exclusive buildings. Taran could see clear to Sugar Land from the living room’s two picture windows.
He took a small phone book and some photos he found on the fridge and her bathroom mirror—a few pictures of Eloise and girlfriends, more of Eloise and different wolves. He’d ask Lark if she recognized anyone. Forensics would send someone to get Eloise’s computer. Now that they had a warrant for her stuff, they’d apply for the other three women and see if any names, numbers or emails popped up more than once. When someone showed up to dust for fingerprints, he left.
Something still nagged at him from last night, apart from the lingering horror of nearly losing Lark. If the wolves had thought Lark enough of a threat to try to take her, would they just walk away now? Might they consider her a loose end? They could easily learn her identity; Eloise may have told them.
He couldn’t ask the department for help. He was weaving this case together with gossamer threads to begin with, and concerns for Lark’s safety wouldn’t merit police protection.
He’d been awake for thirty-six hours; he figured he could go another twenty-four before he dropped. He almost called Denardo to tell him he was headed back to Lark’s Museum District apartment, but didn’t. No one but Nick needed to know about his feelings. He got to her apartment around six.
The older complex sat on a cul-de-sac, tucked away among million dollar homes and swank boutiques and restaurants. It backed up to a tall wooden fence. On the other side of the fence, traffic roared down Bissonnet Street day and night. Bad guys paying Lark a visit would likely do it from the cul-de-sac.
Taran couldn’t say for sure they’d try to come after her; he thought he might be using that as an excuse to sit outside her apartment and whine with frustrated longing, but he decided to delay introspection for a while.
The complex didn’t have guest parking on the grounds. He parked a block down the street. From here, he could see the walkway leading to Lark’s unit four doors down from the front of the building. He put the top up for privacy; in this neighborhood, a Mercedes convertible wouldn’t attract attention.
A car purred into the cul de sac around nine—another Mercedes, a blue SL-Class Coupe worth three times as much as Taran’s Cabriolet. It passed him and pulled up directly in front of the complex. Four footed, the hair on his back would’ve stiffened; on two feet, his neck itched, his nostrils flared and his cop sense screamed for attention.
Two wolves got out—a tall, slender alpha with brown hair and a shorter, stockier, red headed beta, both dressed in jeans and black T-shirts. Taran got out of his car. They stopped and turned to look at him.
The three of them stood like that for perhaps five seconds before Taran threw himself at the alpha, who ran to intercept him while the beta sprinted for the apartment building. He had seconds before the beta got to Lark. Even exhausted and with nerves shot to hell, an alpha wolf with a mate in imminent danger could summon vast reserves of fighting strength.
The alpha ducked Taran’s first punch. When he threw his own, Taran caught the fist in his hand and twisted, snapping the wrist. The alpha howled and stepped back before spinning to level a roundhouse kick that caught Taran on the side. Taran grabbed the leg before the alpha retracted it. He jerked, sending the other wolf crashing to the ground on his back. The alpha kicked. Taran jumped out of the way, landing beside the other wolf’s head, which he kicked with his steel-toed cowboy boots. He heard a satisfying crunching sound, and the alpha stopped moving—not dead, but not going anywhere, either.
Taran raced for Lark’s apartment.
He grinned with malicious glee as the beta attempted to kick the door down. That fucker was solid; he and Myall had made sure of it.
The beta didn’t try to run, but just kicked the door harder. He stank of meth and
He took a small phone book and some photos he found on the fridge and her bathroom mirror—a few pictures of Eloise and girlfriends, more of Eloise and different wolves. He’d ask Lark if she recognized anyone. Forensics would send someone to get Eloise’s computer. Now that they had a warrant for her stuff, they’d apply for the other three women and see if any names, numbers or emails popped up more than once. When someone showed up to dust for fingerprints, he left.
Something still nagged at him from last night, apart from the lingering horror of nearly losing Lark. If the wolves had thought Lark enough of a threat to try to take her, would they just walk away now? Might they consider her a loose end? They could easily learn her identity; Eloise may have told them.
He couldn’t ask the department for help. He was weaving this case together with gossamer threads to begin with, and concerns for Lark’s safety wouldn’t merit police protection.
He’d been awake for thirty-six hours; he figured he could go another twenty-four before he dropped. He almost called Denardo to tell him he was headed back to Lark’s Museum District apartment, but didn’t. No one but Nick needed to know about his feelings. He got to her apartment around six.
The older complex sat on a cul-de-sac, tucked away among million dollar homes and swank boutiques and restaurants. It backed up to a tall wooden fence. On the other side of the fence, traffic roared down Bissonnet Street day and night. Bad guys paying Lark a visit would likely do it from the cul-de-sac.
Taran couldn’t say for sure they’d try to come after her; he thought he might be using that as an excuse to sit outside her apartment and whine with frustrated longing, but he decided to delay introspection for a while.
The complex didn’t have guest parking on the grounds. He parked a block down the street. From here, he could see the walkway leading to Lark’s unit four doors down from the front of the building. He put the top up for privacy; in this neighborhood, a Mercedes convertible wouldn’t attract attention.
A car purred into the cul de sac around nine—another Mercedes, a blue SL-Class Coupe worth three times as much as Taran’s Cabriolet. It passed him and pulled up directly in front of the complex. Four footed, the hair on his back would’ve stiffened; on two feet, his neck itched, his nostrils flared and his cop sense screamed for attention.
Two wolves got out—a tall, slender alpha with brown hair and a shorter, stockier, red headed beta, both dressed in jeans and black T-shirts. Taran got out of his car. They stopped and turned to look at him.
The three of them stood like that for perhaps five seconds before Taran threw himself at the alpha, who ran to intercept him while the beta sprinted for the apartment building. He had seconds before the beta got to Lark. Even exhausted and with nerves shot to hell, an alpha wolf with a mate in imminent danger could summon vast reserves of fighting strength.
The alpha ducked Taran’s first punch. When he threw his own, Taran caught the fist in his hand and twisted, snapping the wrist. The alpha howled and stepped back before spinning to level a roundhouse kick that caught Taran on the side. Taran grabbed the leg before the alpha retracted it. He jerked, sending the other wolf crashing to the ground on his back. The alpha kicked. Taran jumped out of the way, landing beside the other wolf’s head, which he kicked with his steel-toed cowboy boots. He heard a satisfying crunching sound, and the alpha stopped moving—not dead, but not going anywhere, either.
Taran raced for Lark’s apartment.
He grinned with malicious glee as the beta attempted to kick the door down. That fucker was solid; he and Myall had made sure of it.
The beta didn’t try to run, but just kicked the door harder. He stank of meth and
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