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Last Wolf Watching
Rhyannon Byrd


There was nothing simple about what Brody Carter needed to do…With any other woman, it would be. But not with Michaela Doucet. He barely knew the provocative beauty and already her face haunted his dreams. Yet he could not let that affect him.He had to protect Michaela from the Lycans who wanted her dead and surrendering to his own desires was not an option. Even if this decision would change his entire life. Even if it was pure madness. Brody had no other choice…did he?BLOODRUNNERS Caught between two worlds, they will stop at nothing in their pursuit of justice…and love.







“Who is willing to watch over the human?”



“I am.” The two roughly spoken words resounded through the clearing with the force of a cannon blast, and Michaela instantly stilled, stiffening against Brody as all eyes turned towards them. “Until this is over,” Brody growled, “the human is mine.”



The unbelievable words echoed through Michaela’s head, the evocative warmth of Brody’s breath against the sensitive shell of her ear enough to make her tremble with something more visceral than shock or fear. She struggled for the source of her reaction – then realised it was hunger, urgent and sweet, spreading hypnotically through her system. A craving that moved like warm, thick honey in her veins, settling deep within her like an intimate, pulsing glow of heat that she wanted to curl around herself. And it centred on the Bloodrunner who held her in his hard-muscled arms, the resonating beat of his heart banging out a powerful rhythm against her back.



Oh God, this can’t be happening.


ABOUT THE AUTHOR



Rhyannon Byrd fell in love with a Brit whose accent was just too sexy to resist. Luckily for her, he turned out to be a keeper, so she married him, and they now have two precocious children, who constantly keep her on her toes. Living in the Southwest, Rhyannon spends her days creating provocative romances with her favourite kinds of hero – intense alpha males who cherish their women. When not writing, she loves to travel, lose herself in books and watch as much football as humanly possible with her loud, fun-loving family. For information on Rhyannon’s books and the latest news, you can visit her website at www.rhyannonbyrd.com.




Last Wolf Watching


RHYANNON BYRD




www.millsandboon.co.uk (http://www.millsandboon.co.uk)


To Debbie Hopkins Smart, for all the laughter

and the smiles, and for always being there. With lots of love, Rhyannon






Prologue


The Bloodrunner stood on the sidewalk, staring through narrowed eyes at the silent house nestled among a bevy of trees at the end of the picturesque neighborhood street. His mood was dark, edged with impatience, muscles coiled with tension that wound tighter…and tighter with each passing second.

“Just get in, tell her and get the hell out,” he muttered in a husky rasp, the nearly silent words lost in the gusting Maryland breeze, the heavy chill of autumn wrapping its arms around his shoulders like a coldhearted lover.

It was a simple enough plan—and yet, Brody Carter knew there would be nothing simple about it. With any other woman, yes. But not with this one.

Letting out a slow, measured breath, he stepped beneath the ivy-laden trellis sheltering the front porch. The golden glow of an old-fashioned streetlamp softly illuminated the deep shadows of the night, heavy storm clouds smothering the silvery rays of the moon, until only a few, pale streams of ethereal light filtered through. He concentrated on forcing the aggressive blend of rage and hunger that coursed steadily through his blood beneath a cool, untouched surface of indifference, and finally lifted his hand. With a sharp movement, he rapped his knuckles against the front door, his tanned skin dark against the antique white finish of the wood.

With the rational part of his mind, Brody accepted the fact that he’d rather be anywhere in the world than standing there, on Michaela Doucet’s doorstep.

Unfortunately, the dangerous, animal side of his nature had other ideas, relishing the thought of being near the provocative Cajun once again. He’d had his first look at the mysterious human nearly two weeks ago, at the wedding of a fellow Bloodrunner, Mason Dillinger. And though Brody could appreciate physical beauty as much as the next guy, it seemed this woman was almost too beautiful, with that lush body, long black hair that fell in soft curls to the middle of her back, perfect features and dark blue eyes so big a man could get lost in them.

Still, a pretty face he could have forgotten—but it was her scent that wouldn’t leave him in peace.

The autumn winds surged with a vicious fury, bitterly cold in the dead of night—and his nostrils flared as he caught a trace of that warm, peaches-and-cream fragrance that no store-bought product could duplicate. Suddenly, the cool air of indifference he’d struggled to maintain bled away like the last flecks of snow down the sides of a mountain, replaced by a blistering wave of heat. He imagined his features must look twisted with the madness of his emotions, his expression one of equal parts hunger and disgust for his weakness—and knew he’d be lucky if she didn’t run screaming in the other direction the second she set eyes on him.

“Not that I’d blame her,” he grunted under his breath. While his partner Cian was most often described as the pretty boy of their group, Brody figured he was the equivalent of the intimidating guard dog. Big, mean and scary-as-hell were the adjectives most suited to his appearance, and he’d learned to live with them. He’d never wished to be anything different than what he was—he only wished he’d never set eyes on the sexy Cajun with a siren’s smile, who was perfect enough to have any man that she wanted.

Look, there’s no need to make it complicated. Just get in,deliver the news and get the hell away from her before thatscent has time to screw with your head.

He rubbed uneasily at the back of his neck, and a scowl twisted the scarred corner of his mouth, while he wondered what was taking her so long to answer the door. A dog barked down the street, and his gaze slid across the row of neighboring houses, his frown deepening with unease. This pristine world of white picket fences and quaint, family homes was as alien to him as any make-believe landscape, making him feel like the horrifying monster trespassing within a storybook fantasyland. The uncomfortable feeling had Brody struggling for calm, and he locked his jaw, just wanting to get back to the peaceful quiet of the forest.

Being in the city always set him on edge. The man in him hated the constant grind of the noise and crowds and irritating stares, preferring the isolation of the mountains where he and the other Bloodrunners lived. The wolf in him found the endless sensory overload a constant source of frustration. It felt constrained, tethered, when all it wanted to do was throw off his human mantle and howl beneath the comforting, seductive pull of the moon. The continual fight against his primal, instinctual urges whenever a hunt took him into civilization made him restless, wearing him thin.

And now he had to deal with Michaela. Not good. Not good at all.

“You’re tempting fate, just like your old man,” he quietly grunted to himself. “The last thing in the world you need is to be close to her.”

As if to confirm what he already knew, his beast lifted its nose to search for a deeper source of that heady, mouthwatering scent that seemed to destroy him a little more with each breath. He wanted to moan, it was so good. Wanted to claw his way into her house, take her beneath his body and pretend that he’d forgotten the reasons why he couldn’t touch her. Claim her. Search out her delicate pulse and bite her. He wanted to sink his fangs into her slender throat, her warm flesh damp and deliciously tender beneath his mouth, and lose himself in the hot, carnal rush of her blood at the same time as he buried himself hard and thick and deep between her silken thighs. His hands fisted at the dizzying thought, muscles locked in a paroxysm of agony, while he choked back a low, rumbling growl of frustration.

He was a Bloodrunner, the offspring of his human mother and Lycan father. A hunter of rogue werewolves. A protector of the Lycan way of life for the Silvercrest pack. But unlike his fellow Runners, Brody knew that in some ways he was more monster than man. He walked a delicate balance between the two opposing worlds, and the woman inside this house upped the stakes to a dangerous, deadly level. For too many months, his beast had been denied the physical pleasures that fed its soul, not unlike the way a wild kill fed his animal appetites. By the time he’d understood the dangerous effects of his self-imposed celibacy—it was too late. He hadn’t dared to seek out a woman, even a Lycan one, because he didn’t trust his human half to be able to master the savage urges of his beast.

