he spoke against her lips. Muffled. Gruff. “Neha, I’ll make a vow to you right now: I will do anything to keep you safe.”
* * *
“Neha, I’ll make a vow to you right now: I will do anything to keep you safe.”
His words rang through his mind while they made their first trip outside since getting to Queens, ducking drones as best they could. Or at least Neha was ducking drones. Maybe he wasn’t so careful. Maybe he lingered a little when they split up for a bit to pick up basic supplies for a few days in hiding. Maybe he was a little late meeting back up to grab some bomb-ass Indian food. Because the whole time, the vow echoed. Along with the battle cry of his plan: Come and get me, you motherfuckers. He’d put the first part into motion last night, with that phone call. Now he had to play out the rest. No matter how much it sucked, how much it hurt. How risky it was. He had it all hammered out by the time they made it back to base. Back to their little sex oasis. Fuck, he didn’t want to leave it. It was the most peace he’d had, the happiest he’d been in…
ever. But he had free will, he had choices, and he knew what choice he had to make next.
“What are you planning to do with all of that?” Neha’s face paled when she saw him take everything out of his bags and start to arrange it for immediate use. Scalpel. Forceps. Disinfectant. Bandages. Medical tape. A fifth of whiskey. A thick rawhide chew from the janky pet store off Thirty-Seventh Avenue. He’d grabbed that last thing while she was in an Indian clothing shop a few storefronts over. He didn’t blame her one bit for being weirded out.
He whipped her uncle’s shirt over his head. Stepped out of the soft white pants, too. “It’s not me who’s gonna do it, babe. My hands won’t be steady enough. I need you to take out the implant. My werewolf collar’s gotta go. I can’t not-shift right now. We need me at full capacity in case everything goes sideways.”
He gave her massive credit for not immediately turning tail and running the hell out the front door. For just laughing a little and rubbing nervously at her throat. “Joe, I hate to shatter stereotypes here, but being Indian doesn’t mean I’m a doctor. Not that kind of doctor, anyway.”
“You got into my head just fine,” he reminded her. “So, I can probably trust you to cut into my thigh.”
“That makes one of us. Because I don’t trust me at all.” Neha shuddered, looking a little green around the gills at the prospect. “What if I nick your femoral artery? There is no way we could stop a bleed like that.”
“You know where the femoral artery is?” He scoffed as he finished getting ready for their impromptu game of Operation. “That already puts you ahead of most of the guys I served with.”
“No.” Neha was still pale. Still shaking her head. She was not into any of this at all…and he needed to get her on board ASAP. “I’ve watched a lot of Grey’s Anatomy. That doesn’t make me an expert. And definitely not an expert in supernatural physiology.”
“Could’ve fooled me.” Joe grinned, gesturing not so subtly down to the bulge in his shorts and winking at her. “But I’d switch to some of those vampire soaps, if I were you. And read some urban fantasy. Then you’d know that shifter healing ability should kick in the minute you get that thing out of me. It’ll slow any bleeding. Anything that doesn’t heal right away will get taken care of while I sleep.”
Her eyes lit up. The change of topic obviously fascinated her—and, even better, distracted her from her nerves. “You read urban fantasy?”
“Uh-huh. Urban fantasy, thrillers, paranormal romance.” He was almost kind of offended by her surprise, except he got it. No one looked at him and saw the guy hunched on his bunk, squinting in the dark, tearing through books to get his mind off all of the shit in the world. They just saw his ugly mug and his fists and figured that fighting was all he was good for. The U.S. government sure as shit had that impression, and he’d let them fly with it for twenty years. But he didn’t need to rehash any of that right now. No, he just needed to get Neha to relax enough to play doctor.
“Here’s the real kicker: I’ve seen all the Twilight movies,” he told her. “Wasn’t much to do in those first weeks at Apex while they were doing all their sciencey shit. They thought it’d be a stress-reliever to ‘educate’ us through books and movies. Made us watch a ton of movies while they were poking and prodding and assessing. Most of us ended up Team Jacob, ’cause I don’t know if you know this, but vampires are assholes.”
She laughed at that. “I can’t say that I’ve ever had the pleasure of meeting one. At least not that I know of.” Her voice was still wobbly. No sign of the ballsy broad who’d strutted into Brooklyn Detention with “fuck you” in her eyes. But she was getting on board with him now, for better or worse. She took a breath, ruefully shook her head. “The supernaturals I have encountered were born, not made. Families living quietly in plain sight for generations. And none of them prepared me for you.”
“I know, babe. And I’m sorry.” Nothing could’ve prepared him for this either. For today. For now. For her. “Just tell me: Are you prepared for this? Can you do this for me?”
She answered by shimmying out of her pretty Indian clothes and slipping on the T-shirt he’d worn yesterday. Then she grabbed a bunch of towels from the linen closet and layered them on the bed before putting down a trash bag from the kitchen cabinet for good measure. And she added the first-aid kit from her go bag to his pile of supplies. Atta girl.
