Last Wolf Watching

by Rhyannon Byrd

  Chapter 2

  Silently cursing his lack of control where this particular woman was concerned, Brody wondered just what he was doing. He’d sworn to himself that he’d stay home tonight—and yet, when Cian had come knocking at his door, on his way to the ceremony, he couldn’t do it. His fear over what might happen to her had been too great, and he’d found himself following his partner up to the clearing where the Silvercrest pack conducted its business—business that was better suited to the wild than the civilized streets of its town.

  He hadn’t been able to stay away from her—he hadn’t even lasted a day.

  But nothing had changed, because the facts remained the same. It didn’t matter what he wanted. The truth of the matter was that women like Michaela Doucet never took interest in guys like him—ones who were scarred and used and bitter enough not to care what the world thought about them. Sure, they may have used him for a raunchy one-night stand. One of those “look at brave little me making it with the big scary guy” situations, turned on by his scars because of the violence they represented. But even then, they still feared him because of his sheer physical size and power. And they got off on that fear, using it as a twisted means of sharpening the thrill when they found themselves beneath a man who could too easily break them if he wanted.

  Users, each and every one of them, and they’d used him until Brody had just grown tired of it all and said to hell with it—to hell with women—no matter how badly his body ached for one.

  And you’re being an asshole. Michaela isn’t like that, and you damn well know it.

  He ground his jaw down until his teeth ached, soaking in the pain, knowing he deserved it. He was being an idiot, because truth be told, Michaela Doucet scared the ever-loving hell out of him. Despite his determination to stay away from her, he’d known, deep down, that he’d come tonight. Known, instinctively, that it was where he belonged.

  He hated it—but there was no sense denying that he needed to be here to protect her. The entire time he’d hiked through the woods, he’d sworn to himself that he’d watch from the sidelines. Simply ensure she didn’t get herself into more trouble than she could handle, and he had no doubt she could cause trouble. The woman lived up to her fiery Cajun heritage like a pro, whipping men into a frenzy of lust wherever she went.

  Even now, when she was an emotional wreck, he could sense the unmated males’ interest as the Lycans watched her with a dark, feral hunger, the edgy scent of their lust thick on the air, making him want to snap at them with his jaws.

  She was just too beautiful for her own good. And too damn fearless! He still couldn’t believe the depth of her anger toward the pack, or her willingness to confront them over the treatment of her brother. He wondered if the Doucet kid knew how lucky he was to have someone who cared that much about him, who was willing to risk her life because she wanted to keep him safe.

  There was obviously a lot more to Michaela Doucet than a pretty face and a body most men would die for the chance to cover—and the uncomfortable knowledge made Brody want to let go of her, turn around and never come within a God-given mile of her again.

  But his arms wouldn’t cooperate. If anything, his grip tightened, the sensation of her soft curves plastered down the front of his body enough to make his teeth gnash. He’d known she’d feel incredible if he ever had the chance to be this close to her, to touch her, burying his face in her hair and letting her rich, seductive scent sink into him—but he hadn’t realized her effect would actually make his knees shake…or his mouth water for a slow, deep, intimate taste of her.

  He wanted her on his tongue. All of her. Everywhere. His face lowered, lips rubbing against the smooth silk of her hair, and he was a breath away from sliding lower, nuzzling behind her ear, when he suddenly realized where they were…and what he was doing.

  Goddamn it! He’d worked so hard to master control of himself—there was no damned way he planned on letting her strip it away so easily. But holding her…it was even more dangerous than he’d imagined. Richer. Sweeter. Every cell of his body ached with the need to claim, to accept the dark truth he refused to even consider.

  “Brody?” The sound of his name jerked him out of his internal hell, and he realized Mason was standing just a little to his left, a few feet behind him. He could hear his friend’s confusion, as well as his surprise that Brody had been the one to grab hold of Michaela. Around them, the pack’s energy grew sharper with the promise of confrontation between the Elders and the indomitable human he held in his arms, and Brody understood the need to retreat back to the safety of the other Runners.