Then Michaela Doucet had walked into his life, and Brody discovered what it was like to live in true fear—what it was like to live in hell. Every moment spent in her company took him one step closer to the crumbling edge of his control, until he could all but feel the fires of damnation licking at his skin.

“You need to go home, grab a bottle of Jack and find a way to forget she even exists,” he muttered to himself, squeezing his eyes tight as he lifted his fist and knocked harder, all but shaking the sturdy door within its frame, nearly cracking the wood. The wind grew savage, riffling through his hair, pulling the dark auburn strands across his face until he had to swipe at them with his hand. Drawing in another deep, ragged breath, Brody hammered at the door again…and again, feeling every bit the part of the Big Bad Wolf getting ready to huff, and puff and blow her picture-perfect world to pieces.

Finally, the lock on the front door clicked, the handle turning, and Brody shoved his shaky hands deep in the pockets of his jeans, steeling himself to get what needed to be said over and done with as fast as possible. After all, he’d come tonight to tell the woman who’d become his secret obsession that she’d lost her brother—or rather, the brother she’d always known.

The boy she’d raised was gone. Forever.

“And you get to be the lucky bastard who tells her,” he snarled, the whispered words so guttural, they barely sounded human.

Brody muttered a foul word under his breath, and with the rasping ease of an old, comfortable house, the front door quietly opened…


Chapter 1

Eighteen hours later…



Fear sat on the tip on Michaela Doucet’s tongue, as bitter as an aspirin waiting to be swallowed. It possessed a sharp, acidic flavor that made her mouth water in the way that it does when you’re about to be sick, while her eyes burned with a stinging wash of gathering tears. She willed them back with the sheer stubborn force of her will, reminding herself again and again that Doucets weren’t ones to cower. Raised in the superstition-rich environment of the Louisiana Bayou, she’d grown up on whispered tales of ghosts and goblins, vampires and werewolves.

Yes, she’d always been a believer, even if she’d never seen proof of the paranormal creatures most humans consigned to the realm of fantasy and fiction. But now the veil between the two worlds had been lifted. Two weeks ago, she and her brother Max had learned the truth about the secret that resided in the eastern mountains just a few hours’ drive west of their home in Covington, Maryland. Werewolves did indeed live among us. Some good. Some bad. Some so evil, they were more monsters than men.

And then there were others who were truly heroes. Dark, dangerous and tortured ones, yes—but undoubtedly heroic.

Michaela’s best friend, Torrance Watson, had fallen in love with one such hero: Mason Dillinger, a man who was half human–half Lycan. Mason was one of a select breed of hunters known as Bloodrunners who were committed to hunting down and exterminating the rogue Lycans who’d begun murdering humans. Because of their half-human bloodlines, the Runners lived separately from the Silvercrest werewolf pack they protected, in a place named Bloodrunner Alley.

The Doucets had been under Bloodrunner protection ever since a rogue werewolf had made a move on Torrance’s life. And while Michaela didn’t care for the lack of privacy, Wyatt Pallaton and Carla Reyes—the Bloodrunning team assigned to their protection—had become friends to both her and Max. She had been thankful for their watchful eye, especially for her brother’s sake.

Yes, she could accept the existence of werewolves. She’d even begun to embrace a few of them as part of her family. But tonight, terror consumed her.

Beneath the wraithlike streams of silvery moonlight, the autumn wind whistled past her ears, reminding her of a specter imparting secrets, the cool frost of its voice chilling against her skin. Shivering, she inhaled deeply through her nose, searching for the fresh scents of the surrounding forest, for pinesap and juniper and the moist smell of the soil. Like a frightened child grasping at a frayed security blanket, she needed the familiarity of those things to ground her in a world that had tilted on its axis, knocking her off balance—but all she could find was the acrid stench of aggression. Feral and thick, the heavy scent closed around her like a physical vise, banding her chest, making it difficult to draw enough air into her lungs.

Even as an outsider in this ominous setting, she understood instinctively what the menacing energy permeating the night signified. They were ready—the Silvercrest pack’s anticipation ripe for the ceremony that would soon begin.

Hold it together, she silently scolded. Do not fall apart.

Willing her backbone to keep her upright, Michaela focused on the towering blaze of a roaring bonfire that rose from the far side of the clearing, its orange flames burning with maniacal zeal against the ink-black curtain of night. Not even the stars shone in the eastern sky. Only the moon burned in the stygian darkness of the heavens, its yellowed mass seeming to reflect the fiery glow of the sinister flames.

The mountains were silent but for the low, nearby noises that filled her ears, more animal-like than human. This was Silvercrest pack land, and the werewolves were tired of waiting. Michaela kept her gaze fixed on the fire, aware that many of the Lycans had already shifted into their preternatural shapes, their fur-covered bodies standing like monstrous shadows at the edges of the forest as they waited with restless expectancy.

If not for her friends, she’d have thought she was in hell. But she wasn’t alone, thank God. Mason stood on her left, while Torrance moved in closer to her right side and grabbed her hand, squeezing her icy fingers in support as the wind surged around them, rattling the autumn leaves upon the gnarled branches of the trees, scattering others in the ravaging gusts. It still seemed astonishing that her best friend, who’d always been wary of the supernatural, had married a man who could howl at the moon, but Michaela liked Mason, as well as respected him. And there was no denying that the gorgeous half-breed was head over heels in love with his redheaded wife.

“Everything’s going to be okay,” Torrance murmured, the tone of her voice soothing, as if gentling a cornered animal. “Mason won’t let anything happen to Max, I promise.”

Okay? she thought, blinking rapidly as tears threatened to spill once more from her raw, swollen eyes. How was that even possible? Her nineteen-year-old brother had been attacked by a rogue werewolf—a Lycan who preyed upon humans for food. Max had been bitten in the attack, which meant he was no longer human, but a breed of creature that existed between the two worlds of man and beast, much like the Bloodrunners themselves.

Last night, it had been Carla Reyes’s turn to wait at the hospital while Max worked his shift as a security guard. Michaela had been enjoying a relaxing evening at home after a long day at her store, when Reyes called to let her and Wyatt know that Max had taken his car and disappeared in the middle of making his rounds. Michaela couldn’t think of any possible reason that Max would do such a thing—unless it had something to do with Sophia Dawson. And she’d been right.

Sophia was an eighteen-year-old Lycan who’d discovered the gruesome murder of a human female the week before. She’d spent a few days at their home, before returning to her parents’ house in Shadow Peak, the mountaintop town that was home to the Silvercrest pack. Max and Sophia had become fast friends, despite Michaela’s warnings that her brother should be cautious. Sophia was mixed up with a wild party crowd down in Covington, and the last thing Michaela had wanted was to see her brother become involved in an unhealthy relationship. She didn’t care that Sophia was a werewolf—but she did care that the teenager was heavily involved in the local drug scene.

In fact, she suspected it was Sophia’s troubled lifestyle that had drawn Max to her in the first place. He’d always been a champion of the underdog, willing to take on everyone’s worries as his own. Michaela loved that his heart was so generous, but she’d also worried that it would eventually land him in trouble—which was exactly what had happened.

After Carla’s call, Wyatt had contacted the other Runners and a search of the city had been immediately set into action. Then Brody Carter had arrived on her doorstep with his heartbreaking news.

