Last Wolf Watching

by Rhyannon Byrd

  Licking her upper lip, Michaela could practically feel the desire shifting restlessly within her body, as if she had a beast of her own that moved within her, struggling to break free. And she knew precisely what its prey would be.

  Brody.

  But he seemed determined to keep his distance from her, now more than ever. It made her heart twist, because she wanted so desperately for him to reach out to her. To walk to her with his mouth curled in a sexy grin, and when he reached her, to close his arms around her, pulling her into the hardness and heat of his body. Holding her as if he wanted to absorb life from her.

  With a sad smile, she reminded herself that he’d held her for a moment on the porch when they’d first made the grisly discovery, but not out of passion. Her grandmère would have said something wise, no doubt, about how beggars couldn’t be choosers—but damn it, was she really asking for so much?

  Opening her eyes, she stared at the bed they were never going to share, and became painfully aware that she was asking for too much.

  “Why else do you think I’m with you?”

  Michaela knew he’d spoken the truth, but it still hurt, the knowledge that if it weren’t for the fact she needed protection, he’d still be doing everything within his power to avoid her.

  Stifling a low groan, she wondered how she would deal with him tonight. It was hard enough to hide her fierce attraction under the best of circumstances—not that there’d been many of those—but tonight she was too…needy. Too hungry for comfort. Worry and fear had worn her down like the weathered heel of a shoe, leaving her sensitive and raw. She didn’t want to face the night alone. Though she still grappled with her own fear of being used, then discarded—she could too easily see herself seeking the warm security of Brody’s muscled arms, begging for his protective embrace.

  A wry smile curled her mouth, and she choked back a sound that fell somewhere between a sob and a giggle. God, she could just imagine his reaction if she tried to touch him. Knowing Brody, he’d probably blanch and push her away if she found the courage to even try it. No—no matter how tempting it would be to turn to him, she was going to have to find the will to resist.

  She’d already unpacked her suitcase, using the empty drawers he’d brusquely pointed to in the beautiful armoire, his body language stiff as he’d shown her around his cabin, as if he couldn’t wait to escape her company. He’d said something about needing to get some work done in his office when he’d left her in his room, and she assumed he would spend the rest of the evening hiding there. She’d eaten some soup while she’d waited with Torrance, Jillian and Reyes, and assumed Brody had already grabbed something for his dinner.

  Growing chilly in the towel, she dressed in a comfortable pair of black leggings and a long, loose black shirt, the dark color matching her somber mood. Taking her cell phone from her purse, she checked her messages, in case David had called from the shop, but there was only one voice mail from Ross. Wincing, she listened to his outraged message, shaking her head as he accused her of dating one of her “freak” customers, claiming that Brody wasn’t normal. If it were anyone other than Ross, she supposed she might have been worried about what kind of trouble he could cause with his accusations. But Ross was too concerned with his public image. If he’d caught Santa in the act of coming down the chimney on Christmas Eve, he’d have kept the stunning news to himself, afraid of what people would think of him, of what they might whisper behind his back.

  No, even if he’d seen Brody in all his beautiful, beastly glory, he’d never breathe a word of it to another soul. And even if he did, he’d probably find himself carted off to the nearest psychiatric ward for sedation. Still, she’d texted him back that she had no idea what he was talking about, and suggested his time would be better spent thinking about what a jerk he’d been.

  Having dealt with that, she sat down on the edge of the bed, wondering what to do next. Rain had begun to fall again, its heavy rhythm soothing against the cabin’s roof. Should she go to bed, listening to the storm? Find a book to read? She had seen a collection of current thrillers on a bookshelf in the living room. Or should she do what she really wanted, which was walk out of the bedroom, go down the hall and find the man she couldn’t get out of her mind?

  He would most likely be ugly and rude, if not insulting, in an attempt keep her away. But even knowing that, could she ignore the need to be close to him? The driving urge to keep chipping away at his resistance until he finally stopped fighting this powerful force pulling them together? Could she resist the temptation?

  And more importantly, did she even want to?

  * * *

  The jarring cracks of thunder rumbling across the nighttime sky marked the tedious passage of time, its movement drawn out and heavy, like the thick, sluggish spill of honey from a jar. Brody felt each second that passed by, moving painfully into the next, his tension twisting into tighter, straining knots of frustration with each individual tick…tick…tick.

  Staring at the muted colors on his computer monitor, he rubbed his tired eyes with the heels of his palms when the contours of the map began to blur together in a swirling kaleidoscope of color. He’d been staring at the same image ever since Michaela had turned on the water in the bathroom, the gurgling in the pipes mesmerizing him as effortlessly as the pied piper’s famous tune.

  He still regretted the words he’d spoken in the truck, even though he knew they were for the best. For some unknown reason, the woman kept being nice to him, when it was the last damn thing he needed. Nice made his heart think there was a chance in hell things could work out between them, when he knew it wasn’t true.

  They were beauty and the beast, come to life from a storybook setting. But this was no fairy tale. Pippa Stanton’s scalp hanging from his front door was proof of that, as was the infuriating threat against Michaela’s life. It made him so violently angry, Brody knew he could have torn the one responsible into pieces.

