Last Wolf Watching

by Rhyannon Byrd

  Smiling, her head tilted slightly to the side, she said, “But isn’t it hard to see with your hair hanging in your face?”

  His eyes snagged on the sensual curve of her mouth, provocative and innocent all at once, and he blinked, unable to look away.

  Son of a bitch. When she smiled at him like that, it made him start thinking impossible things that he had no business thinking about. Even if she was offering what that deliciously tempting smile suggested she was offering, he knew it wouldn’t work—and the last thing in the world he wanted to see was that sweet smile melt into horror once she’d finished with him in bed.

  “I don’t want the goddamn tie,” he suddenly growled, making her jump at the savageness of his tone.

  “Okay,” she whispered softly, still smiling at him, as if he hadn’t just barked at her.

  Damn it, why was she being so nice to him? What did he have to do to make her stop? And why did he feel like such a complete and utter ass? “Trust me,” he grunted, turning back to the tall cardboard box he’d propped against the wall. “It’s better this way. You don’t want me scaring away your customers.”

  From the corner of his eye, he watched as she moved a little to his right. “Why would you scare away my customers?”

  He snorted under his breath. “You need glasses?”

  “Um, no.”

  “Then you’ve seen what I look like,” he muttered, slanting her a hard glare, as if daring her to keep the little-Miss-Innocent act going.

  But she didn’t flinch. She just held his stare, her confusion evident in the soft crinkling of her nose. “Yes,” she said simply. “I’m more than aware of what you look like, Brody, but what does that have to do with anything?”

  “Christ,” he hissed, wanting to grab hold of the feminine curve of her shoulders and shake some sense into her. “What the hell is it with you?”

  The corners of her mouth slipped into a frown. “Am I missing something?”

  Clenching his jaw, he jerked his gaze back to the sleek piece of shelving he’d grabbed from inside the open box, the honey-colored wood beneath his fingers beginning to give. Forcing himself to relax his hold, he ground his explanation out through gritted teeth. “My scars, Doucet. They tend to scare the hell out of people. The more I can cover them when around humans, the better. So just drop it.”

  “I’m sorry,” she murmured in a quick rush, rolling her lips inward. “I didn’t think…I just…” She shook her head, looking frustrated. “I didn’t know you were sensitive about them.”

  “I’m not,” he snapped, feeling like an idiot, aware of the heat slashing across his cheekbones burning hotter, completely humiliating him. “I just don’t like drawing attention to myself,” he added gruffly, pulling the next piece of shelving from the box.

  “For what it’s worth, I think…I think maybe you’re wrong, Brody.”

  He turned his head, staring down into her big blue eyes, her lashes so thick they cast a shadow against the creamy paleness of her skin. “About what?”

  “If people stare at you, it’s probably not because of your scars,” she admitted in a soft, tremulous voice that shivered with some unnamed emotion fluttering beyond his grasp, like the rapid flight of a butterfly. “It’s because you’re…well, you must know that you’re…I mean, how…”

  “Doucet,” he growled, ready to tell her to spit it out.

  At the same time she said, “How attractive you are.”

  The words landed between them with the explosive force of a nuclear weapon, thudding into the cloudy space of misconception, until all he could do was blink at her blushing face, wondering what kind of game she was playing. He searched for a flicker of amusement in her eyes, but could see nothing more than the slow, steady warmth of a desire that nearly made him combust then and there.

  His muscles tightened, a trickle of sweat slipping down the searing heat of his temple, stinging the corner of his eye, while he clawed onto his self-control with every shred of sanity he could find. The hazy details of the store faded—the dim voices of a crowd in the next-door café, the dulcet notes of a Celtic CD playing on a stereo, the low burr of electricity coming from the cash register—until there was nothing but Michaela. Those big, beautiful eyes staring up at him with such wrenching emotion. Her intoxicating scent making his mouth water, his gums burning with the prickling sting of his fangs just waiting to slip free. She wet her lips—her tongue tiny, pink and delicate—and he wanted to take control of it. Wanted to grab hold of her and ravage the sweet, inner well of her mouth and that kittenish little tongue until she was sobbing and begging and pleading for more, for everything he could give her.