“Max is still alive,” the Bloodrunner had explained to her and Wyatt in gritty, clipped tones. “Sophia Dawson showedup in Shadow Peak with him about a half hour ago. They’retrying to get the story out of her, but she’s pretty hysterical.Seems she’d called Max from a concert, scared that she andher girlfriends were being followed. Says Max told her heknew Reyes wouldn’t let him into that part of town, so heslipped out a back entrance at the hospital, grabbed his carand met up with them. He talked Sophia into coming backhome with him, but before they could make it back to his car,they were attacked. The only thing that saved their lives wasan accident that happened up the street. When he heard theapproaching sirens, the rogue fled and the girls were able toget Max in his car. Sophia panicked and drove him straightto her parents’ house. They notified the Elders and he wastaken into custody.”

Michaela had stood there feeling dead inside, a great roaring wave of pain ripping through her body, while Wyatt had talked with the scowling Runner. Then Brody had left as quickly as he’d come, leaving Wyatt to explain that Max would be kept in a holding cell in Shadow Peak, where he would be watched by guards until his first shift into a werewolf, which usually came the second night after an attack. Once the signs of impending change were noted, a Novitiates ceremony would be called.

Wyatt had driven her up to Bloodrunner Alley, a picturesque glade that sat several miles south of Shadow Peak on the mountain. The Alley held cabins where the Runners lived, and she’d spent the rest of the night with Torrance and Mason.

The wait for nightfall during the long, torturous day had been a living hell—but the call warning them that the ceremony would soon begin had finally come. They’d immediately set off for the clearing, which sat equidistant between Shadow Peak and the Alley.

And now it was time.

The muscles in her throat quivered, and Michaela wondered if she was about to lose the tea Torrance had forced into her before they’d left. The fear threatened to overtake her, too huge and monstrous to evade, swallowing her like Jonah in his story of the whale. The kind of fear that covered your skin after a nightmare, sticky and cold and wet. She knew they could scent it. From the shadowed edges of the clearing, the Lycans’ glowing eyes burned like embers as they watched her through the moonlit darkness.



They’re waiting for you to show your weakness, but rightnow you have to be strong for Max’s sake.

At the thought of her brother, a devastating sense of helplessness pierced through her, making her flinch—and it was at that moment that Michaela felt his gaze. Her breath caught, and without realizing it, she found herself searching the nightmarish scene for the man, the Bloodrunner, who sparked an uncomfortable awareness in her every time she saw him.

Brody. Her mouth formed the words, though she didn’t make a sound.

He watched her from the corner of his eye, as if he didn’t want her to know. But there was no way she could have missed him. All he had to do was enter a room, and her senses kicked into high alert, her equilibrium taking a spin that left her reeling, same as it had last night. He had the scarred body of a warrior, but in Michaela’s opinion, he was one of the most magnificent men she’d ever known. Not pretty, but so utterly hard and masculine that he all but bled testosterone. Everything about the rugged Bloodrunner screamed dark, intense intrigue, and despite her efforts, she’d been unable to stop thinking about him. The effect was even worse when he was near, like being struck by lightning, her nerves left revving and raw. A total and complete meltdown. Not even Ross Holland had affected her like that—and she’d thought she loved her ex-boyfriend…until the day he’d ripped her heart out.

Hah! Shows how much you know. When it comes to love,you’re as blind as a hawk beneath its hood.

Sad, but true.

Now Ross was nothing more than a first-class pain—and one she couldn’t get rid of. No matter how many different ways she explained it, he could not get it through his head that she never wanted to see him again.

It was strange, but with Brody near, she could barely recall what Ross even looked like. The Runner stood to her left, no more than a yard away from Mason, and her stare snagged on his powerful form, unable to look away. Though his muscular frame had been wrapped in a stylish tuxedo the first time she’d met him at Torrance and Mason’s wedding, tonight he wore his standard dark jeans, black boots and black T-shirt. The soft cotton of the shirt molded itself to the broad width of his shoulders and that beautifully carved chest, his thighs rigid beneath the worn denim of his jeans. His auburn hair burned a deep, dark red before the flames of the fire, lying soft and thick on his shoulders. Against the darkness of his skin, his scars shone like silvery pale rivers of pain, echoing the mysteries of his past as they slashed across his face in three thin diagonal lines.

After the “I can’t get out of here fast enough” way that he’d acted the night before, when he’d brought her and Wyatt the news of what had happened to Max, she hadn’t thought he’d even show for the ceremony. But here he was. His normally brooding expression burned with a cold, calculating fury—a charged energy buzzing around him that suggested the rigid control he always held over himself could crack at any moment. Though the calmest, quietest of the Runners, he struggled to master, even hide, an underlying violence. But it was always there, lying in wait of its escape, and she experienced a flutter of relief in her belly that he was on their side.

Brody Carter was not a man you wanted for an enemy.

She ran her tongue over her bottom lip, aware that it quivered, and found herself fighting a physical urge to move closer to him, wanting to soothe that angry burn of pain he carried inside—when suddenly the restless movements of the pack ceased. Mason lifted his face, sniffing at the cool, brisk air. “The Elders are almost here,” he announced in a quiet rasp.

Across the clearing, the eerie, demonic glow of torches could be seen drawing nearer, and Michaela stared unblinkingly at the shadow-thick edge of the forest.

The light grew brighter, burning against her eyes as she watched a dark-haired Lycan with distinctive golden eyes walk forward, bearing one of the torches, his lip curled in a belligerent sneer. Then the first Elder stepped from the shadows, into the clearing, his stature one of blunt, stocky strength; light brown hair shot with silver at his temples; deep-set eyes sharp beneath bushy silver brows.

“That’s Graham Fuller,” Torrance whispered. “He’s the Lead Elder and Mason’s father’s best friend.” Another figure stepped out of the trees, this one considerably younger than Fuller, his rich brown hair and dark eyes familiar. “You know that one,” Torrance told her. “You met Dylan at our wedding.”

Despite the fact that he was a member of the League, Dylan Riggs had always been a friend, as well as a supporter of the Bloodrunners. In fact, it had been Dylan who walked Torrance down the aisle at her wedding. Though his friendship with the Runners was strong, the past few weeks had put Dylan in a difficult position, as tension between the Bloodrunners and the pack increased.

More Elders entered the clearing, alternately taking their places on either side of Fuller, until the last one emerged. Michaela had yet to meet the notorious Lycan known for his purist views and hatred of humans and Bloodrunners alike, but she recognized him immediately from the description she’d been given. Stefan Drake, the one whom the Runners believed was responsible for the growing number of rogue werewolves and other horrifying crimes, and the reason she and Max had remained under Bloodrunner protection, even after the death of Anthony Simmons, the rogue who had threatened Torrance’s life. Mason and the others had believed that if afforded the opportunity, Drake would use the Doucets as a way to strike out against the Runners, and they’d been right.

Drake stood tall and lean, with sharp, aristocratic features made severe by the burning light of the torches and bonfire. Deep grooves of discontent lined the raw-boned features of his face, as if hate itself had worn him down. At one time, he had probably shared the same arresting looks as his children, until years of bitterness had finally left its destructive mark. His sharp, pewter-colored eyes found her and held, staring with a burning contempt that made Michaela recoil, despite her earlier determination to conceal her fear.