  The viciousness of that thought reminded him of another key point: the fact that he was more monster than man, the craving of his wolf growing stronger, edgier, every moment he spent with her.

  He didn’t want to be loverlike and caring. He wanted to consume her sexually, claiming her so thoroughly it obliterated the memory of any other man, any other lover, she’d ever known.

  And when he did, he knew she’d turn away from him. Knew he’d scare the hell out of her…or worse, hurt her. He couldn’t risk it, no matter how painful it was to fight his beast’s demand to claim her flesh with his body, her soul with his fangs.

  The only thing he could think of that would be worse than bonding himself to a woman who didn’t love him, was seeing the look in her eyes when it was over…when he’d lost his control and claimed her with all the raw, carnal sexuality of the wolf that lived within him, its power over him growing stronger the longer he went without sex.

  He should have just swallowed the bitter pill of reality, gone into the city, hit the bars and found a woman to lie down with. Someone he could use as easily as she would use him, but he hadn’t been able to stomach it.

  And so here he was, so on edge he felt like one wrong move, one slip of the tongue, one dangerous touch, and he’d make the most destructive mistake of his life.

  Enough already. Time to get your mind off the woman and back on the case, where it belongs.

  “Okay, okay,” he sighed, opening his eyes and studying the map once more. It covered the mountains in a forty-mile radius, with the Alley at its center. Red circles marked the location of the victims they’d found, small black stars plotting the locations that had been searched as possible rogue hideouts for Drake’s teenage gang of killers. Though they suspected many of the teens in town who were part of Stefan Drake’s “pureblood” movement were close to turning, they knew many already had, having been recruited, and at times even forced, by Drake and his cohorts. There was no doubt Drake had nefarious plans for his little rogue army—the Runners just wished they knew what they were. An attack on
the humans? God, his blood ran cold at the thought. Or an attack on the Alley, one meant to take the Runners out once and for all? Possibly.

  Though they’d found several abandoned hideouts, they’d yet to come across the rogues themselves. The band had kept a low profile ever since the failed attack on Mason, Torrance and Jeremy a few weeks before, but the Runners knew they were out there, like a pack of predators hiding in the shadows, just waiting for the perfect moment to strike.

  And though they hadn’t found any bodies, they knew the Lycans they were hunting were killers, as well as rapists—they just didn’t know how many victims had been claimed. Five? Ten? A dozen? Unlike the blond human girls who were being left out in the open for discovery, they’d yet to find the remains of the rogue gang’s victims. Were they mass feeding, completely consuming the bodies? Were they taking them to their hideout, storing the remains there?

  Though they hadn’t found evidence of the kills, the Runners knew they were being made. After they’d rescued Elliot Connors, the teenager had admitted he’d been set up to kill a human girl, though her body had never been discovered. He’d even been able to send them to the place where the kill had happened, but by then the rogues had already abandoned the cave and moved on, an old animal carcass they’d left behind the only evidence of a feeding. The Runners suspected they were still splitting their time between the human city of Covington and the mountains, never staying in one place for long. And Elliot had only been allowed to interact with a small portion of the group, most of whom had been killed when they’d attacked Jeremy and Mase, but he’d talked of them going out to hunt…to feed.

  At times, the entire nightmare seemed like madness, but there was an organized chaos behind the fragmented pieces that formed a larger picture. And yet, the Runners still had as many questions as they did answers. With his small army of rogues, why did Drake need this so-called Legend of Azakiel that allowed him to pull out a Lycan’s wolf against his will? Who was Drake’s accomplice? What was he after?

  And how was the rogue killer of the blond humans connected?

  Was the killer they were hunting, the one ritualistically killing the human girls, part of the rogues? Was it Drake, Dustin or someone else? An Elder? No matter who it was, there was no doubt he was connected to Drake. The murders had been made while the rogue was in his dayshifted form, and they’d heard Simmons himself speak of the one who would keep killing “the pretty blondes” before he’d died. If it wasn’t Drake, and Brody didn’t think it was, then it was one of his followers. But who? And why? The eaten heart was symbolic, but again, in what way? All of the victims were young and fair, with the exception of the redhead Simmons had killed to screw with Mason’s mind. All blond and blue-eyed, similar in features and build, almost as if the same kill was being made over and over again.

  The only difference in the crime scenes that he and Cian had investigated so far was the location, the first two near pack land, then that third one found down in Covington. The fact that the last body had been found near pack land again probably indicated some sort of mistake, possibly a loss of control, on the part of the rogue killer with the victim they’d found in the city. Brody no longer thought that the city location had been an intentional move. No, if that’d been the case, this last kill would have presented an even greater threat of exposure—the body left out on a city street, instead of turning back up in the mountains again.

  Feeling as though he was grasping at straws, Brody opened his e-mail and typed up a message for Monroe, asking the FBI agent for an updated missing persons report, narrowing the list down to young blond females with blue eyes who had gone missing within the state during the past several months. Maybe the search would turn up a lead, some sort of connection to someone within the pack.

