Last Wolf Watching

by Rhyannon Byrd

  You know what you want, you’re just too terrified to take a chance on her. Too afraid to believe she could be for real—that she could want you for forever.

  True, but what the hell was he supposed to do about it?

  The sound of footsteps down the hallway had him breaking out in a cold sweat, that lush, mouthwatering peaches-and-cream scent wrapping around him like some biologically altered, fast-growing vine, imprisoning him, squeezing the air from his lungs. It released on a low, shaky breath when she stopped at the entrance to the kitchen, and he searched for the balls to turn around.

  He hadn’t slept after walking out on her in the middle of the night, and from the dark circles he spotted under her eyes as he faced her, neither had she.

  And yet, she was painfully beautiful. She licked her bottom lip, and his muscles clenched, that tangled knot of hunger in his gut roiling, damaging him inside, like an emotional wrecking ball. What the hell was he doing? He wanted so badly to go to her, shoving her against the kitchen wall, imprinting his body against her own, until he could feel every inch of her. Wanted to rip those hip-hugging jeans to shreds and sink to his knees, pressing his face into the lush, breathtaking sweetness of her sex, his tongue and lips and mouth taking everything she had. All of it. Demanding it.

  The memory of her taste sat on the tip of his tongue like a treasure, taunting him, and he fisted his hands at his sides, his claws breaking through until he could feel the piercing tips cutting into his own flesh, the warm wash of his blood filling his palms. Turning back to the sink, Brody flicked on the water and put his hands under the warm flow, washing away the evidence of his weakness. Christ, he had no control with this woman. None. Hadn’t last night proven that?

  Bile rose in his throat, and he choked back a low string of curses that burned across the landscape of his mind, leaving scorched earth in their wake.

  “Are you okay?” she asked, her voice closer, and he knew from her scent that she’d come into the room, standing maybe five feet behind him. He closed his eyes, struggling for the strength to resist, wanting nothing more than to turn around and take her to the ground, the way he had last night. He wanted to shove himself into her until he felt the white-hot, blissed-out feeling of being home again, of being right where he belonged, a part of her, those graceful limbs wrapped around him, her mouth pressed hot and damp to the side of his throat.

  God. He was going to combust or do himself bodily harm.

  “Brody?”

  “I’m fine,” he managed to grit through his clenched teeth, sounding like a bastard. He could imagine her flinching at his tone, that tender flair of concern in her eyes dimming beneath the force of his anger.

  “This isn’t going to work, is it?” she whispered. “How are we supposed to—”

  The sound of a fist pounding on his front door saved him from having to hear what she’d been about to say. “Carter, open up!” Cian called out. Turning off the faucet, Brody grabbed the hand towel off the front of the stove as he moved past her, into the living room. Yanking open the front door, he found his partner standing on the porch, the scent of the cleanser they’d used to remove Pippa’s blood still tangy and sharp in the air.

  “Isn’t it a little early in the day for you?” he rasped, eyeing his partner with a wary gaze.

  Cian took a slow drag on his cigarette, eyes heavy beneath his brows. “Duty calls,” the Irishman muttered.

  Damn it. He didn’t like the sound of that. “What’s going on?”

  “Mason got the call from Dylan this morning,” Cian grunted. “They’re making the vote on Jillian in just under an hour.”

  Chapter 14

  Once Michaela had learned Brody was going to Shadow Peak, she’d asked if he could drop her off at Eric’s while he was in town, so that she could spend time with Max. Feeling guilty over the way he’d walked out on her in the night, Brody had reluctantly agreed, though it went against the fierce burn of possession in his gut to leave her in the protection of the Lycan.

  She’d rushed to get ready, and they’d left the house not fifteen minutes later, taking his truck, with Cian riding along in the backseat. Now, as Brody steered the Ford up the private road that led to Shadow Peak, there was a devil sitting on his shoulder, whispering in his ear that he was making a huge mistake—that something wasn’t right. He chalked it up to being on edge, and yet he couldn’t shake the uncomfortable feeling that he should turn around, take Michaela home and never let her out of his sight.

