Last Wolf Watching

by Rhyannon Byrd

  “I didn’t mean to offend you,” he grunted in a low rasp, surprising her. “And I imagine I’ll get to see firsthand just how hard you work, since we’ll be spending the next day or so at your shop.”

  “I guess you will,” she muttered, looking down to realize her knuckles had gone white, she was fisting her hands together so tightly. She hadn’t realized she was so touchy on the subject, but apparently she was. Or maybe she was just touchy about Brody’s opinion. An unsettling thought, and another one she didn’t want to look at too closely.

  Without glancing in her direction, he went on to say, “And seeing as how we’re going to be in the city for the next few days, are there any boyfriends I should know about? I don’t want to have to deal with some jealous bastard who gets his nose bent out of shape because we’re staying together.”

  “No,” she sighed, squeezing her eyes shut, wondering how the hell this was going to work. The guy had her twisted up in knots and they’d only been together for a few hours. How was she going to endure days, if not weeks? She was too aware of him, too on edge.

  “No what?”

  Her mouth thinned and she opened her eyes, staring at the dark stretch of road through the front windshield. “No boyfriends.”

  A rude sound vibrated in the back of his throat. “Right.”

  Michaela shook her head in baffled amazement. She wasn’t easily flustered, damn it, but something about Brody Carter made her feel stripped down to the raw, vulnerable, as if she were vibrating with energy, tension and anticipation. “I’m not sure what you mean by that.”

  He lifted one hand off the wheel, shoving his long, scarred fingers back through the auburn threads of his hair in an utterly male gesture of frustration. “If you want to lie about it, fine, but women like you always have a line of guys waiting in the wings, six or seven deep at least. I’d bet my life savings on the fact that you’re involved with someone, Doucet.”

  “Then you’re an idiot,” she snorted, “and if you took that bet, you’d be a broke one at that.”

  He grunted in response, and she turned her head to glare back out her window. She kept quiet the remainder of the drive, not even giving him directions, since he already knew where she lived. But when they pulled to a slow stop behind the dark Mercedes parked in front of her house, she couldn’t stop the low groan that fell from her lips, unable to believe her rotten, miserable luck. “Merde,” she cursed. “That’s all this day needs.”

  “A friend of yours?” Brody asked with a smirk, eyeing the shadow of the man lurking on her front porch.

  Michaela konked her forehead against the cool glass of her window once, then twice, and turned to send him her best glare. “I may be a lot of things, but I’m not a liar. There is no boyfriend.”

  He jerked his chin toward the waiting man. “Then who the hell is he?”

  “Nobody. He’s a big ol’ nobody,” she muttered, undoing her seat belt.

  “I’m still waiting for a straight answer.” His eyes narrowed as his face became etched with some unnamed emotion that was fierce and dark.

  “He’s my ex,” she sighed, wondering how she could have ever been so stupid as to believe herself in love with a jerk like Ross Holland.

  “Ex-what?” he grunted, his shock evident in his expression. “Husband?”

  “Thank God, no,” she supplied with a low, husky laugh.

  “Ex-boyfriend. But it’s been over for…too long to count.”

  “Count it anyway.”

  The look she slanted him was equal parts surprise and exasperation. “Last year, okay?”

  “And he’s still coming around?” He shifted that dark stare back to Ross. “Hasn’t he gotten the hint?”

  “No,” she replied dryly. “He doesn’t seem to grasp the concept that he can’t have his old girlfriend and his new wife at the same time.”

  He absorbed that for a moment, taking his eyes from Ross and watching her again with that deep green stare, making her feel as though he could see beneath her skin, beneath her guard, and take an intimate stroll through her mind. “He’s married?”

  It was obvious he wanted the story, and wasn’t going to let it drop until he had it. “You’re going to make me spill all the gory details, huh? Fine, here goes. It’s not like this day could get any worse, so what do I have to lose? We’d been dating for about six months, when little Miss Sunshine Socialite made it clear she was available. His family loved her, and she had the pedigree and prestige they’d been looking for, while I was something he was ashamed of, like a secret from the carnival freak show. Ross is one of those whom I can’t read, but once I saw him for what he really was, I told him never to come near me again. He married little Miss Sunshine, but won’t give up on the fact that he can’t have her and me.”

