Enemy Mine

Chapter One

“Son of a bitch!” Mary Shepherd hissed and kneeled to rub the toe that had fallen victim to an eight-ounce can of French-cut green beans. She was pretty sure the tin container would leave one hell of a nasty bruise. Too bad Food Town didn’t have a policy when it came to situations like these. Unless she slipped on a newly mopped floor and broke her back, she wasn’t getting compensation for squat.

The pounding in her squished piggy became a dull ache and she stood, staring at the stacked boxes of cans next to her. Stocking shelves sucked. It meant working nights, so she never saw the sun. The pay was laughable, so she couldn’t afford Starbucks for a caffeine boost. And there was little to no interaction with her co-workers, so she was left to talk to herself. She glanced around and, as usual, no one was standing by to witness her accident. With that in mind, she reminded herself that no one was around to witness her making a fool of herself either.

Rotating in a circle reminiscent of Michael Jackson, she created a fake microphone with her hand and crooned, “Food Town. Always pay less so you can buy moooore.”

“Relaxing on the job, Ms. Stone?”

Oh crap.

So much for a lack of witnesses.

Mortification swept through her. She wanted to sink into the floor and die when she heard the reprimand in the store owner’s voice.

Lowering her hand, she spun around. “No sir. I was just…”

Just what? Making fun of his motto? Sticking it to the asshole in the only way I can? Acting like a total idiot because if I see one more can of vegetables I’m going to lose it?

“I was just stretching and keeping flexible.” She lifted her arms above her head and rose onto her toes. “Best to stay loose.”

Hermer Montrose lowered his head and glared at her over the rim of his glasses. She imagined it was the same look he gave to the great-grandchildren he complained about. Although he was as ancient as Rome and suffered from arthritis in both legs, he refused to hire someone else to do his job. He practically lived at Food Town.

Who are you kidding? He’ll die at the Food Town. It’s all the old codger has. They might as well put his plot in the cereal aisle, bury him here and erect a damn monument. Here lies Hermer Montrose: father, grandfather and asshole of epic proportions.

“Do you normally sing when you stretch, Ms. Stone?” he asked briskly and sniffed in distain. “Or were you just trying to…how did you put it…stay loose?”

Good one, you rat bastard, she seethed. Double innuendo for the win.

“That’s from too much American Idol,” she muttered, hoping he wouldn’t question the lie. “The singing sneaks up on me from time to time.”

“Well it’s obviously poison for the brain. In case no one has the heart to tell you, you can’t sing.” He lifted the clipboard he always carried to his face and glanced at it. No doubt going over the inventory she’d yet to put on the shelves. “I suggest you save such antics for your own time. When you’re here, you have a job to do.”

It was so tempting to grab a can and throw it at his face, but she reminded herself that her job was not only safe, it kept her off the radar. She didn’t have the luxury of telling the old fart to go to hell. Mr. Montrose liked to pay his second shift employees under the table so he didn’t have to worry about taxes. If she lost this job she’d have to start using the money she’d received from her dearly departed parents. To add insult to injury, she’d also have to find a new apartment, since she lived in the crap-ola building just behind Food Mart, owned by the ornery old coot. The damn place should have been condemned but she wasn’t complaining. Nothing beat the feeling of security. After surviving hell, she wasn’t willing to go back. Even if it meant her home consisted of walls with cracking paint, floor tiles that were missing and windows that were cracked.

Suck it up, Princess. Lose the quality lifestyle to which you’ve grown accustomed?

Inconceivable.

“Yes sir,” she said cheerily. She held her breath and said a prayer that her acting was better than her singing.

He huffed, turned on his heel and stormed off. She didn’t exhale until he vanished around the corner. Returning to work, she mulled over her dismal existence. Once she’d had dreams—of becoming a teacher, settling down, starting a family and having a house with a white picket fence—but reality wasn’t as enticing or shiny.