  The rain started falling in a torrential downpour halfway there, slowing them down, so that they were already late by the time he pulled in front of Eric’s house. After listening to his stern warning to remain inside with Eric and Max until he came back for her, she got out and waved goodbye, and Cian moved to the front seat while Brody waited for her to get safely into the house before driving away.

  When they were underway again, he reached for his back pocket and pulled out the list of names he’d printed up that morning. Unable to sleep, he’d been working on his laptop at sunrise, when he’d received an e-mail from Monroe with the names he’d requested. Brody had glanced over them, but nothing had caught his attention. Still, he’d printed it up, planning to run it by the rest of the Runners as soon as he got the chance. Handing the list to Cian, he was about to tell him to take a look at it, when his cell phone started buzzing on his hip. Glancing at the number, his gut tightened when he saw the call was coming from Eric’s house.

  “What’s wrong?” he grunted into the mouthpiece, at the same time he steered the Ford into a parking place on the side of the road and flicked off the windshield wipers, thankful that the violent burst of rain was already letting up.

  It was Michaela calling with some unsettling news. Eric knew nothing about Jillian’s hearing and was under the impression that a committee meeting was on the morning’s docket instead.

  “Eric’s on the committee and is expected to attend, but he doesn’t plan to leave Max and Elliot. Doesn’t it seem strange that they would hold a committee meeting at the same time they’re taking a vote on Jillian?”

  “Yeah, that’s weird,” he murmured, slanting a worried look toward Cian, who was watching him with a concerned expression on his dark face.

  “Where are you now?” she asked.

  “We’ve just parked on Second Avenue, one street over from Main Street and the Town Hall. We’re heading over right now.”

  “Okay. Just promise me that you’ll be careful. I don’t want to sound paranoid, but I have…” She hesitated, then said, “I have a really bad feeling about this, Brody.”

  “Me, too,” he grunted, raking the fingers of his free hand back through his hair. “I should’ve left you in the goddamn Alley. Whatever the hell happens, you stay there with Eric. Understood?”

  “I won’t leave,” she assured him. “Just figure out what’s happening and then get back here.”

  “I mean it, Doucet. Do not leave that house.”

  “I won’t,” she promised, and then she hung up.

  “What’s going on?” Cian rasped, pulling out a cigarette.

  Brody filled him in as they climbed out of the truck, unease moving them swiftly down the road, their long legs eating up the sidewalk with rapid strides. “Seems weird they’d schedule the meeting to coincide with Jillian’s hearing.”

  “This doesn’t feel right,” Cian murmured, scowling as he took a long drag on his smoke.

  “We need to find the others, because I have a bad feeling we’ve been told what was needed to get us here,” he muttered, at the same time a stark, resonating howl echoed in the distance. Both men stopped in their tracks.

  “It’s a bloody setup,” Cian grunted.

  They shared a dark look, then started running toward the Town Hall.

  * * *

  Replacing the phone in the cradle attached to Eric’s kitchen wall, Michaela chewed on the corner of her mouth, struggling to calm her emotions. But it was a wasted effort. They’d been at full tilt fo
r too long, ever since the shattering hours she’d spent in Brody’s arms the night before. Hours that had stripped her down, leaving her shaky, as jittery as an addict going through withdrawal.

  She’d channeled all her energy into the hope that Brody would finally open up to her when she opened her body to him, but she’d been wrong. Despite the blistering intimacy they’d shared, in the end, he’d walked away from her, just as Ross had done. The effect, however, was so much more devastating, because while she’d cared for Ross—she was passionately, head over heels in love with Brody Carter.

  She felt foolish, but she couldn’t escape the sharp burn of worry piercing her chest, terrified that something was going to happen to him—that his life was in danger. “I got Brody,” she murmured, looking toward Eric as he walked into the kitchen. “He’s going to check out what’s going on at the Town Hall and then get back here.”