In the next moment, the Elders parted, and two hulking shapes emerged from the trees. In their wolf forms, the Lycans stood over seven feet tall, their legs bent at an odd angle as they stalked forward. Each held a thick chain that had been wound around their inside wrist, the twin lengths leading back into the shadows. Michaela’s throat constricted the second she realized what was happening.

She swayed. Her vision blurred. “Oh God, they haven’t.”

“Be strong, Michaela,” Mason grunted. “Max is going to need your strength.”

Strength! She didn’t have any left. Her knees sagged, and both Mason and Torrance caught at her waist as the Lycans walked forward. They had taken no more than a few steps, when they jerked on the chains and her brother appeared, emerging from the thick line of trees.

Bound like an animal.

Fury roared through her, jerking her upright as if she’d been jolted with an electric current, every muscle in her body screaming for movement while she watched Max stumble into the clearing, his long, lanky body dressed in nothing more than tattered boxer shorts, his dark skin smeared with blood and grime. His thick, ebony hair hung over his brow, obscuring his eyes, his battered hands fisted around the two lengths of chain that looped his neck like a collar. His chest and legs were bloodied with deep, raw-looking wounds, which she knew had come from painful claw swipes; his left shoulder was a mangled, bloodied mess from where a rogue werewolf had latched on with its jaws, ripping into the skin and muscles with its lethally sharp fangs.

Oh God, Max. This can’t be happening.

The sheer depth of her horror paralyzed her, freezing her muscles until not even her lungs were moving. “I swear it’s going to be okay, Mic,” her best friend promised in an urgent whisper. “Look around you. We have enough support to demand that they let him live, no matter the outcome of the ceremony.”

Support? Biting at her trembling lower lip, she glanced left, then right, surprised to see that others had joined them. She hadn’t noticed anyone beyond Brody. But Jeremy Burns, Mason’s partner, and his fiancée, Jillian, had moved to Torrance’s other side, and she watched as Jillian’s father stepped forward to the place beside his daughter, his wife there with her arm around his waist. Michaela turned her head to the left and blinked in surprise to see Eric and Elise Drake, the Elder’s children, standing next to Mason, as well as two other couples she couldn’t identify standing just behind Brody.

To the Bloodrunner’s left stood his partner, Cian Hennessey, his dark head angled toward Brody, lips moving as he spoke. Michaela struggled to hear what he said, but the wind carried away his words like smoke. While they talked, Carla Reyes and Wyatt Pallaton came to stand beside Cian. There was no denying that the dark-eyed, loose-limbed Wyatt was certainly attractive, but Michaela shared an easy friendship with the Runner and nothing more, her private desires obstinately focused on the man who seemed determined to keep his distance.

Now the Bloodrunners and their family and friends stood as a united force against the Silvercrest pack that had yet to accept the fact that something sinister was eating away at its foundation, rotting it from the inside out, like a cancer. Something that would rip down the protective walls that separated their world from the humans. In the back of her mind, it occurred to Michaela that loyalties were being announced tonight—a separation made between those who would stand with the Runners in their fight against the rogues and those who blindly supported the pack’s refusal to face reality and see Drake for what he really was—but all she could focus on was Max. He looked so hurt…so terrified.

When one of the guards jerked on his end of the chain, sending Max stumbling forward so fast that he fell hard on his knees, she snapped. One second she was holding Torrance’s hand, all but squeezing the life out of her fingers, and in the next she was flying forward.

“Leave him alone!” she screamed, her soft-soled, black satin slip-ons struggling for purchase in the damp earth as she rushed toward Max, only to find herself lifted off the ground when a hard, heavily muscled arm clamped around her waist from behind, pulling her clear off her feet. “Damn it, let me down!” she snarled, unable to take her eyes off her brother as the golden-eyed Lycan who’d first entered the clearing kicked him, yelling for Max to get back on his feet. On his hands and knees, Max’s head hung forward, the gaping wound in his shoulder seeping fresh blood until a pool began to form beneath him.

Mindless with heartache and rage, Michaela clawed at the arm holding her, kicking her heels against whatever part of her captor’s legs she could reach. “Stop it,” a deep, husky voice grunted in her ear. “You’re not helping him by losing it. I give you my word he’ll survive the ceremony, but you have to keep it together.”

“Nooooo!” she screamed, too hysterical to listen to reason. “You’re monsters! All of you! Look what you’ve done to him! How dare you! How dare you!”

The arm tightened with a powerful flex of muscle, cinching her waist, and her breath sucked in on a sharp, wailing gasp. “Shut up before you get both yourself and your brother killed. I will not let that happen. Do you understand me?” he growled, shaking her so hard that her teeth clicked together. “Do you understand me, Doucet?”

“Damn it!” she cried, stricken as she watched one of the guards grab Max by his hair and jerk him to his feet. Around them, Lycans huffed and growled as they watched the spectacle, while others outright howled for the show to begin. “Put me down! I’m going to kill them for touching him!”

“That’s enough!” the voice seethed in her ear. “They’ll tear you apart before you even reach him, and I’ll be damned if I’m going to stand here and watch you die.”

Suddenly, through the haze of fear and agony and outrage in her mind, she finally recognized who’d caught her. Brody.

He held her in his arms, her body locked against his powerful form, her back to the burning heat of his chest. Held her so high that her toes didn’t even touch the ground. A low, keening sound of anguish tore through her, and her head dropped forward as hoarse sobs of pain ripped from her throat. “Let me go. I have to help him. Please,” she begged brokenly, knowing only that she needed to get to Max. “Let me go, Brody.”

He muttered something against her hair, his breath warm against her scalp, and Michaela could have sworn it was a single word…but she must have heard wrong. She was too upset. Too furious. Too terrified. She must be out of her mind.

Because it had sounded as if he’d quietly snarled the word never.


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 scaryguy” 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, andyou 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, Jeremy 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, stunning 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.”

“You bastard!” Michaela hissed, suddenly jerking forward, but Brody was already tightening his hold on her. She strained against his arms, but couldn’t break away as she shouted at the Elder, the horror she’d just endured pouring out of her in an uncontrollable flash of fury and pain. “If you hurt my brother, I’ll see that each and every one of you dies. Your town, your way of life. I’ll bring the entire world breathing down your neck. Just see if I don’t! And I’ll be damned if he’s staying here! I’ll do whatever it takes to get him away from you! I’ll get the goddamn army up here, and we’ll see how power—”

Cursing foully under his breath, Brody pressed his palm over her mouth, silencing the words he knew were only going to land her in deeper trouble. Muffled sounds of outrage vibrated in her throat, but it was already too late. The damage had been done. Drake hated all humans with a passion that went beyond obsessive—and because of their close association with the Runners, they’d known the Doucets would garner special attention from the unstable Elder and his followers. And now that Michaela had openly challenged him, Drake wouldn’t stop until he made her pay for the insult.

“The human is too unstable to be allowed her freedom,” Stefan Drake announced with a gloating smile, spreading his arms in a gesture of entreaty. “Surely the pack realizes what must be done. She cannot be allowed to interfere with our dealings.”

“Your so-called dealings sought out her family,” Mason growled, “not the other way around. We know you’re the one behind the rogues, Drake, and it won’t be long before we’ve caught you—along with the bastard working with you—and brought the both of you down.”