  “It’s okay, Mase,” he grated under his breath, carrying her with him as he backed up a few steps until flanked by their supporters. “We’re under control here. I’ve got her.”

  She’d grown quiet, but trembled in his arms even as she lifted her head high, too fragile for such strength, a contradiction that set his teeth on edge at the same time she sent his pulse rate soaring. He gently lowered her body until her feet touched the ground, but didn’t release his hold on her—and she didn’t try to pull away. She just stood there, pressed against his length, and stared soundlessly at her brother, the rapid panting of her breath making a quiet rasp through her parted lips.

  With a knot in his gut, Brody wondered if they had explained to her exactly what the Novitiate’s ceremony entailed. Any moment now, Max Doucet would experience his first shift as a Lycan. Under close watch, his guards would have alerted the Elders when it was time to begin, recognizing the signs. Fever. Sweating. Cramping. The initial change was always the hardest, both mentally and physically, and only the strongest humans survived. Brody hoped the kid had it in him, because if his body failed to completely accept the shape of his wolf, yet he still lived, the rules of the ceremony were that he’d be killed—and then he and the others would have a battle on their hands, with Drake inciting the pack into a vicious frenzy.

  With a cruel smile, the Elder’s cold gray stare traveled over their united force, lingering with bitter disapproval on his offspring, Eric and Elise, before cutting to Jillian Murphy. “It’s clear where your loyalties now lie,” he sneered, curling his lip as he addressed the pack’s Spirit Walker. Through her maternal bloodline, Jillian held the sacred position of holy woman, or witch, for the Silvercrest pack. She was also the mate and fiancée of Brody’s fellow Bloodrunner, Jeremy Burns. Beneath Drake’s scornful stare, Jillian didn’t so much as bat a lash, but beside her, Jeremy bristled with outrage.

  “Rest assured, Jillian, that I’ll be demanding your resignation,” Drake continued with malicious pleasure. “Silvercrest will no doubt be better off without you. We can’t have you marring the purity of our young through your association with ones who are so repulsively impure. To be honest, I’m surprised you have the gall to face us.”

  “And after last week, I’m surprised you don’t know any better than to watch what you say to my mate,” Jeremy snarled as he took an aggressive step forward, looking more than ready to knock the racist Elder on his ass. Brody knew just how badly Jeremy wanted to take Drake apart, piece by satisfying piece, and he didn’t blame him. Under the Elder’s orchestration, an attempt had been made on Jillian’s life the previous week, and it was only by some clever thinking on the part of Eric Drake that Jeremy hadn’t killed the bastard in a murderous rage. If he had, the Silvercrest penalty would have been death, and Brody and the Runners would have lost a man who was more like a brother to them than a mere friend.

  “Are you threatening me?” the Elder demanded of Jeremy, the sinister gleam of triumph in his chilling gaze revealing his ploy. He wanted Jeremy to make a move on him tonight, so that he could retaliate with the full force of the pack, using his position to strike out against the Runners.

  Before Jeremy could react, Mason placed a cautioning hand on his partner’s shoulder and Jillian stepped into his side, putting her arms around his waist. The group held their collective breath as they waited to see what he would do. Finally, Jer
emy shook his fisted hands out at his sides, and draped his arm around his fiancée’s shoulders. “I don’t make threats,” he said in a quiet drawl, flashing the Elder a contemptuous smile. “I make promises. I’d tell you to speak to my mate with respect, but the truth is that you’re not good enough to speak to her at all.”

  Drake looked round at the pack. “Are you going to allow him to address his betters with such lack of respect?”

  “Stefan,” Dylan Riggs softly muttered, speaking for the first time, while the other Elders remained silent, their expressions tight with concern.

  “The pack knows who deals with its trash so that it can sleep in peace at night,” Cian called out, his words crisp with the lilting notes of his Irish accent. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his black leather jacket, placed one between his lips, and cupped his hand over the tip as he flicked open a silver butane lighter. After the first long drag, he lifted his head and sent the Elder a lazy grin. “If I were you, I’d worry about keeping on our good side, Drake.”

