Claiming the Wolf. Michele Hauf

      One

      Blowing out a breath, Christian Hart watched it fog before him. He stood against the black SUV’s hood. He had parked beneath the streetlight posted behind the Lizard Lounge, Paris’s resident faery nightclub. Or at least, the club was the closest most would get to faeries without actually stepping into FaeryTown, where the real danger lurked.

      It was unseasonably cold for October, but regardless, he didn’t wear a coat over the black T-shirt he’d tucked into black cargo pants. A leather holster was strapped across his chest and back, but the pistol tucked under his arm didn’t sport normal bullets: they were wooden, designed for stopping vampires. Wood wouldn’t kill them, but it would give the nasty longtooths pause long enough for Hart to take them out. If necessary.

      It had been some time since vampires had bothered his pack. He missed the action.

      Easing back his shoulders, he winced—he was feeling it now in his triceps. Shouldn’t have spent all morning with the punching bag. He smirked at his wimpy thoughts.

      He’d foregone interior duty tonight, letting Tony take that detail, which included protecting their pack leader at close range. The principal, Remy Caufield, had a penchant for shagging faeries, and he would remain inside the nightclub that catered to the fey bits of dust and menace until it closed hours from now.

      Fine with Hart. Some time alone to let his thoughts wander—hell, who was he kidding? He wanted to be inside, mainlining the thumping beat into his blood, eyeing up the sexy young pretties. He wasn’t particular about faeries; he could take ‘em or leave ‘em. As long as a wolf didn’t fall in love with one of the sidhe and attempt to make her his mate—they were ace for one-night stands.

      Tony’s voice spoke in the two-way curled over Hart’s right ear. “Something’s going on in here, Hart. Be on the lookout for a tall figure in black.”

      “What the hell?”

      “I didn’t have time to assess. I think he planted something on Caufield. Tried to take a swing at him, too. Harm was intended. It’s dark in the back rooms. I didn’t see his escape. Can you catch him?”

      Hart’s senses piqued as the club’s back door slammed open and out dashed a figure in black, pushing through the crowd of hopefuls who would never be allowed access inside, and hairpinning it to race down the alleyway. He couldn’t catch a scent, but he wouldn’t lose him visually.

      “Got the bloke.”

      Sliding behind the wheel of the SUV and revving the engine, he rolled onto the street. The assailant achieved good speed, forcing Hart to push twenty kilometers an hour, and navigate a tight Parisian alleyway, to keep up.

      It was high time he saw some action. Hart couldn’t satisfy his need for adrenaline at the pack compound so he lived apart from the wolves he called family and spent a lot of time in his personal gym. What he needed was a place out in the country to let his wolf run free more often. His very nature demanded it. Yet Caufield was too citified, as was the entire Levallois pack. Though, they did have their darker pursuits.

      Hart tried to distance himself from those matters.

      Navigating a sharp corner, he saw the person he pursued look back. “Yes, I’m on you, idiot. What are you? Wolf? You should be able to run faster. I’d get out and chase you on foot, but this is more fun, eh? Watching you like a deer in my headlights.”

      He chuckled to himself, but swore when the next turn found him driving right into three concrete bollards jutting waist-high and designed to keep vehicles off sidewalks. The SUV’s chrome bumper just kissed one of the columns. Swearing, he backed up and took the opposite turn.

      Heading toward the Seine, he cruised slowly, eyeing up and down the streets. Couldn’t have lost him. He should get out and track him on foot, only he hadn’t picked up the culprit’s scent at the club due to the ridiculous thrill of finally seeing some action.

      Suddenly the passenger door opened and a slender figure in black leaped inside. Before he could react defensively, a fist connected with Hart’s jaw. He tasted blood and the SUV swerved, but he managed to get it back on track. He was driving parallel to the river, and the traffic before and behind prevented him from stopping.

      “So that’s how it is, eh?” He gripped the man by the arm, but his clothing was slick, like Gore-Tex, so his hold slid instead of gripping. “You have a death wish, bloke?”

      The man kicked, landing the heel of what looked a narrow and feminine boot on the steering wheel. Hart fought to control the vehicle while trying to grab the pistol from under his left arm. His fingers wrapped about the handle, and as he swerved into the line of traffic, he pressed the gun barrel to the man’s face where more Gore-Tex fashioned a skull-fitting mask.

      With a grunt, the man elbowed Hart’s wrist. The pistol went flying and knocked him on the temple. As he shook his head to clear the stinging pain, he noted the three words tattooed on the man’s wrist—thought the wrist was bloody thin—then groaned.

      “Oh, hell no!” Was it a female? Had to be with such a delicate wrist. But what breed? And to have the audacity to take him on? “Listen, duck, if you’ve a bone to pick with Remy, I suggest you take it up with him. I’m not trained for relationship rescue.”

      A heel to his right thigh brought a wolfish growl from between his tight jaws. He grabbed the woman’s throat. Before him, a car slowed and he bumped the tail with the front of the vehicle. Adjusting his speed, he yelped when he felt teeth sink into his hand and tear away.

      As Hart shook his bleeding hand, the attacker ripped off the black face mask to reveal a shock of candied red hair and bright blue eyes. Gorgeous, was his first thought. What the bloody hell, was his second.

      She lunged toward him, one hand grabbing the steering wheel and jerking the SUV sharply to the right, toward the river. Then Hart felt the searing, icy pain