  After delivering the embarrassing account of her colossal stupidity, she reached to open the door, but Brody grabbed hold of her arm, his fingers fever warm against her skin, reminding her that he was so much more than human. As a Lycan, his core body temperature ran much higher than normal, even hotter when it was closer to a full moon. “Where do you think you’re going?” he rasped, immediately releasing her arm, and as she held his stare, she noticed a warm glow beginning to seep through the deep, dark green of his eyes, as if backlit by the searing flames of a fire.

  She wet her bottom lip, wishing she could get a read on him, but as always, whenever she threw out the soft, diaphanous net of her power, she met the hard resistance of his will, catching nothing. Taking a deep breath, she explained, “I’m just going to tell Mr. Nobody that he needs to get lost.”

  He shook his head, that oddly lit gaze cutting from her back to Ross’s distant figure on her porch, and she was aware of his right hand clenching into a tight fist against his hard-muscled thigh. “I’ll tell him,” he said silkily. “You stay here.”

  Oh, no. Not in this lifetime. The last thing she was up to dealing with tonight was a fight between those two, and she knew from the hard cast of Brody’s expression that he was looking forward to it. For a fleeting moment, Michaela actually wondered if he was jealous, before reminding herself that he couldn’t care less about her personal life. No, he probably just needed to work off the frustration of getting stuck with her until Max’s training was complete and her life could get back to some kind of semblance of normalcy. Brody didn’t care anything about her personally. He was just a good guy who didn’t want to see another innocent person get hurt.

  But if that’s the case, then why did he sound so possessive at the clearing?

  To be honest, she didn’t know, and wasn’t even sure that she wanted to. After having her heart trampled, she didn’t think she was up for another round, no matter how incredible her hormones thought he was. At worst, he just felt sorry for her. At best, he probably figured they could have some fun between the sheets while he was stuck with her. Michaela knew better than to think that anything more than that could come from something between them—just as she knew she couldn’t risk it. No, something told her that the damage Brody could inflict on her would be devastating compared to the stupidity she felt at allowing herself to get used by Ross Holland.

  She now viewed her involvement with Ross as an attempt to grasp at something she was worried she’d been missing, but Brody…God, this strange, unsettling interest searing through her system felt more like a necessity. Something that pulled on her, drawing her in, and that made him more dangerous to her sanity than her ex could ever be.

  In the end, Ross had left her feeling used—but Brody Carter could leave her in pieces.

  “Look, Brody, I appreciate what you did tonight. I know you only did it because you’re friends with Torrance and Mason, and because you probably feel bad for me, after what happened to Max, and I appreciate it. Really, I do. But I don’t need you to worry about Ross. A sleazy lowlife like him I can deal with. If anyone comes at me with claws and fangs, howling at the moon, then by all means, they’re yours. I promise.”

  * * *


  Despite the hot burn of frustration in his gut, Brody found himself biting the inside of his cheek as he fought the urge to grin at her words, thinking she was a lippy little package. She tried to hold his stare, until succumbing to an adorable yawn, ruining the “I can handle everything on my own” image she was going for. He admired her spunk, but there was no denying that he liked the fact she needed him.

  What he didn’t like was liking it.

  You’re not making any sense, you jackass. She’s screwing with your head.

  He wanted to deny it, but there was no point. Every part of him, every cell, every thought, had centered on her since he’d first seen her at the clearing earlier that night. And if he were honest, even before that.

  “Come on,” he murmured, reaching for the door handle.

  “You’re all but dead on your feet. Let’s get rid of pretty boy there so you can get some rest.”

  “This isn’t what you signed up for,” she argued, her gaze narrowed on her ex through the windshield. “Really, Brody, I can deal with this.”