  Eric nodded as he leaned back against the counter, brawny arms crossed over his chest. “Max should be down in a minute. He and Elliot are just finishing up with one of his training exercises.”

  Curious about her brother’s training, Michaela started to ask for details, when a long, sinister howl suddenly sounded from the front of the house. Eric stiffened, pulling his dark brows together into a deep vee over the metallic gray of his eyes. “Son of a bitch,” he hissed, turning and heading for the living room, while Michaela ran after him.

  “What was that?” she gasped.

  Peering around the front blinds, Eric cursed a guttural string of words under his breath. “Max! Elliot!” he shouted.

  “Get down here!”

  Another howl came from outside, so close it sounded like the animal was in Eric’s front yard. “What the hell is that?” she asked again, her voice growing shrill with fear.

  “Rogues,” Eric grunted, still staring out the window.

  “About five of them in the street. Looks like some of Sheffield’s groupies, but I don’t see Dustin.” Slanting her a dark look over his shoulder, he said, “This isn’t good, Michaela. I want you to go in the back bedroom and stay there. Whatever you hear, do not come out. I’ll call Brody, but the boys and I should be able to hold them off till the Runners can get over here.”

  “What do you think they want?” she asked unsteadily, unable to believe this was happening. Her chest grew tight, making it difficult to breathe.

  Before Eric could answer, a guttural voice shouted, “All we want’s the girl, Drake! If you don’t want any trouble, send her out!”

  “Well, that answers that,” she muttered, at the same time as her brother and Elliot came racing down the stairs. Eric immediately began firing instructions at the young men. Michaela stood silently by the wall, listening, until Eric turned toward her.

  “Get the hell out of here,” he barked. “Right now.”

  She ran to Max and gave him a quick hug and kiss, whispering, “Be careful!”

  Then she headed for the back of the house. By the time she’d reached the bedroom, she could hear the fighting in the front, the sharp sounds of shattering glass and breaking wood. Were the rogues coming in through the windows? Breaking down the front door? Unless a miracle happened, they were all going to die—because of her.

  And they’d seemed a bit short on miracles lately.

  Pacing from one side of the room to the other, Michaela listened as the sounds of fighting grew louder, wondering why it was taking so long for help to get there. Had something happened to Brody and the others? Should she try to call him, in case Eric hadn’t been able to get through? Rushing for the phone sitting on the bedside table, she’d just picked it up, when she felt chills break out along her arms, slithering across the back of her neck. Closing her eyes, she threw out the soft, diaphanous web of her power, and could feel Dustin Sheffield. He was on the left-hand side of the house, creeping slowly toward the far window.

  Michaela knew he was powerful enough to break through the window with ease—and by the time the others got to her, she’d already be dead. Rushing to the bedroom door, she cracked it open a careful fraction, wondering if she could make a run for it, but the hallway was blocked by the massive, fur-covered body of a golden werewolf fighting Eric.

  Closing the door, she glanced at the window on her right, and could see beneath the partly lifted blinds that the sky was slowly darkening with another ominous wave of storm clouds. Soon, it would start raining again, and Brody had explained to her that rain hampered a Lycan’s sense of smell, making it difficult for them to track their prey.

  If she slipped out the window, maybe she could outrun Dustin until the rain came down, covering her trail. It wasn’t much of a plan, but it was better than staying in that bedroom and waiting for him to break in and kill her.

  Sensing that Dustin was preparing to crash through the blind-covered window on the other side of the room, Michaela ran to the one on her right, pushed it open, and climbed out, surprised to discover that Eric’s yard bordered the edge of the forest. With adrenaline pouring swiftly through her veins, she set off into the woods at full speed, thankful for the sneakers that covered her feet. Though she moved as quickly as she could, it wasn’t long before a stitch began twisting in her side, slowing her down. Gritting her teeth, she forced herself to keep moving, knowing that if she stopped, he’d catch her—and then he would kill her.

  She would die. Pure and simple.