Not when you were related to people who wanted to kill you.

A shiver ran down her spine at the thought.

If her uncle found her, he’d force her to endure the atrocities he bestowed on the shifters he believed God had created him and his brethren to destroy. In Elijah Shepherd’s eyes she was nothing more than a loose end, someone to be cleansed of the taint of Lucifer’s creation before she achieved a safe passage to heaven. He’d attempted to bring her into his twisted fold, believing he could make her one of his flock. Her ability to act as if his plan had worked had allowed her an opportunity to escape—an escape that had been obtained in blood.

The memory of attacking the man who’d become her constant shadow—one of her uncle’s closest cousins—flashed in her mind. One focused swing and a kiss from a baseball bat sealed his fate. She’d known she’d have one chance to get away, one opportunity. Although she’d had no choice but to take full advantage when the time came, a part of her had hoped she wouldn’t have to kill in order to do it. Considering where she’d hit John, on the base of the skull—and seeing the white flash of bone after—she was pretty sure he’d never open his eyes again. He’d probably died as he bled out all over the carpet, never regaining consciousness.

It was him or someone innocent. Remember that.

She slammed cans on the shelf and didn’t bother making sure the labels were perfectly aligned. Killing John was horrible but it could have been worse. Elijah had made it clear he’d expected Mary to murder a young woman no older than herself—a young woman whose only crime was being born a shifter—to prove her loyalty and cement a place in the family. Ironically, his ultimatum had urged Mary to action. It had been John’s life or that of the shifter girl her uncle had trapped in his torture chamber. Given the choice of who lived or died, she’d have made the same decision.

Her heart lodged in her throat when she recalled Dara, the woman she’d rescued from certain death several weeks ago. Mary hadn’t expected to exchange names or information but the girl had been so close to the edge, almost at her breaking point. In an effort to soothe the shifter Mary had asked her name. As they’d driven Dara had told her about her capture and the things that had been done to her. Hearing of each atrocity was torture, making Mary’s stomach bunch into knots. If Dara hadn’t managed to get away, death would have been preferable. Shepherds always started with harmless physical torture, enough to inflict harm but not maim or cause permanent damage. It wasn’t until they learned a shifter wouldn’t break that they started removing body parts, gouging out eyes and taking things to the final stage.

She took a deep breath and slowly released it. None of that mattered now. She had money if she needed to run, and more importantly, the gift her parents had left for her. They’d wanted her to retrieve it before her twenty-first birthday to ensure she got out of her uncle’s control before too much damage had been done. The rite of passage to become a true Shepherd occurred when the children in the home reached full maturity—twenty-one, a Shepherd’s magic number. Her mother and father had given her all the information she needed to remain out of sight and hidden from the demented freaks who wanted her dead. The detailed map with a heartbreaking note about her parents’ past, why they ran and why it was so important she do the same were a gift beyond measure. It told her what locations were dangerous, which places were safe and how to avoid Shepherd hotspots.

When you couldn’t destroy Shepherds, you hid from them. Period.

It was the only reason she’d chosen to reside on the border of Florida and Alabama. Of the numerous areas Shepherds resided, they avoided state lines. There was too much danger, too many risks. They thrived in rural areas where their practices remained hidden, needing isolation to ensure they wouldn’t be caught killing shifters who looked like normal men and women.

A surge of anger had her slamming a can down on the shelf. The entire ordeal pissed her off. After her mother and father had met, fallen in love and decided to marry, they’d had no choice but to run. Their decision had placed a target on their backs, something they’d never have been able to escape. Her parents had tried to avoid her father’s side of the family from the moment they said “I do” and embarked on a new life together. She remembered moving from place to place—an adventure, her mother used to say—only to do more of the same after a couple of months. Only recently did she learn the real reason her folks had been so determined to stay one step ahead of the killers they’d known were tracking them.