  It was on the tip of his tongue to point out the obvious fact that if that was true, the prick wouldn’t still be bothering her. But he kept quiet. She looked exhausted. So beautiful that it hurt a part of him deep inside to even look at her, but weary. Gray smudges darkened her big eyes, her mouth tight, skin pale. And the slow, melodic drawl of her accent had grown thicker, which, he’d noticed, happened when she was upset. She’d been to hell and back tonight, and he had no intention of letting some jackass give her a hard time. “My job is to keep you safe, so there’s no point in arguing about it. Let’s just get this over with,” he muttered, opening his door.

  Reaching across the cab, she latched on to his forearm, the touch of her hands on his body sending a tremor of shock through his system. “Damn it, Brody. What do you think you’re doing?”

  “Calm down, Doucet. I’m not doing anything. Just gonna walk you to your door. You can tell him to get lost all on your own,” he told her, trying to sound relaxed while deep inside, in a part of him he’d thought he’d buried, he was burning with a cold, steady fury that he refused to look at too closely. But he couldn’t forget it was there, just as he couldn’t stop thinking of the many different ways he’d like to take Ross Holland apart, piece by piece.

  And the hell of it was that he couldn’t blame his anger simply on the fact that the creep wasn’t getting the hint about Michaela wanting to be left alone. No, he knew better. He hated him because the bastard had had her. Didn’t matter that Brody had no intention of letting himself fall victim to her considerable charms. He still hated every man who’d ever known the sweetness of her mouth, the softness of her skin. Who’d ever pressed his lips beneath the fragile edge of her jaw, drawing her delicate, milky-white flesh against his teeth, and marked her as he thrust himself into the slick, hot depths of her body.

  Something ugly and vile and vicious ripped at his insides with the thought, and he realized with a silent snarl of frustration that hate was too light a word for his reaction. No, what he felt was deeper than hate, deeper than jealousy. It was something primal, visceral. Something base and primeval, bleeding both from the possessive nature of the beast and the man.

  Irritated by the track of his thoughts, he ripped his gaze away from her soul-deep blue eyes and stared at the human. He stood just beyond the soft glow of the porch light, but Brody’s keen vision allowed him to see clearly. His gut twisted as he took in the guy’s appearance. He was tall and broad, on the lean side, not bulky. And he was…pretty, for God’s sake. Cover model handsome, with thick brown hair and crystal blue eyes, features as even and perfect as a Hollywood sex symbol.

  Brody wondered how a guy like that got down and dirty in the sack. Ross Holland looked like the stiff-lipped type who probably folded his clothes and brushed his teeth, rolling his socks up neatly in his shoes before he slid beneath designer sheets, every hair in place as he flashed his signature smile. If that was the kind of man Michaela Doucet went for, Brody figured he’d probably scare her half to death with nothing more than a kiss. Because once he had her mouth, it wouldn’t be sweet and easy and polished. It wouldn’t be pretty or refined. His beast was too hungry for that—too focused on wanting this one wild, willful woman.

  What it would be was raw. Consuming. Taking and drawing and demanding from her everything that he could take from the erotic slide of his tongue against hers, from the warm, lush sweetness of her inner mouth. And there was no damn way it would stop there. Brody couldn’t imagine touching her and not losing himself to the animal craving lurking beneath his skin, the hunger of his beast letting loose in a vicious, violent taking. Which was why he needed to get the fact that it was never going to happen through his thick skull, there and then.

  Never. Going. To. Happen.

  “Please, Brody,” she whispered, cutting into his private lecture. Her fingers grasped his arm tighter, and he could feel the tremor that moved through her, the slight vibration of emotion echoing against his bare skin. It was pathetic, how her simple touch unmanned him. “I…I can’t handle any more fighting tonight. Wait here and I’ll get rid of him, okay?”

  He ground his jaw, furious with himself and her and the entire goddamn world, but finally nodded, jerking his chin toward her door. “Go on, then.”

  “Thanks,” she whispered with a shivery smile, turning quickly to climb out of the truck, while he leaned back in his seat, feeling like an idiot.

