Last Wolf Hunting. Rhyannon Byrd
Mason wouldn’t ever let him live it down, considering he’d spent the past decade swearing that he couldn’t care less about the little witch.
When he looked back toward the circle, Jillian was checking the unconscious Lycan for a pulse. Apparently satisfied that Danna was merely metaphysically coldcocked, and not seriously injured, she stepped from the circle, heading straight toward Jeremy as someone from the crowd of bystanders handed her a small towel.
His blood surged, palms damp and heart hammering as he watched her walk toward him, blotting her face with the towel, her body silhouetted against the glowing light of the moon. It hung there in the sky like a pearl, iridescent and bright, leaving her expression in shadow until she stood only a few feet away. “I thought you swore you’d never come back,” she whispered, her eyes glittering with emotion. “And a promise is a promise, Jeremy.”
He mentally bit his tongue, not wanting to have this argument with her here, for everyone’s ears. “And some promises,” he countered in a husky rasp, remembering to let go of Magnus, who remained propped precariously against the trunk, “are made to be broken.”
“Yeah, that’s one thing everyone knows about you, so I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.” Then, as if there was nothing out of the ordinary going on, she said, “I’ll talk to you later, Elise,” and turned to walk away.
Just. Like. That.
Oh, no. No bloody way. She was out of her ever-loving mind if she thought she was getting away that easily. Gripping her shoulder, Jeremy spun her around, the movement throwing her off balance and slamming the front of her body into his.
The anger was crashing through him now faster than he could control it. For too long he’d been the easygoing womanizer, going through life without a care in the world, nothing more important than tracking down the next rogue and sending him back to hell. Only now was Jeremy starting to realize just how much of an act it’d all been—like a fault line under pressure, full of tension, ready to explode, his anger had seethed beneath his surface. And every time he’d seen her—and couldn’t touch her—it had grown.
The bookish-looking girl had blossomed into a woman who, if not classically beautiful, was the most attractive thing he’d ever set eyes on. Flaxen hair that nearly shone white in the sunlight, so bright it hurt your eyes. Bee-stung lips and an impish nose decorated with a jaunty spray of pale freckles. She was so… Christ, he didn’t even know how to describe it. Everything she did, whether it was talking, walking or just taking a bloody breath, held an innate sensuality that made his body hurt like a toothache, pulsing and raw and angry—certain parts significantly more than others.
The problem was that no matter what he’d sworn or vowed or claimed, no matter how irritated or furious she made him, touching Jillian Murphy was something he wanted…and wanted badly.
Jeremy wrapped one arm around her lower back, the other lifting to fist in the silken mass of her hair, and lowered his face. He was so close, he could see the intensity of his expression reflected in the clear black depths of her pupils, her velvety brown eyes gone big and round as she stared up at him in shock. Their breath mingled, panting and soft, and then suddenly the tiny hairs on the back of his neck stood up in warning. At the same time, Jillian stiffened in his arms, while a low, menacing growl sounded behind him.
Releasing Jillian, he whipped around, watching as Danna Gibson slowly pulled herself to her feet within the circle. She threw back her head and howled at the moon while the change washed over her, cloth shredding as fur rippled over her expanding body, transforming into the shape of her beast: a six-foot, slathering werewolf covered in golden brown fur. Danna lowered her wolf-shaped head, her fangs shining silvery white in the moonlight, and smiled at him.
“She going to hide behind you now?” the werewolf sneered, swaying on her feet.
“I’m not hiding,” Jillian rasped, her face ashen as she stepped to Jeremy’s side. Danna watched her for a moment, then charged, moving at full speed as she fell to all fours and leapt from the circle, launching an illegal attack.
Jeremy shoved Jillian behind him, shielding her with his tall body. He was prepared to take the werewolf out, when Magnus leapt on his wife, taking her to the ground. They rolled across the damp grass of the clearing, struggling for dominance, until Magnus finally pinned her beneath him, pressing her face-first into the ground.
“Dammit, Danna! Enough!” her husband shouted. “If you kill her outside the circle, you’ll be put to death! What are you even thinking?”
“I want her blood,” the Lycan snarled, bucking against her husband’s weight, but for once it seemed Magnus was intent on doing what was right. He held her tightly, even as she howled like a demon, her long claws digging into the damp, giving earth. “I’m tired of you making me look like a fool!”
“Get her out of here,” Magnus grunted, jerking his head toward Jillian.
Jeremy stared down at the wrestling pair, the crowd riveted as they watched the bizarre events that resembled some kind of twisted soap opera. “Learn to control your woman,” he said softly, the low words firm with conviction, “or I’ll do it for you. If she comes within a foot of Jillian again, I’ll consider it a threat.”
An odd, choking sound of outrage rattled in Jillian’s throat. “What do you think you’re doing?” she demanded. “This isn’t your fight, Jeremy, and I’m not your responsibility. I’m not your anything!”
As if she hadn’t even spoken, Jeremy kept his stare on Danna. Her eyes were black, bottomless pools, and he realized that whatever spirit she’d possessed when younger had been slowly eaten away by hatred. Hatred for her life, her husband, her choices.
Quietly, he said, “Don’t make me kill you, Danna, because if I so much as see you looking in Jillian’s direction, I’ll do it.”
Then he turned, nudging Jillian ahead of him as he headed for the line of trees. He hadn’t taken two steps before she whipped around so fast that her long tangle of hair fanned out around her shoulders, looking beautiful and silky and warm in the pale moonlight. He wanted to sink his fingers into the golden strands, wanted to feel them against his skin, his face, his body.
“I’m going to say this once, Burns. Do. Not. Touch. Me.”
Not touch her? Not likely. In a flash of movement, Jeremy had her arms secured behind her, holding her immobile as he pressed his hard body into the lush softness of her own, keeping her trapped there against him. Lowering his head, he whispered his words into the delicate shell of her ear. “Stop fighting it, Jillian. I don’t like it any more than you do, but it seems that this little war is over.”
“Like hell it is,” she hissed, beginning to struggle, only to stop when she realized she was merely wasting her strength. “Danna isn’t just going to stop because you told her to!”
“I was talking about our war, Jillian. The one between you and me. But you might as well know that I won’t have you fighting.”
She made a rude sound, telling him what she thought of his arrogance. “And that matters how?”
He moved closer, nuzzling his nose against the silken skin at the side of her throat. “It should matter to you, little witch. Unlike the other pack males, I don’t cower before your authority. If I have to drag you kicking and screaming from this clearing, I’ll do it.”
Her body vibrated against his. “Why?” she whispered, her voice nearly soundless with disbelief. “What is it to you if she beats me to death?”
So many answers sat on his tongue, lying in wait, but there was only so much Jeremy was willing to admit—even to himself. “I’m pack now, which means I have a respect for the lives within it.”
“Even mine?” she scoffed, and he could feel her battle to hold herself rigid in his arms. “You’ve grown soft in your old age, Jeremy.”
A low, gruff laugh rumbled in his chest. “You know what your problem is, Jillian?”