Last Wolf Watching Page 11
Her heart broke into a thousand pieces, tears coursing down her cheeks as she cried for all the suffering he’d endured, both physical and emotional, until suddenly she was jerked back to awareness. Gasping, she found Brody gripping her upper arms, shaking her, his voice urgent and hard. “Goddamn it, Doucet. Snap out of it!”
“I’m here,” she croaked, blinking against the salty wash of tears in her eyes. “I’m back.”
“Back from where? What the hell was that?”
She shook her head, trying to get her thoughts in order, her tongue heavy in her mouth, throat dry. “I don’t know. It…it just happened…”
“What?” he demanded. “What happened?”
“I saw you, when you were little,” she whispered, struggling to explain, her words choked with tears. “That night…when they cut you. I saw it, all of it.”
His brow lowered over the unearthly green of his eyes. “I thought you told me you couldn’t read me,” he growled in a soft, chilling rasp.
“I can’t. This…this was different. I don’t know why it happened. I’m sorry, I…I didn’t mean to do it, Brody.”
She reached for him, but he lurched away from her, until his back came up against the bathroom wall with a dull thud, and Michaela finally noticed the…difference in him. His eyes burned, glowing even brighter than before, as if lit with a blazing fire from within. Wolf’s eyes. And through his parted lips she could see the glistening tips of fully elongated canines—fangs—shiny and white. Her breath caught, but amazingly not with fear. She remembered thinking he was going to bite her while her climax had roared through her, remembered wanting it, before he’d started trying to pull away from her. Clearly, a part of him had been fighting the urge to take that bite, fighting to get away, but she’d held on to him, unable to let go.
Chewing on her lower lip, Michaela tried to sort out what had happened. Why had he panicked? Had he been afraid of hurting her? Terrifying her? Or was it something else? She knew, from what Torrance had told her, that a bite between mates led to a powerful bond, but she had no reason to believe she was Brody’s life mate. An upsetting thought, that, but one that she refused to dwell on. Was he afraid, then, of changing her? Somehow, the moment had felt too sensual for such a grave outcome—and yet, hadn’t her brother been changed by a bite?
Then there was the strange vision of his past. Was it because of her powerful feelings for Brody that she’d been able to steal that little glimpse into his mind? The gift of sight had been her grandmère’s, but never had Michaela experienced anything even close to what had happened. She’d had feelings, echoes of emotion—but this had been so sharp and clear. She’d been able to smell the blood and the sweat, to hear the low growls of the pack and Brody’s broken whimpers.
She took a deep, shuddering breath, and noticed his gaze dropping to her chest, eyes darkening as he stared. Glancing down, her face flamed as she suddenly realized what had snagged his attention. With an embarrassed gasp, Michaela jerked her dress closed in front, covering her breast, and smoothed her skirt over her knees, horrified that she’d been sitting there so exposed while he was angry at her. “I really am sorry, Brody. Should I…do you want me to pack up now?”
His gaze lifted, and in an emotionless monotone, he rasped, “No. I’ll be on watch downstairs. Get to bed and rest. We’ll head out first thing in the morning.”
He didn’t wait for her response or bother to explain why he no longer wanted to leave that night. He just turned and headed off into the darkness of the hallway, leaving her alone to sort out the tangled mess of her thoughts. Sliding off the counter, Michaela decided to take a long, steamy shower while she struggled to make sense of everything, of her own feelings. Locking the bathroom door, she slipped out of her wrinkled dress, while admitting to herself that she was still wary of her emotional connection to the brooding Runner, terrified of getting used again, the way she’d been used by Ross—and yet, didn’t his actions speak for themselves? If Brody had only wanted her for sex, like Ross had, he’d just given up the perfect opportunity. Why? What was holding him back?
Yet another question she didn’t have the answer to, but one thing became strikingly clear to her, the harder she thought about it. Stepping beneath the stinging spray of hot water, her legs still shaking from the force of her orgasm, she accepted that there was more between them than breathtaking hunger, more than the feral burn of lust.
Michaela just had to decide if she was woman enough to go after it—or if she was going to allow fear of another broken heart control her, keeping her back from the thing she wanted most. Not just the man, as wonderful and breathtaking as he was.
No, if she found the courage to fling herself at his feet and open her soul, taking the risk of putting her faith and trust in him, she wasn’t doing it for anything less than the ultimate prize. Because as badly as she wanted his hunger and passion, his laughter and his smiles, the thing that she wanted most from Brody Carter was the part of himself she knew he was going to fight the hardest to protect.
If she found the courage to go for it, she wasn’t accepting anything less than his heart.
* * *
They made good time the following morning as they headed west, back to the mountains, back to the Runners’ private sanctuary known as the Alley.
Resting her head against the comfortable seat of the Ford, Michaela closed her eyes and thought back to the moment when she’d first awakened to the bright glare of morning sunlight sneaking through the slanted blinds in her spare bedroom. For a breathless moment, she’d stared at the sun-dappled shadows on the ceiling, the piercing, poignant sweetness of her dream still lingering like a warm wave of pleasure in her veins.