  Michaela had always believed she’d experience a moment of clarity when this time came, facing her death, but only two truths filled her mind. She was going to miss her brother—and she wished she’d told Brody that she loved him.

  Praying for the growing storm which had yet to break, she kept running, certain that Sheffield had already picked up on her scent and given chase. She’d no sooner finished the thought, when she sensed someone closing in on her. Dustin. As she used her power to read him, Michaela could feel the anticipation rushing swiftly through his veins, the heavy weight of lust and hunger in his gut for the moment when he’d take her down. She thought she heard him off to her left, then her right a moment later, and her stomach heaved as she realized what was happening. He was playing with her, the way a lion cub might tease its prey before finally making the kill.

  But Dustin Sheffield was no cub—and Michaela refused to be his plaything.

  Jumping over a fallen log, she struggled to keep her balance, when he suddenly burst onto her path, coming out from the dense foliage to her left. She skidded to a jarring, jolting stop, and he smiled at her, his face and body still human, though his hands were anything but, sporting long, deadly claws. “Well, hello there,” he drawled.

  Taking a step back, she hissed, “Stay away from me.”

  “No can do, little Cajun. While Drake is busy turning the Runners into mincemeat, I thought we could enjoy a little private playtime.” He stalked closer, running his tongue over his bottom lip, mouth curled in a malicious smile, while his eyes glowed like golden embers of fire. “I’ve been looking forward to this, Michaela. You have no idea how much.”

  “It was you, wasn’t it?” she whispered, taking another step back…and then another. “You’re the one who’s been watching me?”

  His low laugh was obscene, slipping down her spine like cold, wet slime, making her shiver. “So he’s had his eye on you, eh? I wondered about that. Drake wasn’t happy about you being in the mountains, worried what that little gift of yours might allow you to pick up from him.”

  “From who? Drake?”

  “No, the one your Runner has been hunting,” he told her.

  “The one with a taste for cute little blondes.”

  “Who is it?”

  “Oh, I can’t go spoiling the surprise,” he crooned, matching each step she took until her back came up against a tree. “And we have more important things to keep us busy. Why don’t you use that power of yours and tell me what they are?” Reaching out, he trailed his claws down the front of her sweater, the tip of the middle one just catching on her left nipple, making her
cry out in pain. “Come on, Michaela,” he drawled. “Something tells me you’ll get it right on the first guess.”

  Trembling, she said, “You’ll have to kill me before I let you rape me.”

  “And what makes you think that’d be a problem for me?” he asked with a slow, cruel smile, chuckling under his breath, the sound as sinister as it was soft. In a startlingly swift move, he took her to the ground, catching her wrists in one clawed hand, imprisoning them over her head. Then he pressed his denim-covered erection against her at the same time the shape of his face transformed, a long, fang-filled muzzle stretching out his jawbones, popping and cracking into position, and she screamed. Screamed louder than she’d ever screamed in her entire life.

  “Don’t worry,” he purred in a tone that all but dripped with venom. “You won’t die. At least not yet. After I have my fun with you, I have orders to take you back to Drake.” His deadly mouth twisted into some kind of grotesque imitation of a grin, while his eyes burned with malevolent pleasure. “He’s got special plans for you, little Cajun. You’re gonna be a present to all of those who’ve served him. A kind of ‘job well done’ bonus. Too bad you won’t survive it. Oh, maybe the first few, but after that, you’ll bleed out before the others can get to you.”

  “You’re sick,” she whispered.

  “We’ll see how sick you think I am when I’m done with you,” he murmured, a low, guttural laugh vibrating deep within his chest, while he ran his claws lightly down the right side of her face. He scratched her skin just enough to break the surface, so that blood welled hotly from the stinging slice, and she sobbed from the pain.

  Still grinding himself against her, Dustin leaned down and licked the shallow cuts, his tongue rough and warm against her face, and Michaela cried out, struggling against his hold, as he hummed, “Mmm. You’re a tasty little thing, aren’t you?”