“Despite the slanderous accusations you and your kind have been tossing around like confetti,” the Elder argued, his hateful stare burning with maniacal triumph while whispered words traveled among the members of the pack, “my guilt remains unproven. The truth is that you have no evidence to back your claims. They’re all based on nothing more than hearsay and conjecture. And regardless of how it happened, her brother is now here and the fact remains that she is a threat to our well-being. I call for an—”

“There’s no need to call for anything,” Dylan growled, cutting Drake off. “She can be assigned a guard and the problem is solved.”

“I agree,” Fuller called out before Drake could argue, the Lead Elder’s relief to have ended the disagreement without bloodshed obvious in the softened lines of his expression. “The only question is who. Who is willing to accept accountability for her actions and watch over the human while her brother completes his training?”

Brody narrowed his eyes, his chest aching as he prepared to say the words he knew were going to change his entire life. It was insanity. Madness. The action of a fool. And yet, he didn’t have any other choice. He never had.

“I am.” The two roughly spoken words echoed through the clearing with the force of a cannon blast, and Michaela instantly stilled, stiffening against him as all eyes turned toward them. “Until this is over,” he growled, “the human is mine.”


Chapter 3

The human is mine…

The unbelievable words echoed through Michaela’s head, the evocative warmth of Brody’s breath against the sensitive shell of her ear enough to make her tremble with something sharper, darker, more visceral than shock or fear. She struggled for the source of her reaction to the possessive words—then realized it was hunger, urgent and sweet, spreading hypnotically through her system. A craving—a primal, instinctive need—that moved like warm, thick honey in her veins, settling deep within her like an intimate, pulsing glow of heat that she wanted to curl herself around. And it centered on the Bloodrunner who held her in his hard-muscled arms, the resonating beat of his heart banging out a powerful rhythm against her back.

Oh God, this can’t be happening.

“If you promise to behave,” he whispered in a low, husky rumble, his lips moving against her hair, “I’ll take my hand away from your mouth. Do you promise, Doucet?”

She gave a jerky nod, and sensation pierced through her like a physical jolt as her lips rubbed against the masculine roughness of his palm; the musky, outdoors scent of his skin filling her head.

Shocked murmurs continued to work their way through the surrounding pack, marked by low snarls and grumblings of disapproval, but a strange buzzing noise, like static, started to fill her ears as everything she’d experienced in the last few moments crashed down on her. She shook her head, trying to clear the confusion, but couldn’t escape the growing feeling of unreality. Through a hot sheen of tears, she watched as the Elders huddled into a tight circle. Only Dylan Riggs cast a sharp glance in her direction, before lowering his head and joining the other Elders in a heated conversation while the pack clustered together in groups of their own. She could see a few human mouths, as well as Lycan jaws moving, but couldn’t hear the words they produced over the frenzied noise thudding against her skull.

When a nearby group of Lycans suddenly stepped toward them, Brody moved with whipcord strength, shoving her behind his back before she even knew what was happening. “Mason, get her back to the Alley,” he grated, and she almost sighed with relief as the words sank into her system, the static whir slowly fading away. “The others can help me deal with things here. We’ll meet back up with you at the cabin when we’re done.”

Vaguely aware of Torrance grabbing on to her wrist and pulling her away, Michaela stumbled, looking back over her shoulder toward the clearing, watching as Eric Drake walked toward the incredible creature her brother had become, his dark fur gleaming like black satin in the moonlight. Eric began talking with Max’s guards, reaching for the chains that bound him, when his father broke away from the Elders and advanced on them. She struggled to see what was happening, but everyone was moving around and too many bodies blocked her view.

Looking back to the spot where Brody had stood, her muscles clenched with panic when she found him gone, lost somewhere in that swarming chaos of activity. What if something happened to him? It would be her fault, wouldn’t it? Male voices, raised in anger, reached her, and she knew instantly that it was Brody arguing with Stefan Drake. They both sounded furious, but she knew the Runner would win. And then he’d come to the Alley, where he expected to find her waiting.

Michaela had never considered herself a coward, but after the crushing experience with her last relationship, she’d grown wary of putting her trust in the opposite sex. And more importantly, she no longer trusted her judgment—or her body’s physical desires. And God only knew the powerful way she reacted to Brody Carter was enough to make any sane woman cautious. It was too much. Too…everything.

No, she wasn’t a coward, but she sent a sharp look toward the trees, wondering…

“Don’t even think about it,” Mason warned her with a gruff chuckle, the corner of his mouth edging up into a strained grin. “You wouldn’t make it more than ten feet before he had you down.”

Had her down? A hazy image of being trapped beneath Brody’s long, hard, muscular body flashed through her mind, and she trembled. God, talk about emotional overload. She was shaking so hard she could barely see straight.

“I don’t understand,” she whispered, turning a dazed stare toward her best friend. “What just happened, Torry?”

Arching one slim red brow, Torrance shot a questioning look toward her husband. “If I had to guess, I’d say you’d just been given a personal bodyguard.”

Mason nodded, his handsome face carved into a cautious expression of concern. With a strange bubble of emotion in her throat that felt as if it could end in either laughter or tears, Michaela wondered who that concern was for. Was he worried how well she’d deal with his brooding friend? Or was that hard expression that looked as if it’d been chiseled from granite for Brody? Did he think she’d lead a reign of terror over the quiet Runner’s life?

“And I get him?” she groaned, knowing it couldn’t be true. There was no way in hell Brody Carter had just volunteered himself…to what? The job had sounded more like a watchdog than a bodyguard. “When he said that I’m his, he meant his to watch over, right?”

Mason snorted a low, purely male sound under his breath, and led them deeper into the forest.



It took an hour of sitting there in the Dillingers’ cozy kitchen, with Torrance pouring another pot of herbal tea into her system, before Brody finally came to collect her. Michaela heard the commotion at the front door as he and his partner arrived. For a moment, she felt torn between the strangely opposing urges of running into the living room and demanding he comfort her, and sneaking out through the cabin’s back door, disappearing into the darkness…as if she could run away from the ugly reality of the night.

But she couldn’t move.

She waited, her breath held tight in her chest, until his broad-shouldered body filled the archway that led into the kitchen. His shadowed, dark green gaze trapped her the second he set eyes on her, refusing to let her look away, holding her with the sheer force of his will. The lines around his mouth were tight with strain, and at his sides, his hands were fisted, his knuckles bruised and a little swollen. His auburn hair was damp at the temples, his shirt torn at the shoulder and the sharp line of his left cheekbone had been scraped raw. Her brows pulled together in a tight frown as she added the details together and came to an unsettling conclusion. “You…you didn’t fight after I left, did you?”

“Are you kidding?” Cian snorted, edging past his partner as he walked into the kitchen. “It was just a playful scuffle. Hell, there were only ten of them, hardly enough to call it a fight. And none of them were brave enough to battle against Brooding Brody,” he drawled, hitching his hip against the counter. He crossed his arms over his chest, a cynical smile twisting the hard curve of his devil’s mouth, but Michaela couldn’t tell if he was teasing or not.

“And Max was okay?” she asked, her attention focused on Brody while Torrance filled the sink with hot, lemon-scented dishwater and Mason finished off the sandwich he’d made while waiting.

Brody nodded in response to her question, but didn’t move away from the archway. Instead, he crossed his own arms and propped his right shoulder against the wall, the recessed kitchen lighting glinting off the burnished stubble on his square chin, softening the stark lines of his scars. “Eric took him away before we left. He’ll take good care of him, Doucet. No harm will come to your brother during his training.”