She’d closed her eyes then, as well, savoring the remnants of the dream, clutching at the details with greedy mental fingers. After her shower the night before, she’d crawled into one of the twin beds in the empty spare room, determined she wouldn’t sleep while she worried over Max and waited for Brody to come to bed, only to find herself succumbing to a deep, heavy exhaustion.
And she’d dreamed. Dreamed of sitting on a quilt in a bright summer meadow, the fresh scents of the nearby forest and flowers dancing on the air, while fluffy, sun-kissed clouds rolled through the deep azure blue of the sky. A quiet rumble of laughter at her side drew her attention, and she’d turned to see Brody sitting beside her on the patchwork quilt, holding a dark-haired baby girl who had the Runner’s beautiful bottle-green eyes. He chuckled as he played with the toddler, laughing and cuddling with her, his green eyes shining with happiness while the sun dazzled off the rich luster of his auburn hair pulled back in a short ponytail at his nape. He’d lifted his head, sending Michaela a heavy look of desire, his white teeth flashing in a bright, sexy smile within the golden beauty of his face. She’d smiled back at him, sharing a powerful connection that had all but skittered with sparks, heavy and potent and sizzling—and then the little girl had grabbed his face with her preciously chubby hands, demanding his attention. He’d laughed as he tickled the child, the joy of father and daughter so powerful and sweet it had made her chest ache.
Lying in the narrow bed, she’d pressed her hand against the sharp, burning glow of happiness in her heart, wanting to hold on to it, keep it—accepting, in that moment, that if it weren’t for her fear of getting hurt, she’d be willing to do whatever it would take to make that breathtaking dream a reality.
Now, as she opened her eyes and watched the Runner from the corner of her vision, his profile so rugged and strong as he steered them down the highway, she wondered just how powerful a hold this man could have on her. She’d spent so long being wary, building her walls, her defenses, but with Brody, none of that seemed to matter. He was like a force of nature battering them down, smashing her resistance without even trying.
How could she resist him when she wanted nothing more than to be close to him, to break through his own defenses and breach his heart? To prove to him that if he could find a way to care for her, e
ven a little, and be true to her, she’d do everything in her power to make him happy, to give him joy. To take him into her life, her heart and her very soul.
In the grand scheme of things, she hadn’t known him long—just a flash of time over the minutes and seconds of her life—and yet, she knew him more deeply than she’d ever known any other man. Knew his fears, his demons, his strength and courage, his selflessness and temper. Knew he was fierce and loyal, savagely sexual, and yet, tenderly caring.
He tried to act so tough, but he couldn’t fool her. As angry as he’d been with her last night, when she’d pulled herself from bed that morning and headed toward her bedroom to dress and pack what few things she’d hoped to find still in one piece, she’d been stunned to discover her room cleaned. It must have taken him all night, and yet, he’d picked up all of her clothes, her bedding, restoring the destroyed room as much as possible. Her bras and panties sat at the foot of her bed, and she’d blushed at the thought of him handling her lingerie, both touched and bemused that he would go to all that effort. Even her clothes had been awkwardly folded and placed on top of her dresser, the mental image of his big hands trying to handle the feminine articles bringing a smile to her lips.
When she’d come downstairs and told him thank you, he’d rolled his shoulder in embarrassment and asked if they could get on the road.
While they traveled down the highway, Michaela watched as he covered a yawn with his hand and wondered how much sleep he’d actually gotten, if any. He’d been quiet during the drive, but then she knew he usually was, never one for idle conversation. She couldn’t help but wonder, though, if he was still upset with her for the scene in the bathroom.
Deciding she’d had enough of being timid, she cleared her throat and simply asked, “Are you still mad at me?”
He stiffened at the sound of her voice, then slowly relaxed, his long fingers flexing around the top of the steering wheel. “I’m not mad at you, Doucet.”
“Then why am I getting the silent treatment?”
He flushed, slanting her a quick look. “Sorry. I’ve just been running over everything in my head.”
“Oh. You mean the investigation?”
“Yeah,” he rumbled, his worry and fatigue evident in that single word.
Michaela could understand why he was so preoccupied. She wasn’t even a Runner, and it was never far from her mind, the worry over what Stefan Drake and his rogues were planning. “What do you think Drake hopes to accomplish?”
Sighing, he scratched the ginger bristle darkening the hard line of his jaw. “Hell if I know.”
Pulling her hair over one shoulder, she shifted in her seat until she was facing him, bending one leg beneath her. “When Jeremy and Jillian told us what things were like up in Shadow Peak, I couldn’t believe that so many of the Silvercrest could be following Drake, believing his racist propaganda and accusations that you guys are lying about the rogues. Why can’t they see what he’s doing, the way he’s manipulating them? Why are they so afraid to believe the Runners?”
“Because it’s easier to buy his lies than it is to think for themselves,” he replied, his deep voice heavy with frustration.
“That’s the downside of living in a society entrenched in such steep traditions. They’ve forgotten how to question the authority of those who tell them what to do, what to think. They believe themselves so powerful, and yet, they’ve lost their backbone, their free will, following the League like cattle, while Drake seems to control more and more of the League.”