  “You’re not a member of this pack,” the Elder spat, glaring at Brody’s partner. “None of you are.”

  “By choice,” Mason rasped in a low slide of words, which were true. Nearly all of the Bloodrunners had achieved their required number of kills to rejoin the Silvercrest pack, though they chose not to. “It’d be wise of you to remember that.”

  “It’s time now,” Fuller announced, stepping forward, sending an apologetic look in their direction. Graham Fuller may have been the best friend of Mason’s father, Robert, but he still held the position of Lead Elder among the Silvercrest League. As such, he carefully walked the line of neutrality when dealing with the ancient bad blood that existed between the purists, like Drake, and the crossbreeds. Even Dylan, who Brody personally didn’t like, but was a close friend of the other Runners, had his hands tied when dealing with his fellow Elders. If he showed too much support for the Bloodrunners, Drake would demand a vote on his removal—and there was too much prejudice among the Silvercrest leaders to think Dylan’s position was secure.

  Which meant the Runners were left on their own, same as always.

  Wishing like hell that there was something he could do, Brody watched the guards pull Max to the center of the clearing. The boy stood silent and still, his head bent toward the ground, but Brody could see the thick sheen of sweat covering the young man’s skin. The veins in Max’s arms thickened with the heavy flow of his blood, the tendons at the side of his neck, leading into his shoulders, rigid with strain, while his hands fisted at his sides, his chest rising and falling as he took each breath harder…and harder.

  “Do you know what’s happening?” he asked in a rough whisper, brushing his lips against Michaela’s ear. The enthralling scent of her skin filled his head, and he clenched his jaw, determined to ignore its devastating effect. “Did Wyatt or Mason explain to you what will happen?”

  She nodded mutely, and then quietly whispered, “He’s terrified.”

  Taking his gaze from Max, Brody looked down to see her pulse rushing beneath the fragile column of her throat, so slender and pale and delicate. His tongue felt thick against the roof of his mouth, and in his head, he could hear the beating of her heart in perfect tempo with that wild rush beneath her milky-white skin. Then suddenly, like a blast hitting from out of nowhere, her words sank in…and he remembered a crucial element that had somehow slipped his mind during the chaos of the evening.

  Michaela Doucet was not your average, everyday human female. No, she held powers, talents that had yet to be completely explained to him, but which suddenly seemed like a massive tactical error on his part to have forgotten. She could read people she was physically close to, he recalled Torrance telling them one night over dinner. Like peering through a window, she could sense their emotions, their feelings.

  He was a goddamn idiot! The last thing in the world he needed was to be here, holding her, giving her the opportunity to nose around inside his head! His fingers released their hold on her hip, the muscles in his arm flexing, ready to pull away from her—when in the next instant Max Doucet threw back his head and let out a bloodcurdling scream of horror that echoed through the quiet night like a sound torn straight from the bowels of hell.

  “It hurts,” she gasped, her voice cracking, and with a surge of fury at his inability to help, Brody realized it wasn’t his head she was in. No, it was Max’s. She was sharing her brother’s terror…his pain!

  “He…he feels like something’s trying to claw its way out of him,” she stammered, the words husky and broken, while her body arched against him, her lean muscles rigid as agony tore through her. “Like it’s going to—”

  “Stop it,” he growled in her ear, gripping onto her side with his free hand, his other arm still wrapped across her front.

  “Get out of his head, Doucet! I don’t want you in there. Get out of it!”

  She jerked, her head shooting back to slam against his collarbone, and Max fell to the ground, his expression ravaged, a broken scream pouring from his throat as his body contorted, seizing, spasm after torturous spasm clenching his strained muscles. The change rolled through him, rippling beneath the dark gleam of his skin, while blood pooled beneath his hands and razor-sharp claws pierced their way through the tips of his fingers. He threw back his head, his back arching as a throaty chuffing sound surged up from his thickening chest, through the muzzled shape of his mouth.

  In Brody’s arms, Michaela trembled, silent tears streaming down her face, and something sharp and agonizing slashed through him like remembered pain, making him grimace.

