Last Wolf Standing. Rhyannon Byrd
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of all, dragging her daughter off to every horror movie that hit the theaters…always rambling on about mankind’s inability to accept the existence of something more powerful than themselves.
As she became older, Torrance began to realize that her mother had looked to the paranormal as a means of escaping the disappointing realities of life. And in the process, she’d raised her daughter on an unusual diet for a child—one that consisted of vampires and werewolves and witches. But instead of Michaela’s healthy understanding of the paranormal culture, Torrance had only known the horror, the Hollywood sensationalism. She had learned to fear early on, and though she’d come to understand so much with Mic’s help…there were still some issues she just couldn’t shake, no matter how hard she tried.
Her nightmares were one of them.
You should have listened to your dreams. They were telling you the truth, Torrance…warning you…just like Mom told you they were.
All those years spent thinking the poor woman was insane… and she’d been right all along. But Torrance had never allowed herself to believe…and now, on the verge of death, she didn’t have any other choice.
Mason cast another hard look at the slip of paper, reading the printed name for the hundredth time.
Torrance Watson.
He ran his thumb over the letters, once…twice, then slipped the wrinkled pay stub back into the pocket of his flannel shirt, sounding out the individual syllables beneath his breath. Torrance. An unusual name, but then, she was clearly an unusual woman. The kind of woman who could turn a guy’s world upside down. Who could destroy him.
If you were smart, you’d get your ass out of here and forget you ever saw her.
True, and considering he wasn’t moving, Mason could only assume he wasn’t nearly as clever as he’d thought. Either that or he was thinking with the wrong head.
He slumped in the driver’s seat of his Tahoe, a cigarette pinched between his thumb and forefinger of the hand hanging out his open window, and turned his attention back to the quaint Victorian that had been renovated into apartments. After Torrance had run out on him at the restaurant, he’d sent Jeremy to get the SUV and followed her on foot to her work, using that mouthwatering scent to track her, then again as she headed home. Once there, he’d called Jeremy on his cell and told him where to find him. Now they sat in the cab of the Tahoe, parked on her street, watching for any sign of Simmons, while Mason struggled to figure out what the hell to do next.
He didn’t know what he’d been thinking, acting the way he had when he found her. But he’d been blindsided by too much…everything. Emotion. Hunger. Possessiveness. The gut-twisting need to keep her safe—and the knowledge that Simmons would come after her if he could. All of which had led to him acting like a cross between a mad stalker and a complete asshole. No wonder she’d run from him. That he could understand.
What he couldn’t get his head around was why he was here.
If it were simply a matter of safety, Mason knew he could have called in Pallaton and Reyes, another Bloodrunning team, and put them on her for protection. But he hadn’t done that. Instead, here he was, playing watchdog for a woman who should have had him running scared for the simple fact that he didn’t want her.
Yeah, you just keep telling yourself that, jackass…and maybe you’ll start believing it.
Muttering a foul, four-letter word, Mason slammed the heel of his hand against the steering wheel, hating it. All of it. What kind of sick joke was nature playing on his ass? Anyone who knew him knew the last thing he wanted was a mate. Especially a small, fragile human one. Jesus.
He’d been reminding himself of that fact for the past five minutes…and yet he couldn’t let it go. Couldn’t let her go. Couldn’t make himself turn the bloody key and drive away, while he still had the chance. The past didn’t seem to matter. Not the lessons he’d learned or the vows he’d made to never end up in Dean’s shoes. Within moments of finding her, the past eight years were obliterated, wiped clean, and Mason found himself as pathetically hooked as the rest of them.
Shit. He scrubbed one hand down his face, then took another long drag on the cigarette while a sharp crack of lightning lit the sky, dark waves of clouds rolling in, smothering out the pale streams of sunlight that had briefly broken through the damp, depressing grayness of the day.
Beside him, Jeremy crossed his arms and let out a loud, jaw-cracking yawn. “What about lunch?” the blond asked. “We still haven’t eaten and I’m starving, man.”
Mason stared at the apartment building, quietly cursing the thunder that made it impossible to hear—even with his heightened abilities. And if the rain got heavier, it would ruin his ability to track her scent when she left. “You can take off and grab some fast food,” he murmured. “There’s got to be something around here within walking distance.”
“Great,” Jeremy grunted. “Do you know how much fat that stuff contains?”
“We burn more calories than we can ever worry about, so what the hell do you care?”
“It’s my arteries I’m thinking about,” his partner grumbled. “And what about Simmons? We are still on the hunt, man, which means we’re supposed to be tracking his sadistic ass down.”
Like he needed reminding. They’d been hunting the bastard ever since they found the mutilated body of a young prostitute a few weeks ago, dumped on pack land. Anthony Simmons’s foul scent had been all over the victim, and he and Jeremy had been assigned the Bloodrun to kill the Silvercrest werewolf.
Now it was a race against the clock to catch him and eliminate the threat, before Simmons chose yet another victim. The thought twisted his insides. Mason had no doubt the rogue would exploit any vulnerability he could find and use it to strike back at the ones hunting him. His kind always did. And if he’d been watching them today, and witnessed his reaction to Torrance, he now had the perfect opportunity.
Mason couldn’t let that happen. To make sure Simmons didn’t get near her, he and Jeremy would keep an eye on things here, while Pallaton and Reyes watched the shop where she worked.
“We’ll find Simmons,” Mason rasped, grinding out his cigarette in the ashtray. “But this takes precedence right now. We have to make sure she stays safe.”
Jeremy let his head fall back against the headrest, his hands crossed over his stomach, fingers drumming repetitively against his abs. “You do realize you’ve probably landed her right in the middle of a Bloodrun, don’t you?”
“If he touches her,” Mason grunted, his voice rough as he lit up a new smoke and took a deep drag, then slowly exhaled, “he dies. He knows that.”
“That’s why he’s got nothing to lose, Mase. His death sentence has already been signed. His last breath may come tonight or a month from now, but one thing Simmons understands with crystal clarity is that he’s already dead. Considering how much he hates you he may think it’s worth it, just to screw with your mind.”
“If he wants her, he’s going to have to get through us first.”
“So then we’re like a coupla white knights, eh?” Jeremy drawled, snuffling a soft laugh under his breath. “Willing to risk our lives to slay the dragons in order to protect a damsel in distress? It’s the stuff of legends, Mason, my boy.” The irreverent blond shot him a smart-ass grin. “We should be knighted or made saints or whatever the hell they do for selfless heroes.”
Heroes? Not likely. And he sure as hell wasn’t a saint.
With a heavy sigh, Mason hunched his shoulders, cast a cautious glance up at the flickering sky…and waited for the lightning to strike.
Another loud, jarring crack of thunder sounded in the distance, lashing against the oppressive silence of the afternoon, heralding the next storm as the now-muggy air became charged with static.