  His fingers released the wood, flexing with impatience, his lungs heaving as he slowly turned toward her, the air between their bodies feeling thick, heavy, the tension building, growing, expanding, her luminous eyes shocked wide, as if she felt it, too. Brody took a step closer to the heat of her body, towering over her, both of them softly panting, his blood boiling with the hunger scorching its way through his veins. He’d just started to lift his right hand toward the silken fall of hair spilling over her shoulder, one long, midnight curl sweeping provocatively across the voluptuous swell of her nipple—when a shrill sound echoed through the store, instantly fracturing the moment. They both flinched, jarred by the sharp, intrusive ringing, and he immediately turned away from her, giving her his back, wondering what in God’s name he’d been thinking.

  “Th-that’s the phone,” she stammered in a low, breathless voice, and he listened as she moved away, heading through a doorway and into her back office to answer the call. She’d already sent David home for the day, after going over everything he’d need to handle while she was gone, and now it was just the two of them.

  The seconds ticked by, stretching out, until Brody completely lost count of how much time had passed. He just stood there, eyes squeezed tight, body aching as he struggled to force himself to relax, drawing the air in and out of his lungs in a concentrated rhythm that should have started calming him down, any damn second now. Shuddering, Brody finally cracked his eyes open and ran his upper arm over his forehead, his T-shirt clinging to the damp heat of his skin. He was on fire and he hadn’t even touched her!

  The churning, uncomfortable sense of awareness she incited seemed to have taken on a new skin, a new shape. The more time he spent with her, the more he wanted her. Before, when he’d first met her, he’d been afraid of getting too close to her. Now he didn’t know how he would survive without the feel of Michaela Doucet under his hands, under his body.

  It’d never been that way for him before. He’d needed sex, wanted it, and he’d slaked his hunger with women whose faces were forgotten the moment he left their beds, which was just the way they wanted it. The last time he’d allowed himself to get close to a woman, it had ended badly. He’d do well to remember the lesson, but damn, he didn’t want to think about Jenny Riggs, the Elder’s younger sister, right now. Still, it was with a small jolt of awareness that Brody realized the thought of her name no longer made him clench with frustration. That was…different, as if the Cajun’s presence had wiped his mind clean of other women, replacing the tainted memories with a fresh, untarnished slate. But even if he couldn’t recall what it felt like to have another woman under him, he remembered the bitter taste of rejection in his mouth, the shame of feeling like a used piece of meat when it was over.

  The memory settled over him like a heavy, oppressive cloud, until like a breath of sunshine, Michaela walked back into the room. Brody groaned under his breath, the soft sound like that of a man being tormented, pushed to the edge of his sanity, the visceral craving evoked by her particular scent affecting him like an all-too-real pain within his body. He could feel his desire for her, lust-thick and heavy, lying in wait beneath the surface of his skin, keeping company with his prowling beast—and knew it was a hunger that would never be satisfied.

  And never was a hell of a long time.

  Drawing in a deep br
eath of impatience, he growled low in his throat as she drew nearer. Suddenly the room felt like a prison, the hunger in his veins a noose that he couldn’t shake.

  “Brody, you’re trembling. What’s wrong?” she asked in a soft voice, standing behind him again, her concern evident. He’d assumed she’d do the smart thing and avoid him when she returned, but he was quickly learning that Michaela Doucet was not an easy woman to predict.

  “Nothing’s wrong,” he grunted, shifting away from her, toward the tall pieces of the bookshelf still lying within the open box propped against the wall.

  “You’re lying.”

  Whipping around, he towered over her, trying to ignore how the soft, dark blue wraparound cotton dress clung to the voluptuous, feminine lines of her body. “How the hell would you know?” he growled, feeling like a man pushed beyond endurance.