Her father hadn’t wanted to raise a family in the crazed lifestyle he’d been forced to experience as a child. Instead he’d chosen to take an enormous risk. The day he’d left his family, forsaking their ways, a bounty had been placed on his head. You didn’t abandon Shepherds. You lived by their rules or you died by them. Her mother had known everything about her father’s family, which meant she’d been in danger as well.

That thought brought even darker, more difficult memories to the surface.

Mary often wondered why her relatives had asked so many strange questions after her parents died. They hadn’t seem concerned about the fire that ravaged her home, the demise of her mother and father or the investigator’s suspicions that the blaze seemed to have been more than an accident. Instead they had wanted to know how much she knew about her distant family.

Had her mother and father told her about them? What church did she attend? Was she religious?

The questions had been strange, incredibly awkward and, in light of recent events, made perfect sense. Had her relatives discovered she’d known more than she should have, she might have joined her parents on the other side. When her uncle discovered she had no idea about his family or their beliefs, he’d brought her home and kept everything secret. For five years she’d had no idea of the atrocities taking place several yards away in a building that was carefully soundproofed. She had gone about her days as a normal girl.

Perhaps she should have noticed the odd sermons on Sundays. The way the pastor had remained fixated on the demons existing in the open, in plain sight.

Demons…

Her thoughts drifted to the man Elijah had proclaimed a demon, a person her uncle had stated was more beast than man. On the outside he had appeared normal—if you considered tall, dark and gorgeous normal. He was older than her by several years, and his confidence and easy manner had called to her in a way she’d never experienced before. Leaving home to attend college meant she was finally able to appreciate the opposite sex. For the longest time however, men had remained a mystery to her. Although she’d watched them, she’d never spoken to or approached her testosterone-fueled classmates. She was too shy, too uncertain. It wasn’t until she’d walked into the campus coffee shop that a man had approached her and changed her life forever.

Closing her eyes, she pictured his face.

Emory Veznor.

The first thing she’d noticed was his voice. The sound had been like coarse gravel over satin—deep and throaty but lush as velvet—as he’d touched her shoulder and murmured, “Excuse me.”

As she’d turned to address him, she’d gotten a full-on view of six-foot-plus model-material male. His dark hair was just long enough to wrap around his ears and drape across his forehead. The shadow along his jaw and chin matched, almost an ink black. And his eyes—the color of expensive whiskey shining through fine crystal—made her heart skip a beat. He was beautiful enough to grace a billboard, although his rough edges had made her think of motorcycles and leather.

At first she’d thought she’d misunderstood him. She’d seen his lips move, had known he was talking to her, but it had taken several seconds to realize he wasn’t asking her to step aside so he could retrieve his coffee. Instead he’d asked if she would like to share a table and chat. He had grinned when she didn’t answer—creating a fuzzy warmth in her tummy. She’d thought she was dreaming until he’d asked a second time and all she could do was nod.

The first guy to notice her had been one she would never have dreamt would be interested in someone like her. Dressed in her usual flowing skirt, matching shirt and Keds sneakers, she hadn’t compared to the man in snug jeans, black biker boots and chain that ran from his belt loop to the wallet in his back pocket. Her hair had been left loose that day and flowed down her back in a tangled mass of blonde, framing a makeup-free and totally natural face. Usually the combination worked for her but beside Emory she had looked like a windblown hood rat.

If he’d been aware of her insecurities, he hadn’t let on. When they had their java in hand, they’d traveled to a booth and sat across from each other. Within minutes a smooth, casual conversation had started. Emory had been polite, hanging on to every word that had passed her lips. She’d blushed at his intense stare, which seemed to slip past her face and into some deeper recess inside that she wasn’t aware of.

One conversation had led to another, then another, and finally resulted in a date—a date that had ruined her life and possibly ended his.

The thought that he might be dead hurt her in ways she didn’t want to ponder too deeply, but she couldn’t help herself.

Was Emory alive? Had he managed to make it out before her family destroyed him?