  Glancing at the pad of paper sitting on his desk, he reread the names he’d listed while waiting for his computer to boot up. He still had Dustin’s name at the top of his list, reasonably so, since he’d already admitted to attacking Max—but the more Brody thought about it, the more it didn’t fit. He couldn’t see the Lycan losing control or making a mistake. Dustin might be his worst nightmare, but he wasn’t sloppy.

  Stefan Drake was next. Brody supposed the Elder could be playing out some twisted fantasy about a younger version of his wife, but when would he have had the time? Between recruiting rogues and masterminding whatever the hell he had planned, could he really be sneaking into the city for victims?

  One of the rogues, then? But who? They didn’t even know them all, suspecting the group to have grown from other nearby packs. And you couldn’t go through the town and do a census. The Silvercrest weren’t forbidden to leave Shadow Peak. Lycans could come and go as they pleased, and many of the young ones often spent time away from the mountains. And even the ones who’d “gone missing” were unlikely to be turned in by their relatives, who didn’t trust the Runners any more than they would have trusted a human.

  There were times when their work seemed like such a futile undertaking, because for every rogue they took down, it seemed that two more were just waiting to take his place. Something had to be done to stop the trend, and that had been before this current hell had started. Even after they caught Drake and managed to nail his ass, the Runners still had to hunt down the ones he’d tempted into turning.

  It was enough to make a man contemplate a new line of work, that was for sure. Not that he was actually serious. No, as pathetic as it made him, Brody had meant every word that he’d said to Michaela when she’d asked why he Ran for the pack. He and the others took their positions and purpose seriously, and he knew none of them would ever walk away from it, no matter how frustrating it became.

  Succumbing to his steadily growing headache with a foul curse, Brody swiveled away from the computer screen, fighting the urge to pick it up and hurl the equipment against the wall of his office.

  Bracing his elbows on his spread knees, he cradled his head in his open palms, spearing his fingers back through his hair, and concentrated on taking deep, even breaths. In. Out. In. Out.

  His next inhalation made his muscles clench in awareness, and he knew, without lifting his head, that Michaela stood in the doorway, even though she hadn’t made a sound. Her warm, womanly scent wrapped around him, seducing his senses…seducing his heart. He could smell the warmth of the shower on her, the tang of her soap on her skin, shampoo in her hair. In his mind’s eye, he tortured himself with the mental vision of her standing beneath the steamy spray of water, her body naked and wet and beautiful—knowing, instinctively, that she’d have welcomed him in there with her…if he’d had the balls to go after what he wanted.

  “What are you working on?” she asked, the muted Louisiana drawl that softened her words melting into him, provocative and rich. He could listen to her talk for hours, turned on to the point of pain from nothing more than the sultry sound of that intoxicating voice.

  Silently cursing his weakness, Brody lifted his head and jerked his chin toward the computer screen. “It’s a map showing the locations where we’ve found bodies, along with places we’ve searched as possible hideouts.”

  She nodded, bracing one hand against the doorjamb. “Why do you think he came back to make this last kill on pack land, after risking discovery in the city when he killed the girl who was dealing drugs?”

  “Who knows?” he sighed, leaning back in his office chair as he stared at her, her beauty taking his breath, same as it always did. “Maybe he lost control and didn’t mean to make the kill in Covington. Could be that the close call scared him, made him more cautious.”

  As if echoing his earlier thoughts, she frowned, saying, “That doesn’t sound like Dustin.”

  He rubbed at the tension knotted in the back of his neck, and asked, “What do you mean?”

  “He’s too arrogant, too cocky. And I was thinking about that feeling I had when we were with the victim. The conflict I felt in the killer. That doesn’t sound like Dustin, either. From what I could read in Dustin wh
en we saw him in Covington, he doesn’t seem the type to mourn his actions. If he were the killer, I think he’d be gloating about his success. For that matter, I don’t see Stefan Drake having that kind of reaction, either. Both have God complexes that would prevent them from feeling conflicted over their actions.”

  Scrubbing his hands down his face, Brody knew he had to agree. “You’re right. We’re still looking in the wrong direction.”

  Her head listed slightly to the side as she studied him, the damp curls of her hair falling like a midnight sheet of silk over her shoulder. She should have looked washed-out, with the black clothes and all that long black hair, but her skin shone with the luminous sheen of a pearl, cheeks and mouth flushed a blushing rose, eyes brilliant and bright and blue. “I know it’s frustrating,” she told him, “but you’ll figure it out.”

  “I don’t know. I feel like the answer’s staring us right in the face, but we just can’t see it.”

  “Has anything come up on any of the other Elders?”

  “Naw. They all have their share of secrets and skeletons in their closets, but hell, who doesn’t? We could make an argument for any of them as easily as we could make an argument against them.” He sighed, leaning forward to brace his elbows on his knees once again. He turned his right hand over and stared at the lines on his palm, as if he could find the answers there as easily as Meredith had. “When we first started, we didn’t know much about any of them, since we’ve been so isolated from the pack for so long, our interactions with the League as minimal as possible. But even now, we’re still no closer to any answers, and Pippa was the only one willing to talk to us.”