whiskey, which explained why he didn’t flee at the sight of Taran. Wolves involved in criminal enterprises, especially the drug trade or mob enforcement, got their betas stoked on speed and alcohol, which temporarily suppressed their instinctive submissiveness. A beta with a short-circuited flight response made for a dangerously unpredictable fighter.
The door finally gave way with a resounding crash just as Taran jumped the beta. Taran heard Lark scream as he and the beta went vaulting across the tiny den, crashing into the bar separating the den from the kitchen. The beta kicked hard and rolled away from Taran. He sprang to his feet and turned for Lark’s room.
Taran shouted, “Lark! Stay in there!” as he dove into the beta’s back and took him down face first. The beta squirmed and bucked, trying to throw him off. Taran grabbed a chunk of his hair and slammed his head into the hardwood floor. The fucked-up bastard barely paused before he started bucking again, arms flailing and legs kicking.
“Fuck!” shouted Taran as a searing pain shot through his leg. He looked down to see a knife protruding from his thigh. The beta had been walking around with a goddamned silver knife in his pocket.
Wolves who carried silver knives were pussies.
He yanked the six-inch blade out and plunged it into the beta’s back. The wolf howled in pain, joining his voice to the chorus of sirens Taran suddenly noticed. The howling stopped abruptly, and then the bastard sure as hell stopped moving. Blood ran out of his mouth and pooled on the floor beneath him.
Taran rolled off the dead wolf, groaning in pain and exhaustion as he lay on his back on the cold, hard floor. He heard the bedroom door creak. It flew open as Lark ran into the den.
“Taran! Taran—oh God, you’re bleeding, honey, you’re bleeding,” she babbled, skidding to a stop and kneeling beside him. She kept babbling, but he didn’t hear anything after she called him “honey”.
She smelled fantastic, of apple shampoo and the girly stuff she put on her skin; even her fear smelled good to him. Her hands warmed him as she ran them over his face and his chest and down to his leg—the knife had gone in the outside of his left thigh, missing his femoral artery and his quad, and it hadn’t been in there long enough for the silver to do much damage. The dark stain on his jeans stopped spreading.
He started to sit up.
“Don’t move.” She knelt over him, her long hair falling in his face. He decided he could stay like that for a bit longer.
“I called the cops,” she said, stroking his face.
“Lark, I am the cops,” he said with a tired smile.
Then he noticed her shaking hands, one on his face and one on his chest, and her pallid face and red, puffy eyes. He pushed her hands away and sat up.
“Hey,” he said in surprise, “hey, come on, it’s okay. I’m not that hurt.” She started to cry and buried her face in his shoulder. He gathered her in his arms across his lap—avoiding the bleeding thigh—and shushed her, murmuring words of comfort. He ran his hands through her hair and stroked her back while she sobbed, and he lost himself for a few moments in the feel and the scent of her. If the only way he could hold her like this was on the floor with a knife wound in his thigh and a dead werewolf next to them, so be it. He wished the sirens weren’t so close.
A sweet ache of pride and longing flooded him as he hugged her and rocked her back and forth. She’d been through one traumatic night already, only for someone to attack her again and invade her home, and she didn’t go stark fucking hysterical. She stayed out of his way and called the cops, and now she worried about him, not about her busted door or the dead wolf.
He looked up to see a small knot of people in varying states of dress standing in the open doorway, staring at them. He started to say something to the neighbors when two uniformed wolves pushed their way into the crowd, followed
The door finally gave way with a resounding crash just as Taran jumped the beta. Taran heard Lark scream as he and the beta went vaulting across the tiny den, crashing into the bar separating the den from the kitchen. The beta kicked hard and rolled away from Taran. He sprang to his feet and turned for Lark’s room.
Taran shouted, “Lark! Stay in there!” as he dove into the beta’s back and took him down face first. The beta squirmed and bucked, trying to throw him off. Taran grabbed a chunk of his hair and slammed his head into the hardwood floor. The fucked-up bastard barely paused before he started bucking again, arms flailing and legs kicking.
“Fuck!” shouted Taran as a searing pain shot through his leg. He looked down to see a knife protruding from his thigh. The beta had been walking around with a goddamned silver knife in his pocket.
Wolves who carried silver knives were pussies.
He yanked the six-inch blade out and plunged it into the beta’s back. The wolf howled in pain, joining his voice to the chorus of sirens Taran suddenly noticed. The howling stopped abruptly, and then the bastard sure as hell stopped moving. Blood ran out of his mouth and pooled on the floor beneath him.
Taran rolled off the dead wolf, groaning in pain and exhaustion as he lay on his back on the cold, hard floor. He heard the bedroom door creak. It flew open as Lark ran into the den.
“Taran! Taran—oh God, you’re bleeding, honey, you’re bleeding,” she babbled, skidding to a stop and kneeling beside him. She kept babbling, but he didn’t hear anything after she called him “honey”.
She smelled fantastic, of apple shampoo and the girly stuff she put on her skin; even her fear smelled good to him. Her hands warmed him as she ran them over his face and his chest and down to his leg—the knife had gone in the outside of his left thigh, missing his femoral artery and his quad, and it hadn’t been in there long enough for the silver to do much damage. The dark stain on his jeans stopped spreading.
He started to sit up.
“Don’t move.” She knelt over him, her long hair falling in his face. He decided he could stay like that for a bit longer.
“I called the cops,” she said, stroking his face.
“Lark, I am the cops,” he said with a tired smile.
Then he noticed her shaking hands, one on his face and one on his chest, and her pallid face and red, puffy eyes. He pushed her hands away and sat up.
“Hey,” he said in surprise, “hey, come on, it’s okay. I’m not that hurt.” She started to cry and buried her face in his shoulder. He gathered her in his arms across his lap—avoiding the bleeding thigh—and shushed her, murmuring words of comfort. He ran his hands through her hair and stroked her back while she sobbed, and he lost himself for a few moments in the feel and the scent of her. If the only way he could hold her like this was on the floor with a knife wound in his thigh and a dead werewolf next to them, so be it. He wished the sirens weren’t so close.
A sweet ache of pride and longing flooded him as he hugged her and rocked her back and forth. She’d been through one traumatic night already, only for someone to attack her again and invade her home, and she didn’t go stark fucking hysterical. She stayed out of his way and called the cops, and now she worried about him, not about her busted door or the dead wolf.
He looked up to see a small knot of people in varying states of dress standing in the open doorway, staring at them. He started to say something to the neighbors when two uniformed wolves pushed their way into the crowd, followed
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