  It went against every instinct he possessed to let her get out and walk toward another man. But as Brody watched her approach the porch, Holland moving into the light as they spoke, he reminded himself that no matter how he looked at it, it wasn’t his right to dictate her personal life. No, that was a privilege that went beyond bodyguard, into emotional territory that was none of his business. It sucked, but he had to face the facts.

  Despite how badly he wanted her, Michaela Doucet wasn’t—and would never be—his woman.

  Chapter 5

  Rubbing at his gritty eyes as he leaned against the back wall of Michaela’s Muse, Brody took another deep gulp of coffee, wondering if he’d ever had a worse night’s sleep. It had been hell—no, worse than hell—being tortured with the slow burn of temptation.

  After Michaela had climbed out of his truck last night, it hadn’t taken her long to get rid of the ex. He’d hated letting her handle the jerk on her own, but he’d known it was for the best. The guy had met her on the steps, and they’d talked for no more than a minute, the human’s pale eyes cutting from Michaela to his truck again and again, narrowed with suspicious jealousy. Just when he’d had enough and was reaching for his door handle, the bastard had turned and stalked away from her, heading to his car and screeching down the street in what he’d probably thought was a macho display of speed, which had just made him look ridiculous. Brody had grabbed the bag he always kept in his backseat then and met her on the porch.

  Unwilling to let her out of his sight, he’d planned on taking the floor in her bedroom for the night, but she’d surprised him, once he’d made his intentions clear, with a spare bedroom that housed a pair of twin beds. Thinking about it now, he almost laughed, knowing they must have looked like something out of an episode of I Love Lucy. The corner of his mouth kicked up at the thought, and he shook his head.

  With everything he had on his plate—the hunt for the rogues and the search for a way to bring Drake down, trying to find the psychotic maniac responsible for killing the blond humans, and his duty to keep Michaela safe—he didn’t know why he kept having this bizarre urge to grin. It wasn’t like him, damn it, and he didn’t like it, same as he hadn’t liked the way he’d relaxed around her during the drive into the city, before he’d realized what was happening.

  And he definitely didn’t care for the burn of desire in his gut—the one that kept growing tighter, harder, hotter the more time he spent with her.

  What worried him even more than how much he wanted her, though, was how much he was beginn
ing to actually like her. He’d been prepared to have to fight his hunger, but he hadn’t expected to simply enjoy her so much. But with every passing moment, it became more and more evident that Michaela Doucet was unlike any other woman he’d ever known. There was so much more to her than what met the eye, layers upon layers that he wanted to uncover, peel away, until he could get to the juicy center of her heart, her very soul, that lay within.

  Needing to keep himself occupied, he set his coffee aside and went back to work. While Michaela was busily getting things squared away for her absence, Brody had offered to make himself useful, even though he felt uncomfortable as hell around the fragile, delicate merchandise, like a bull in a china shop. Thankfully, she’d found the perfect job for him in the form of boxed bookshelves in the back corner, waiting to be assembled.

  The units were needed to replace the ones destroyed by Anthony Simmons and his flunkies a few weeks ago, when the rogue had vandalized her shop as a way to strike out against Torrance and Mason. The mess had been cleaned up and the store reopened for business, but there were still odds and ends that needed to be finished. The shelves were one of them. While Michaela was buried in paperwork at the counter behind him, sorting out schedules and payroll, Brody kept himself busy assembling the units.

  He’d just finished the first one, and was tearing into the tall cardboard box housing the second, when he heard her say, “Do you want something that will hold back your hair?” The soft, husky sound of her voice stroked his senses like a lover’s touch, slipping across the surface of his skin, beneath it, trailing down the length of his spine with the damp heat of an openmouthed caress. He squeezed his eyes shut against the blistering need she so carelessly invoked. All she had to do was talk to him and he went hard, his body hot, muscles tight, every cell actually hurting with the need to touch her.

  “No thanks,” he murmured, pissed that he could feel the beginning warmth of a blush staining his cheeks as he looked over his shoulder to see her offering him a soft leather strip to tie around his hair. Jesus, he hadn’t blushed since…hell, he couldn’t even remember the last time.