  She blinked up at him, the pansy-soft curve of her lips, so luscious and pink, trembling with emotion, the look in her eyes liquid and tender. “I…I don’t mean to pry, but there’s a kind of pain in your eyes today. I think you’re hurting inside.”

  Of all the things she could have said, he figured that was the one that could piss him off the most. Curling his lip, he snarled, “Let’s make one thing perfectly clear, here, Doucet. I didn’t ask for a goddamn reading.”

  With a soft hint of hesitation, she took a step closer to him, tilting her head back in order to hold his stare. “I told you that I can’t read you, and I didn’t mean to upset you.”

  “You didn’t upset me,” he growled under his breath, careful to keep his voice low so that they didn’t draw attention from any of the people walking past the store. “And nothing’s wrong. In fact, my only problem is a woman who won’t keep her nose out of my damn business.”

  For a moment, she looked hurt, stricken, before taking a deep breath and shaking off that bleak expression. Damn it, what was wrong with him? She’d been through an emotional wringer in the past twenty-four hours, and here he was lashing out at her, biting her head off when she tried to be nice. It took everything he had not to reach out and touch her…comfort her.

  He was on the verge of doing just that when the chimes attached to the front door sounded, and as Brody watched her pull herself together, then turn and walk away, all he could think was saved by the bell.

  * * *

  At the sound of the door, Michaela buried the hurt she’d felt at Brody’s words and plastered on a bright smile that turned genuine the moment she spotted one of her favorite customers shuffling in, Meredith Shelby’s pale gray hair wound in a tight knot on the top of her petite head. Rushing forward, she gave the local psychic a hug, kissing both her cool cheeks, before stepping aside to allow Meredith a clear view of Brody. She knew better than to try and shield him from the woman’s view. Nothing and no one got past the eighty-year-old’s eagle eye.

  “Oh my. And who might this lovely be?” Meredith asked, her voice still holding a trace of her English heritage as she gave Brody a slow, thorough once-over.

  Placing her hand on Meredith’s arm, Michaela led the woman to Brody. “I’d like to introduce you to a friend of mine, Meredith. This is Mr. Brody Carter.”

  Giving him no chance to object, unless he wanted to get physical with her, Meredith reached out and snatched hold of Brody’s right hand, clasping it within her fragile grasp. He flushed, his eyes wide as he stared down at the little gray-haired woman. Meredith bent over his palm, tsking and murmuring to herself, until she finally lifted her head.

  “I’m very disappointed in you, Mr. Carter.”

  He opened his mouth, then promptly shut it, obviously having no idea what to say in response, and Michaela had to stifle a giggle.

  As if there were nothing unusual about her scolding a perfect stranger, Meredith held his hand and went on. “You’re fighting your natural instincts, acting as stubborn-headed as a mule, and that just won’t do. You’re smarter than that, boy, but you’re letting fear control you, holding you back from the thing you want most in this world.”

  He swallowed, the movement visible in his throat, and managed to say, “What’s that?”

  “Oh, sweetheart, I can’t tell you,” Meredith replied with a slow smile. “That would ruin the fun.”

  Brody’s face hardened to the point that he looked as if he might crack, a low sound of restraint vibrating in his chest.

  Undaunted, Meredith patted his chest in a comforting gesture. “There, there. It’s all right. You’re guarded now, but you’re going to make a fine husband and father one day.”

  Shaking his head, he made a rude sound of disbelief in the back of his throat. “No disrespect, ma’am, but there’s not a chance in hell of that happening.”

  The elderly woman arched one perfectly refined brow. “No?”

  “I’m not the marrying kind,” he stated, his mouth a hard, flat line.

  Meredith winked at him, her eyes sparkling with mischief. “No man is, lovey, until he meets the woman who finally opens his eyes.”

  “I can assure you that my eyes are opened just fine.”

  “Oh, I do like you, Brody,” she announced, her smile widening. Turning to Michaela, she said, “He’s a wild one, this young buck you’ve landed. Do well and hold on to him, Mickey girl.”

  Blushing, Michaela knew the only way to deal with Meredith was to let her run right over you, and simply try to survive the experience. “Er, I’ll, um, do my best, ma’am.”