Michaela worked to ignore the devastating effect of his deep voice—that husky, intoxicating baritone that slipped into her with a sweet, provocative slide and made her hot beneath the skin—but it didn’t work worth a damn. The tight, black cashmere sweater that had kept her warm outside now sat too heavy over her damp skin, filling her face with heat. Lowering her gaze to the steam rising from her tea, the china cup fragile within the straining hold of her hands, she asked, “And after that? After the training?”

“If he doesn’t pass, then we’d all stand together to ensure his safety, if it comes to that,” Mason told her. She flicked her gaze up to see his easy grin as he added, “But if he’s anything like you, that’s not going to be a concern. If there’s one thing I know about the Doucets, it’s that they’re tough as nails.”

“Thanks,” she murmured with a wry twist of her mouth. “I think.”

“Don’t worry,” Torrance laughed, sending her husband a teasing look. “Mase’s compliments are still a little rough around the edges, but he means well.”

The Runner flashed his wife a wicked, hard-edged smile and playfully wagged his brows. “Face it, Tor. You love my rough side.”

“Behave,” Torrance admonished under her breath, but her green eyes glittered with excitement, her cheeks flushed a warm shade of rose. The love the two shared was so potent, so rich and heady and intense, that it seemed to fill the room, making Michaela painfully aware of how…alone she was. All she’d had was Max, and now even he had been taken from her.

“Max will pass his training,” Brody rumbled, breaking the awkward silence. “And until all of this is over, I’ll…be withyou.” It almost sounded as if that last bit had stuck in his throat, and she wasn’t the only one who’d noticed.

“If you’re not up to the task,” his partner drawled, reaching behind him to snatch up one of the cookies out of the perpetually stocked cookie jar, “I could always be a pal and step in for you, partner.”

Brody didn’t so much as twitch, but she could see the vein that began throbbing in his temple, pulsing beneath the dark sheen of his skin as he tilted his head and glared at the smirking Irishman. Energy, red-hot and raging, surged around him like a fiery glow, so real Michaela almost flinched from the burn. “Like hell you will.”

“Why not me?” Cian laughed, sending her a teasing wink. The irreverent Runner obviously loved goading his partner and friend, but Michaela could sense something deeper than mere irritation in Brody’s reaction, and she didn’t need any of her so-called powers to see it.

“Why not you?” he softly snarled. “Because you’d be too busy bedding her instead of protecting her, that’s why!”

Cian choked on another sharp bark of laughter, while Michaela made a soft sound of surprise, thoroughly insulted to think that he’d lumped her into the same class as all the other women who willingly fell into Hennessey’s arms simply because of his looks. “I’m going to assume you’re letting your irritation talk,” she murmured, “and that you didn’t mean that to sound as insulting as it did.”

“Don’t bet on it,” Cian snickered, just before Mason elbowed him in the side on his way to the sink with his plate. The Irishman rubbed at his ribs, but couldn’t stop his soft chuckling, and the frustration in Brody seemed to coil like a viper.

All it took was a woman’s keen intuition to realize that he thought she’d rather have the pretty-faced Irishman watching over her than him. And while it was one thing for other women to prefer his dark-haired partner, something inside of Michaela compelled her to say, “As charming as you are, Hennessey, I’m…that is, I think the current arrangement will work just fine.”

“Wow,” Cian drawled, gifting her with a boyish smile as he rubbed one hand against the sharp angle of his shadowed jaw. “I don’t think I’ve ever been turned down so nicely before.” He looked toward his partner, arching one midnight-black brow. “Seems the lady is happy with you after all, boyo. Congratulations.”

Brody’s scowl deepened and a charged silence settled over the room, the only sound that of the running faucet as Torrance worked her way through the dishes. Too restless to sit still, Michaela shifted to her feet, pushing her chair back in at the table before taking her cup to the sink. “I’ll finish up, Torry. I need something to keep me busy.”

Torrance gave Michaela a quick hug, then slipped into a chair beside her husband. Together, they began talking with Cian about Jeremy and Jillian’s wedding, which would take place later that week in the Alley. Michaela began to lose some of her tension as she listened to their easy, quiet chatter, when she suddenly became aware of Brody standing beside her. His left hip rested against the counter, long arms crossed back over his chest, and she felt that little catch in her breath again. She tried to act natural, but his strangely seductive presence speared through her system like the residual traces of a fine wine, making her senses hum.

From the corner of her vision, she watched his gaze settle on her mouth, before lifting to her eyes. “I know you’re probably afraid of me,” he stated in a quiet rasp.

“Afraid of you?” Michaela shook her head as she looked toward him, wondering where he’d gotten such an idea. “Why would I be afraid of you?”

He arched one auburn brow in an expression that reminded her of his partner, wearing a cynical look of disbelief, as if the answer should be obvious. But the truth was that she didn’t fear him, at least not in a physical sense. No…her caution came from a different source—a basis more intimate than mere intimidation. It came from one that played his scarred, seductive image across the darkness of her mind when she closed her eyes at night; that made her pulse flutter whenever he was near. That reminded her time and again that men weren’t to be trusted.

Not that she was going to explain any of that to him.

“I mean it, Brody,” she told him in a soft voice, the armor around her heart breaking a little at the shadow of vulnerability she could see there in that dark gaze. “I’m not afraid of you.”

For several moments, he looked as if he’d argue, those compelling green eyes narrowed on her profile as she turned her attention back to the dishes. Finally, he sighed and said, “This isn’t going to work the same as it did with Pallaton and Reyes. I’m not going to waste time watching you from the outside looking in.”

A shiver slipped down her spine, but she managed to keep her voice steady. “How do you mean?”

“From what Wyatt told me, they tried to keep a reasonable distance, but I’m going to be on the inside with you at all times. If something happens, I need to be close enough to make a difference. Like it or not, I’m going to be like your shadow.”

She slanted him a sideways look as she asked, “You didn’t agree to watch over me just to keep me from causing trouble for the pack?”

He shook his head, and she watched, mesmerized, as the auburn tips of his thick hair shifted over the soft cotton of his black T-shirt, the material hugging the firm muscles beneath. “There’s more going on here, Doucet, and you know it. I’m doing this for you, not them.”

“My name is Michaela,” she sighed, shifting her gaze back to his, irrationally irritated by the way he continually called her by her last name. It was so impersonal, which was exactly why she figured he did it—and it occurred to her that they were like two opponents circling one another, wary of the other’s motives.

“I know your name,” he muttered, his tone dry.

Michaela lifted one shoulder. “Couldn’t prove it to me, since you never use it,” she countered, noting the strange blend of exasperation and wariness in his sexy, almond-shaped eyes. “So you plan to protect me while keeping me in line, then?”

“I doubt anyone could keep you in line,” he snorted, the corner of his mouth twitching in a reluctant grin. “What I am going to do is keep you safe.”

“That’s not what—”

The green of his eyes flashed with emotion. “Forgot what they said at the clearing, okay? As much as I don’t care for Riggs, he knew that one of the Runners would accept responsibility for you so that we could keep you alive. There isn’t a goddamn chance that Drake plans to let you live,” he rasped, the softness of the words in no way lessening their impact. “Not when he knows he can use you to get to us, just like they did with Max. The only problem is that Max lived. Now I think they’ll come after you even harder, or turn it into a game and play with us.”

“By keeping me scared?”

“Yeah.”