  Son of a bitch. He couldn’t stand watching her cry.

  The night had turned brutal, the wind angry and vicious as it ripped through the trees with a snarling vengeance, lashing against the flames of the fires. Her long hair whipped across his face, and he couldn’t hold it—the devastating combination of her scent and those tears screwing with his head.

  Against his better judgment, knowing it was going to land him in hell, Brody found himself wrapping his other arm across her middle, until he was cradling her against his chest, his body pulled around her as if he could shield her from the world. She turned her head to the side and buried her face in the warm hollow between his shoulder and neck, her damp breaths panting against his throat, and he couldn’t stop the heavy surge of blood rushing to his groin, making him feel like a sick bastard, considering the circumstances. She went strangely still the second she felt his rigid erection pressing against her spine, and he bit back the guttural groan that rumbled deep in his chest.

  Flicking his gaze away from the dangerous terrain of her body, he looked up and experienced an overwhelming wave of relief when he saw that Max Doucet’s change was complete. “It’s over now,” he whispered.

  Despite the softness of his words, she flinched, her body trembling with an excess of emotion. She let out a slow, shaky exhalation of air, then turned her face back toward the clearing, her breath catching on a hoarse cry the instant she saw her brother.

  The newly formed wolf rose on his hind legs, his massive chest rising and falling as he panted through parted jaws that revealed long, sinister fangs. Glowing blue eyes that burned like the center of a flame searched the crowd of spectators, until he found the one he was looking for. Brody’s hold tightened as the wolf made a sluggish move toward Michaela, but the Lycan guards were already yanking on the thick chains that wrapped his throat, keeping him in place.

  “The change has been taken and the human breed has survived,” Fuller announced, his brown hair whipping around his face as the wind surged, playing havoc with the towering flames of the fire as they licked at the darkness of the sky.

  “Who will take responsibility for the Novitiate’s training?”

  “The honor will be mine,” a deep voice called out from behind them, and Brody turned his head to see Eric Drake step forward to stand beside Cian. A collective rumble of shock reverberated through the pack at this blatant, stunnin
g show of support for the Runners from the Elder’s son.

  “Eric?” Drake’s silver brows pulled together in a deep-seated scowl, his sharp cheekbones slashed with a vivid streak of ruddy color.

  Crossing his brawny arms across his chest, the youngest son of the most pure-blooded line in the Silvercrest pack repeated his intention. “For too long this pack has benefited from the courage and sacrifice of the Runners, giving nothing in return except the offer to join a community that treats them as inferiors. Enough’s enough. It’s time we make things right and give something back. The boy will pass his Novitiate’s training, and when he does, he’ll become a Runner and hold a position that demands our respect. To see that it happens, I’m taking on the training of Max Doucet as my own.”

  “Like hell you are,” his father hissed, baring his teeth as he jabbed one long finger in his son’s direction. “It’s bad enough that you and your sister have actually befriended them, but I will not allow my son to disgrace our family by aligning with these aberrations and taking responsibility for a human breed, the foulest creature of all!”

  “You can’t stop him,” Elise Drake argued, stepping forward to stand by her brother’s side in a show of support against their father, though her nerves revealed themselves in the tremor of her husky voice and the violent trembling of her hands. Not that Brody blamed her. Elise had been through a hell of her own the week before when her father had used her in the attack on Jillian’s life, and now she had to deal with this.

  For a moment, the misogynistic Drake stood rigid with fury in the face of his daughter’s defiance, and then a soft gleam slowly began to burn in the wintry depths of his eyes. “You’re right,” he murmured, straightening his cuffs in a purposeful act of indolence. “I can’t stop Eric should he choose to malign his honor in such a fashion. But I can enjoy his failure.” He all but purred with malicious satisfaction. “Fate has a way of righting all wrongs. It’s been many years since we’ve taken the responsibility for a Novitiate in this pack, but the rules remain the same. If the human breed fails to pass judgment at the end of his training, which I’ve no doubt he will, the punishment still stands and Max Doucet will be executed.”