  “I’m sure you will. Now show me that latest shipment of tea leaves you called me about.” Patting her bun, she explained her hurry. “I have an appointment with the stylist in a half hour and want to be on time.”

  Helping Meredith make her choices, Michaela handled the transaction, aware of Brody keeping a cautious eye on them as he began fitting the bookshelves together.

  At the door, Meredith turned back, pinning Brody with a pointed look of concern. “And call your grandmother, young man. She misses you something fierce.”

  * * *

  The second the door slid closed behind the little gray-haired spitfire, Brody shook his head in wonder and exhaled a deep breath of relief. Waving to her friend one last time through the window, Michaela turned toward him, the corner of her mouth twitching with a grin. “So what did you think of our Meredith?”

  “Charming,” he muttered. “I feel like I’ve been run over by a tank.”

  A soft laugh fell from her lips. “She liked you.”

  “Yay for me,” he drawled, rolling his eyes.

  “Brody! Was that a joke?” she gasped with feigned surprise.

  He grunted at her playfulness and turned back toward the shelves. When she moved closer, her mouthwatering fragrance blocking out the subtle blend of incense in the air, and voiced the question he’d seen in her eyes, he wasn’t surprised. He’d known it was coming.

  “What did Meredith mean, about your grandmother missing you?”

  Aligning the side panel with the back of the shelving unit, he slotted the screws into their grooves and picked up the screwdriver. “Nothing.”

  “Come on, Brody,” she murmured. From the corner of his eye, he watched her perch one shapely hip against a display case full of intricate Celtic jewelry. “Why is it you get to know all my secrets, but won’t tell me anything about yourself?”

  Twisting the first screw into place, he tried to focus on anything but how good she smelled, how right it felt to be near her, calm and chaotic all at once. “Because I need to know about your life so that I can protect you.”

  “And I don’t need to know anything about you in return?”

  Finishing with the last screw, he moved to the other panel, muttering, “That’s right.”

  He could feel the heat of her gaze as it slipped down his profile, over the bridge of his nose, lower, lingering on his mouth. “You really don’t like me much, do you, Brody?”

  “You’re pretty enough,” he muttered gruffly, rolling his shoulder as he focused on his task, “but I don’t place much stock
in beauty.”

  “Ouch.” Her tone was contemplative, soft. “Can’t ask for a more honest answer than that, now can I? I’d be offended, except I think you’re being rude on purpose, trying to push me away so that you don’t have to tell me about your grandmother.”

  “She lives up in Shadow Peak but we’ve avoided each other for years.” He let out a deep breath, feeling like an ass, wondering why he couldn’t just keep his mouth shut around her. “And the reason we don’t talk isn’t a pretty story, Doucet.”

  Quietly, she said, “I didn’t imagine it was.”

  He didn’t know why, but he found the words spilling out of his mouth in a low, emotionless rumble. “My father was a Silvercrest Lycan who fell in love with a beautiful human, and she repaid his love with an endless string of affairs. Even though he felt the call of a life mate for her, I guess she was either too coldhearted or too self-centered, or maybe just too dead inside to return his feelings. When she had an affair with another mated Lycan male whose wife demanded action by the pack, she and the guy were sentenced to punishment by the wife’s family under one of the old laws that has since been rewritten.”

  “How old were you?” she asked, the words hushed, and he could tell she was trying to hide her own emotion, knowing he’d close up if she showed him so much as an ounce of pity.

  “Young, just turned eight, but I understood what was happening. Like a little fool, I tried to rush to my mother’s rescue, and ended up receiving a punishment of my own for daring to interfere. Each member of the wife’s family was allowed to give me a single lash with their claws. All the blows were delivered to my back, until it was her father’s turn.” Snorting, he said, “I guess he was pissed at the others in his family for going easy on me, so he pulled me up by my hair and slashed my face. My father, who was already being restrained by members of the pack, was so furious that he challenged the Lycan later that night and they both died during the Challenge Fight.”