Wolf Hunter. Linda Thomas-Sundstrom
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a bartender by night.
All for the best.
When she got back to the office, she’d report the bad guys like she was supposed to do and pray that this big, beautiful Were would take his moonlight shift someplace else. She’d be convincing. She would get over this, and forget about him. The grazed leg she’d keep to herself.
Without a hint of warning, her companion slammed to a halt. He spun her around to face him and said soberly, “Go. Now. Don’t look back.”
“I can...”
“Now.” It was a command. “You do know your way? You weren’t lost?”
“I know where I am.” Abby barely got that out before again feeling his breath on her face. Her eyes closed as his mouth met hers almost angrily, and in the manner of someone who might never get enough of what he’d found. His tongue swept over her teeth, and across her lips. She kissed him back.
Lord help her, this wasn’t over. Can’t be over.
The kiss lasted only seconds before he tore himself away. Letting go of her hand, he gave her a shove.
“Go,” he reiterated. Whirling from her, he began walking, not away from the creeps following at a distance, but toward them, with his head lifted and his long stride purposeful.
The sheer weight of his larger-than-life presence filled the night as Abby watched him go. Her heart did not stop its infernal pounding.
Sensing her hesitation, he stopped only once to glance back. Across a span of withered grass their gazes met. He didn’t acknowledge a similar reaction to the one that had her reeling, or let on that he felt the same. Blood striped his shirt. Her fingernails had put some of it there. Her injury had done the rest.
Mirroring the twitch that set his shoulders, Abby finally spun around. Without reaching for her phone or making the call that might have sent the team scrambling, and maybe even helped this one lone wolf in the short run, she sprinted for the road.
She’d take no chances. This big Were was nothing she’d be willing to share. He’d be her secret. Her very private secret, added to so many others.
On the plus side, she might have been a fool tonight, but at least she wasn’t going to be a dead one.
The TTD motto served her well here.
Live to fight another day.
Cameron felt himself distancing from normal human perceptions of his surroundings, as though his humanness danced on a last remaining thread of control.
Angling his neck, he heard a crack. Then another. But this wasn’t a night for the beast to exert itself to a full extent—at least, as far as he knew. So whoever was out here would be in the same boat, minus the badge tucked inside his pants pocket.
As if he had wished them into existence, the miscreants came around a corner in single file, which would have presented him with an opportunity to gain something of an upper hand in a fight, if it weren’t for the fact that they had moved too close to a busy street for a fight to go undetected.
“Are you boys heading in the wrong direction?” he called out.
“What direction would that be?” the shaven-headed guy in front responded.
“Oh, I don’t know. Toward trouble, maybe?”
They didn’t laugh. Halting a couple yards away and meeting shoulder to shoulder in a united front, as animals in the wild sometimes did when eyeing a potential meal, they studied him impersonally with flat black gazes. The odor of wolf gone bad hung heavily in the air.
Cameron held up his hands and kept his voice light. “Just doing my job. Keeping the streets safe.”
The tallest of the gang, wearing a torn white T-shirt and baggy pants, took the initiative. “Why don’t you do your job someplace else?”
Cameron shook his head. “No can do. This is my beat.”
“You’re a cop?”
Cameron shrugged.
“A filthy badge-carrying pig?” The speaker turned to his companions. “I thought I heard him squeal.”
The other three gangbangers chuckled on cue, cut off when the lead dog spoke again. “Or was it the girl that squealed?”
Cameron’s hands opened and closed, readying for a skirmish. “What girl would that be?”
“The one you let get away. The naked one.”
“Well,” Cameron said, “I’m wondering what that has to do with you.”
“That bitch needs riding. She’s been broken in.”
Cameron squeezed his hands tighter, sure he felt one claw spring through his fingertip, though that couldn’t be right.
“Go home, boys,” he said. “There’s plenty of help here on the street if I whistle, and I’m sure you have better things to do than wait for what will happen.”
“We’ll make a deal,” the leader of the unholy pack said. “You stay away from this park, and we’ll let you off with a warning this time.”
“Why? Are you hiding something out there?” Cameron asked.
“That’s none of your business. You might be a cop, but we know what else you are. We can spread the word.”
“Really? What am I?”
“A freak,” the guy said. “And all alone out here most of the time.”
Cameron nodded. “Does that make us cousins? Should I feel warm and fuzzy?”
“What you should feel is scared.”
“Scared of you?”
“Us, and others like us who can be your worst nightmare.”
“Sorry,” Cameron said honestly. “My worst nightmare has already come and gone.”
He realized someone was approaching from the street behind him before he had finished the statement. An authoritative voice rang out. “Is there trouble here?”
Recognizing the voice, Cameron called back, “Davidson, is that you?”
“Mitchell? Yeah, it’s me. Stegman is in the cruiser. Do we need to call him?”
Cameron eyed the pack of animals that looked at the moment like any Miami southside street gang with too much attitude. He smiled. “So, what will it be, boys? A truce, for tonight?”
“That would be a shame,” the tall guy replied. “Because I really feel like fighting, and the odds are in our favor.”
“The odds, I think, will be slim, since cops also carry guns.”
The big dog waved the suggestion away. “It just so happens that we eat guns for breakfast.”
Cameron nodded. “We’ll do some damage, though. I’m sure your pals here will agree that you might want to take your games elsewhere.”
“We don’t play games,” the lead dog snapped.
“Then maybe you should consider it,” Cameron warned, though it became obvious by the way the gang advanced, and the way they simultaneously reached for whatever they had tucked into their waistbands, that the damn hybrid idiots weren’t going to take his advice.
Davidson, a veteran cop and as smart as cops came, trotted around the corner. The poor guy had no idea what was in store, or that Miami could actually produce something worse than a street gang claiming public territory for their own.
If Cameron’s claws weren’t aching to spring a full night ahead of time, he might have been