Grabbing at another plate, she ignored the shaking in her hands. “Drake really is the one behind all the trouble, then, isn’t he? The one Anthony Simmons was working for, who’s tempting Lycans to turn rogue, teaching them how to shift during the daytime?”

Michaela knew the past few weeks had been chaotic for the Runners. On top of learning that a traitor was working to expand the number of rogue wolves in the area, they’d discovered that those who had turned had been taught how to dayshift. That was the first clue that had pointed the Runners toward an Elder, once they’d learned that the ability to teach a wolf how to take his shape beneath the sun was a power possessed only by those who served on the League, meant to be used as a defensive weapon during times of war.

After the Runners had realized they were hunting a traitorous Elder, Stefan Drake had become their obvious suspect. Drake and his followers made no secret of their fanatical hatred for humans and Bloodrunners alike, but it wasn’t until Jeremy had accepted his place within the Silvercrest pack and returned to Shadow Peak that they were truly able to investigate Drake.

Thanks to Pippa Stanton, the lone female Elder, Jeremy had learned about Drake’s grudge against the League itself. According to Pippa, Drake had never forgiven his peers for forbidding the assassination of his wife after she left him for a human. They also knew Drake was responsible for the recent attack on Jillian’s life. Using his own daughter as a weapon, Drake, along with the help of an unknown Elder, had performed a task believed impossible by most Lycans, pulling Elise’s wolf from her body against her will. Once the change was complete, Elise’s beast was controlled by Drake, and would have killed Jillian if it weren’t for Jeremy and Mason’s intervention. When Jeremy later confronted the Elder, accusing him of the crime, one of Drake’s followers, a man named Cooper Sheffield, had tried to kill him, dying instead by the Bloodrunner’s hand.

To make matters worse, Drake wasn’t the Runners’ only problem. Over the course of the past month, Michaela knew that Brody and Cian had been investigating a series of gruesome killings. Four human females had been found murdered, three in the mountains and one in the city. At each scene, there had been no trace of Lycan musk—only the acidic scent produced by a Lycan who had dayshifted, which was untraceable. Each of the victims had clearly been a rogue kill, their hearts eaten from their chests in some kind of psychotic, symbolic gesture. Only one of the victims had clearly been the work of Anthony Simmons, the rogue who had targeted Torrance’s life, and who had been killed by Mason in a Challenge Fight shortly afterward. The other three crimes were still unsolved, and the Runners couldn’t be sure that Drake himself was behind them, his accomplice on the League…or one of his twisted followers.

“Drake all but admitted his guilt to Jeremy after the attack on Jillian’s life,” Brody rumbled, his deep voice suddenly pulling her from her troubling thoughts and back to their conversation. “He already hated us before, but now he has a reason to risk taking us out. It’s either get rid of the Runners, or accept that we’re going to destroy him and whatever he has planned.” He shrugged, and Michaela found herself momentarily fascinated by the way the casual gesture traveled across the broad width of his shoulders, his muscles flexing beneath the thin cotton of his shirt.

She tried to keep her focus, but damn, she couldn’t get enough of those shoulders. Hoping she didn’t sound dazed with lust, she managed to say, “So what happens now?”

“Would you like me to take you home tonight? We can stay in Covington for a day or two so that you can get your things together, close up your shop, then head back up.”

“Close up my shop?” Her hands went still beneath the running water as she rinsed the suds away from a mug. She’d already made arrangements with one of her employees to run things at Michaela’s Muse, her paranormal specialty shop, for a few days—but she hadn’t considered that she might be away longer than that.

As if following her train of thought, Brody said, “I want you in the Alley, Doucet. In my cabin.” The dark sound of his voice shivered across her senses, but his expression remained unreadable, as if they were discussing nothing more interesting than the weather. “I don’t trust what’s happening in the pack and we’re too vulnerable in town.”

She wanted to argue. She had a life, a business in the city. And yet, none of that would ever be the same again. Max wouldn’t be coming back home with her. Working with her. Living with her. The pain crushed down on her again, but she battled against the tears. “Let’s go down tonight,” she said shakily, hoping he didn’t hear the tremor in her words. “I can get what I need from home, then go by the shop and close things down. My customers will just…have to understand.”

“You don’t have to close. David would be more than happy to keep it open for you,” Torrance suggested from the table, having obviously been listening in on their conversation. David Sharp was a loyal, longtime employee who had worked at Michaela’s Muse while getting his degree in advertising and had recently returned home to Covington.

“I don’t know,” she murmured, picking up a coffee mug. “He’s a sweetheart, but I couldn’t ask him to—”

“Sure you could,” Torrance said softly. “It shouldn’t take you more than a day to go down and get the accounts all settled. You can even show David how to do the payroll, then leave everything in his hands until it’s safe for you to go back.”

Michaela gave a wary nod, knowing she had little choice if she wanted to remain in business, and turned back toward the sink, moving on to the last dish. “So what time do you want to leave?”

Brody didn’t answer—just stood there watching her with a strange, intense expression hardening the grooves that bracketed his mouth. “What?” she whispered, wondering what was bothering him.

“Nothing,” he muttered. Then he uncrossed his arms and started to shift away from the counter, only to stop. Shoving his hands deep into the front pockets of his jeans, he suddenly asked, “Can you use it on me?”

Michaela blinked at him in confusion. “Use it? Use what?”

He jerked his chin at her, his dark eyes narrowed and heavy-lidded. “That witchy thing that you do.”

“Witchy thing?” she repeated, trying to stifle a laugh when she realized he was deadly serious. “I can assure you, Brody, that I’m not a witch.”

“I want to know, Doucet.”

“Know what?” she pressed, finding some perverse pleasure in pushing his buttons. And he was still calling her Doucet, which just made her feel ornery.

He stepped closer, invading her personal space, and the moonlight spilling in through the open kitchen window played across his face, revealing the stark angles and hollows. His nostrils flared, as if he were breathing in her scent, and she realized that from this close, she could see his scars in vivid detail as they cut over his face, slashing from his left eyebrow, across the bridge of his nose, down to his opposite jaw. Her fingers itched to reach out and stroke them, wishing she could wipe away the deep-seated pain that lingered in his eyes. He tried to hide so much behind his angry scowls, but she saw through them. The liquid depths of his bottle-green eyes were like a window into his soul, beautiful…and yet, so filled with hurt, as scarred within as he was without.

“Just ask me, Brody,” she whispered softly, trying to tell him with her gaze that he could trust her. “I promise I’ll be honest with you.”

Something wild and hot and primitive flared in those mysterious green depths, lost as quickly as it appeared beneath the lowering of his lashes—and in a husky, silken slide of words, he said, “I want to know if you can you read me.”


Chapter 4

They made the drive down to the city in relative silence, the radio delivering a quiet string of blues, the sensual tenor of an alto sax keeping rhythm with the steady beat of the tires upon the road. The second Brody had cranked the powerful V-8 engine, a quiet, exhausted lassitude had poured through her like warm, rich honey. Even now, it melted Michaela into the seat of the truck, while Brody’s scent filled her head, surrounding her in the smooth, intimate darkness.

She took a deep breath, and savored it. God, he smelled good. Not pretty or flowery, but like a man. His scent was as crisp and rich as the outdoors, as the forest itself. Woodsy with traces of musk and salt. Completely delicious.