He’d undergone—and performed—worse field surgeries. She probably wouldn’t find that reassuring, so he kept it to himself as he settled onto their makeshift operating table with the chew toy.
“No belt? Maybe a stick?” She made a face, slapping on latex gloves from her kit.
He’d had worse things shoved in his mouth, but he wasn’t about to tell her that either. “My bite could get pretty bad—especially if I start shifting,” he explained instead. “I’d probably snap a stick in half. And why ruin a good belt? A canine chew toy is a safer bet.”
She wrinkled her nose, obviously still grossed out by the idea, but totally willing to roll with whatever. In for a penny, in for a pound and all of that. “Keep this up, and we’ll have to get you a leash and a collar.”
He waggled his eyebrows. “You say that like it’s a bad thing.”
The kinky joke worked. She laughed again, some of the tension draining from her features as she lined up all the supplies on the nightstand. She looked at the last item with suspicion. “Is the whiskey for you or for me? ’Cause I have to tell you, Joe, I’m not sure getting me drunk is going to help this procedure.”
“It’s for both of us. After.”
After. Felt like eight hours instead of what was probably twenty minutes. He talked her through where to cut. How deep to go. And then he gagged himself. The rest of it was a blur of pain. Of her swearing and apologizing for hurting him. Of her soft hands on his skin, balancing out the bite of the scalpel. When she started to dig out the inhibitor, the blur turned sharp. Everything slipped into focus. Her huge, dark, wet eyes. The smell of her fear.
Fur rippled across his skin. His mouth filled with teeth, and he tasted rawhide and blood. He started to turn. He couldn’t stop. He didn’t want to. He thrashed against the mattress, back bowing.
“Joe!” It was a whip-crack command befitting a military commander. Cutting right through the haze, the frenzy, the beast wanting to run free. “Joe, you have to let me work. It’s not all the way out, and I won’t be able to find it if you change. Stay with me.”
Stay. Stay with her. That was all he wanted. All he’d ever want. His woman. His mate. Safe. Joe clung to it like a rope, pulled himself back along the tether. He held on as tight as he could…until everything, mercifully, went black.
Chapter 18
Joe stayed passed out for hours. Dead to the world…but not dead to her. The steady rise and fall of his chest assured her that he was more or less okay. Neha eventually paused her bedside vigil to clean up the surgical tools, toss the bloodied bandages and garbage bag, and steady her nerves with a strong cup of chai. Aishneet Auntie hadn’t stocked the tenant-less apartment with much, and the kitchenette was minuscule, but you could always count on a desi auntie to keep some tea on hand for emergencies. After two doses of cultural curative, she felt more or less grounded again. As grounded as she could be, given the circumstances. Circumstances so wildly out of her control.
She wanted to call someone. Anyone. Everyone. Tejal, or her mom, or Nate. Someone who could serve as a touchstone, bring her back to reality, ground her in what was important. You know what’s important. Staying alive is important. Joe is important. The inner voices that had been steering her—in directions both right and wrong—kept her hands off her burner phone and safely knotted in her lap until Joe finally began to stir.
“Doc?” The word was a low rumble. His eyes seemed to gleam in the darkened room.
She leaned forward in the chair she’d dragged over to his bedside. “I’m here. You’re
here, too. Guess all the Grey’s Anatomy binges did their job after all.”
“Glad to hear it.” He winced, rising halfway and leaning against the headboard. “I knew you’d get it done.”
Like she’d said to him earlier, that made exactly one of them who’d believed in her abilities. And it still baffled her that he’d had to even ask her for help. “Why didn’t you do this long before now? You could’ve gotten anybody to take the implant out for you at any time, right? Why wait?” Why use guns on those Russian thugs instead of claws and teeth? Wasn’t that fundamental question what had led to him getting a second opportunity at trial?
“Nah. Wasn’t that simple.” Joe shook his head and slowly swung his legs over the side of the bed, bracing his palms on the mattress. “I was trying to behave myself. Trying to stay out of trouble. As a condition of my military discharge and my deactivation from the Apex Initiative. Can’t really have supercharged supes running around unchained, can they?” he pointed out. “So, they inhibit us and LoJack us. Do periodic check-ins like we’re on parole. Wouldn’t be surprised if they’re tracking me right now and just keeping out of it until I really fuck things up.”
Neha could almost feel her eyebrows climbing into her hairline. “Getting arrested for multiple homicides and making a scene at trial doesn’t count as a fuckup?”
Joe met her disbelief with a shrug. “I didn’t break my NDA for anybody but you. As far as anybody knows, I’m just a lone gunman, a loose cannon. If I take their secrets to my grave, we’re square.”
Big Bad Wolf Page 14