“Considering the way they treat you guys,” she murmured,
“why do you risk your lives by Running for them?”
He pulled back his shoulders, the corner of his mouth twisting in a wry smile. “I wish I had some clever answer, but the truth is that we Bloodrun because it has to be done. I can’t stand the backward-ass Lycans who’d rather spit on a human than shake one’s hand, but their blood still flows in my veins. In all of our veins. As Bloodrunners, we’re sworn to protect them. To see them destroyed is to see a part of ourselves destroyed—and with each rogue kill, not only does an innocent human die, but the risk of discovery and exposure of the entire Lycan community becomes extreme.”
“It’s very honorable, what you and the others do,” Michaela told him in a soft voice, unsurprised that he ignored the praise, knowing he’d be uncomfortable. Taking pity on him, she went back to the subject of Drake. “I was there for the meeting you guys had the day after Jillian had been attacked by Elise. I heard Mason tell you and the others about the Legend of Azakiel. Do you believe it?”
“That Drake used one of the other Elders to pull his daughter’s wolf from her body? I don’t know,” he admitted, shrugging his powerful shoulders. “It sounds crazy, but it happened. And not just to Elise, but to the other Lycans who were in front of Jillian’s house that day. No one has any other explanation, so maybe it’s true. I’ve known weirder things to happen.”
According to the legend, there was once an ancient Elder named Azakiel who seized control of a European pack after mastering the dark art of ripping forth another’s wolf against their will. Mason’s father and Graham, the Lead Silvercrest Elder, found the reference in one of the League’s archaic texts, which told of how two Elders could combine forces and together produce enough power to wrench the wolf from an unsuspecting Lycan, be it night or day. As if the violation wasn’t bad enough, the wolf, once drawn, was feral, angry and violent, its actions completely controlled by the ones who’d pulled it. The entire idea was horrific, and Michaela had shivered with fear as she’d listened to Jeremy recount the attack on Jillian’s life a little over a week ago. It was a miracle she’d survived, and though they still didn’t know which Elder Drake had used as his accomplice, at least they’d been able to finally confirm their suspicions that Drake was the traitor they’d been after all along.
“But what’s he hope to gain by using this ‘dark art’ as they called it? I know you believe he’s still recruiting rogues who’ve been taught to dayshift. Why does he need to be able to pull the beasts from his own people if he already has a loyal following of rogue werewolves?”
“We have some ideas, but nothing solid. Once we had time to step back and think about it, we realized the attack on Jillian was probably a practice run,” he explained in a low rumble, his dark eyes narrowed on the road. “We figure Drake wanted to see if it would really work. He got Jeremy out of town, then made sure Elise overheard his conversation with Cooper Sheffield that day, knowing she’d go straight to Jillian. That’s why he needed Jeremy gone, so that no one could stop him when he put his plan into action. But Jillian’s little sister, Sayre, spoiled his plans when she had some kind of…whatever the hell you call it.”
“A premonition,” she supplied.
“Is that what you have?” he asked, pushing a strand of auburn hair back from his face. “Premonitions?”
“Me? No,” she told him with a smile. “Although my Gran had visions. Flashes of the future or of…the…past…”
As her words trailed off, silence settled for a moment, heavy and thick with unspoken thoughts. “I’m curious,” he finally murmured. “Now that you’ve had time to think about it, do you know what happened last night?”
Here it is. Decision time, Doucet.
Michaela knew she could admit what she suspected to be true, or tell him nothing. Honesty could keep him from ever touching her again, but she couldn’t lie to him, even by omission. Staring at her hands folded in her lap, she swallowed the heavy lump of emotion in her throat and struggled to put her thoughts into words. “I told you that sometimes my interest in a person can crowd my power,” she said huskily. “I think that’s why I can’t read your feelings—but when you’re touching me…I don’t know. It was like a meltdown. No shields, no barriers. I still couldn’t read your feelings in the present, but the image, the scene from the past, just blasted me. I couldn’t stop it from happening, but I didn’t mean to invade your privacy that way.”
Michaela could tell from his expression that it wasn’t good news. He listened to his partner, then grunted, “We’re already on our way up, so we can meet you there.”
“What’s wrong?” she asked the instant he disconnected the call.
He slanted her a dark look, his fury and frustration evident in the rigid set of his features, the brackets lining his mouth deeper than before, the sensual curve of his lips compressed in a hard line. “I hate to do this to you, Doucet, but we’ve gotta take a little detour.”
“Why? What’s happened?”
“There’s been another killing,” he rasped. “Cian’s with the body now.”
Chapter 8
The knowledge that another kill had been made pounded through Brody’s brain with the brutal force of a hammer, stabbing behind his eyes like a migraine. Squinting against the sharp flare of pain, he stared out at the road ahead of them through a red-tinged haze of fury. He was filled with anger and bitter frustration, as well as a gnawing sense of failure. Despite their efforts, they hadn’t managed to stop the son of a bitch who had been ritualistically killing young blondes for weeks now, before another innocent human victim lost her life.