Sitting there beside him in the midnight dark, Michaela was uncomfortably aware that she’d never known a man whom she found more attractive, more compelling. The more time she spent with him, the more she felt inexplicably drawn to the quiet Runner, as if she wanted to wrap her arms around those broad shoulders and simply hold on to him. Comfort him, easing the hard tension she didn’t need mystical powers to feel pouring off him in waves. And take comfort from him in return, drawing on his strength until she didn’t feel so hollow inside, so broken and barren and wrecked. If he’d only show her a little warmth, she knew she’d be in serious danger of letting her emotions get the better of her. But he remained as cold and remote as ever.

And the fact you’re upset about it proves that you’relosing your mind.

She scowled at her know-it-all conscience and turned to stare back out her own window. Beyond the cozy confines of the truck, a light drizzle began to fall, adding to the strange feeling of intimacy. When his deep, whispery baritone intruded into the soft monotony of sound, she jumped, startled.

“Sorry. I didn’t mean to spook you,” he murmured, sliding her an uneasy look, as if he expected her to cringe away from him in terror, now that they were alone.

She gave him a small, self-conscious grin and tucked a curl behind her ear. “You didn’t. I guess I’m just jumpy…still on edge after everything that’s happened. I was so lost in my thoughts I didn’t hear what you said.”

He made a subtle gesture with his shoulders that did something wonderfully wicked to those hard muscles beneath the clinging cotton of his shirt. “I just wondered how you got that little gift of yours. The one you said doesn’t work on me.”

Her grin bled into a soft burst of laughter that she tried to hide under her breath, half watching her fingers play in the folds of her skirt while soaking up as much of him as she could from the corner of her eye. Sorting through her explanation in her head, she decided to start at the beginning. “My maternal grandmother, who lived in the bayou, was a gifted seer, and I guess I was lucky enough to have some of her powers make their way to me, though I’m nowhere near as strong as she was. I have a really good sixth sense about things, and sometimes I’m able to read people.”

“Read them how?” he asked, sounding curious.

“I’m not quite sure how to explain.” She shrugged, nervous under the force of his attention, even as he kept his hands and eyes on the road. But he was focused on her, every part of him. She knew it, felt it, and it was a heady, breathtaking sensation that made her want to scoot closer to him. He looked so strong and solid sitting beside her, so invincible and tough. It made her want to just crawl inside of him and pull him around her like a fortress, like the most amazing security blanket she could ever find.

Blinking in surprise, Michaela winced, startled by the discomfiting thought. She wasn’t the kind of woman who went looking for a man to take care of her or to hide behind. She was a woman who prided herself on her independence and sensibility, but then, the last few weeks had been anything but normal.

Maybe you’re due for a little comforting.

Another dangerous thought, that, and she shook it off, pulling her mind back to her explanation. “Sometimes, if a person is experiencing powerful emotions, I can sense them. It’s like being able to see into their heart. I can’t read their minds like my grandmère could, but I can…I can read their will, I guess.”

“But not everyone’s?” he asked, rubbing one hand against the scratchy surface of his jaw.



“No. Only some people. If a person wants to hide their feelings strongly enough, it’s hard for me to pick up anything. And at times, the harder I want to see, the more difficult it is for me. Some are like a wall—others easier. Mason’s feelings for Torrance are so strong, I had no problem picking up on them the first time I met him. But sometimes, the closer I am to a situation, the harder it is to see anything. It’s almost as if my interest crowds the power.”

He slanted her another quick, questioning look, then turned his attention back to the road. “You said you can’t read me at all, but what about Cian?”

She rolled her eyes at his boyishly hopeful tone, snickering softly. “If I could, I wouldn’t tell you. It wouldn’t be fair, because you’d just use whatever I said to torment the poor guy.”

A crooked grin played briefly at his mouth, making him look entirely too sexy. “Picked up on that, did you?”

“It’s uh, kinda hard to miss. You two go at each other like brothers. It’s ruthless.”

“The bastard likes to push my buttons,” he sighed with good-natured humor, the light sound warming her heart. It was surprising to see him like this, the corners of his eyes crinkled with laugh lines and a small smile playing at his beautiful mouth. Michaela didn’t know what had brought it on, but she enjoyed the effect. An easygoing Brody was even more devastating than a brooding one, and she shivered with awareness, crossing her arms over the painful thudding of her heart.

Mistaking her reaction for cold, he reached out with his right hand to adjust the vents, making sure the warm air was blowing in her direction. A strange, electrified silence settled between them, and though she was staring at her lap, Michaela could feel the press of his eyes on her as he cast another look in her direction, this one lingering, briefly, on her profile, her mouth. Her lips tingled, and she rolled them inward as his left hand tightened on the steering wheel. The silence grew, thickening like a roux set over the simmering heat of a pan—and she watched the softened lines of his expression slowly slip away, replaced by his customary brooding darkness.

“So you own and run your own business,” he finally said in a low, gravelly voice.

Whoa. As quickly as that shivering sense of awareness had come, it disappeared, like a rainbow bleeding back into the misty, rain-dappled beauty of the sky. And it wasn’t the words themselves that chilled her. No, Michaela could tell from the sudden change in his tone that there was something behind the innocuous statement, and her stomach clenched with all-too-familiar disappointment. “And?” she murmured, silently berating herself for being such a nitwit, knowing her reaction was foolish. With everything going on in her life, she didn’t have time to be sensitive over the moody Runner’s opinions, but damn if she wasn’t. For some stupid reason, she’d wanted him to be…different. To see her in a way that others didn’t.

He shrugged his shoulders at her sharp tone. “Nothing.”

Oh no. She wasn’t letting him off the hook that easy. “Uh-huh. You brought it up, so you might as well go ahead and spit it out, Brody.”

And she had a good idea of what it would be, aware of how most people pegged her as an eccentric basket case, walking around with her head in the clouds, once they learned that she owned a paranormal specialty shop. But the truth was that she had a good head for business and had simply chosen a market that she found fascinating as well as financially promising. She had her feet planted firmly on the ground, even if her mind was open to the world beyond what most humans considered normal.

“You just don’t look like the business type.” The look he cut her way said so much more than his words, and heat rose in her face that had nothing to do with the hot air gusting toward her. Oh yeah, she didn’t need to read minds to know what “type” he thought she was. Her entire life, her looks had never given her anything but trouble, affecting how people treated her, judged her, thinking she was nothing but a pretty face with fluff for brains. Thinking she was good for some fun, but nothing serious. Her last boyfriend, Ross Holland, had enjoyed her body, but when it came to his blue-blooded public image and budding political aspirations, he hadn’t wanted a woman whose sensuality was so blatant—so “in your face” as he’d put it. In Ross’s eyes, her business had only been another strike against her.

She didn’t want to admit it, but it hurt to realize that Brody apparently looked at her in the same, narrow-minded light. “Believe it or not, I don’t sleep to dream, Brody. You shouldn’t make assumptions about me based on physical appearances or what I do for a living.”

“Sleep to dream?” he repeated, his brow furrowed over the deep green of his eyes. “What does that mean?”

Michaela struggled to keep her voice even. “It means that I don’t have my head stuck in the clouds, worrying about when my next pedicure’s gonna be and who’ll buy me dinner on Friday night. When I sleep, I sleep hard because I work hard. I don’t live in a fantasy world, playing dress up. My business takes up all of my time and I’ve worked my backside off to make it successful.”

“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 possessiveat 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 screwingwith 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.




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