Humiliation and regret assailed her. She’d been too afraid of what Emory was to stick around and plead for his life. When she’d witnessed the claws that extended from his fingers and the way his face had changed shape, she’d screamed, backed away from him and then…

You ran. That’s what you did. Like a coward. And look what it got you. A drab life in a no-name town doing something you hate. If he’s not dead, he’ll detest you. He told you he had secrets, things he wasn’t ready to share. You were the one who wanted to know everything about him. The minute he showed you what he truly was, you lost it and turned your back on him.

She sighed and shook her head. Emory might have scared her—terrified her—but deep down some part of her had known he’d never hurt her. Each time she thought about the way she’d treated him when he’d changed before her eyes—the way she’d looked at him, the way she’d screamed in horror—she died a little on the inside.

During her time at the farm, when her uncle had tried to bring her into his sick and twisted flock of followers, she’d learned a lot about shifters. They’d watched her with curious stares, as if they could tell she wasn’t a threat. Her uncle had tormented them but she’d always looked away, unable to bring herself to watch. Determined to do something, she’d staged a plan to release the shifters who were captive in the large building on the back of the family property. Even after she’d set the shifters free they’d never touched her or displayed any sign of aggression. They’d simply took the gift for what it was, running for their lives.

Although one choice they’d made had meant she would suffer for their escape.

Forcing her into a cage and leaving her behind had been worse than if they’d beaten her within an inch of her life. Her uncle bestowed the punishment he felt his foolish niece deserved when he found out what she’d done. She’d never experienced true pain until Elijah took his pound of flesh as payment for her actions. She’d never imagined such agony was possible.

As she stretched to place a can in its proper place, she felt the tightness along her back, the way her skin fought to stretch but couldn’t quite do it. The cane Elijah had beaten her with had left several scars—all of them deep and requiring stitches. Some were so bad she could feel them when she moved, a constant reminder of what would happen if Elijah got his hands on her again. This time he wouldn’t leave scars.

He’d put her six feet under.

Trapped in her musings, she didn’t notice the box of canned corn at her feet until she tripped over it and landed on her ass. Biting back a curse, she rubbed her sore posterior.

Hello, floor, have we been properly introduced? No? Well, nice to meet you.

The night was quickly taking a downward turn.

A high-pitched chime echoed throughout the store, indicating a customer had walked inside Food Town. Mary frowned and glanced down the aisle. Store hours were from seven to seven. Everyone in the community knew that. Hermer was bad about forgetting to lock the doors after hours but it didn’t matter since people didn’t want to go toe-to-toe with the grumpy old man.

“We’re closed,” Hermer snapped in the distance. “You can come back during regular store hours.”

“Secure the exits,” a deep voice instructed, as if Hermer hadn’t spoken. “She’s in here somewhere.”

An odd poofing noise was immediately followed by another. Seconds passed and it sounded like someone was lowering something to the ground. Rolling until she was on her stomach, she placed her cheek against the cold concrete and peered through the thin gap between the last shelf and the floor. When she saw Hermer’s face with a bloody hole in the center of his forehead her world shattered into a million pieces. Standing within inches of her now dead boss were boots—Ropers—the brand of footwear Shepherds around the world idolized. The style varied but never the brand, and she’d seen enough of them to recognize the damn things on the spot.

Shepherds were here, and they’d just put a bullet in Hermer’s brain.

Dear God, be merciful.

How had they found her?

Her mind was a mess, panic overriding common sense. Her quaking limbs made it impossible to stand, so she started crawling down the aisle toward the rear of the building. She’d prepared for this, had thought about this moment so many times she should have instinctively clicked into autopilot. She had a bag packed with all the things she needed to keep moving and start over. All she had to do was stay calm, follow the plan and keep her wits about her.

“She’s here.”

Mary glanced over her shoulder at the man who’d spoken. He had a gun in hand and was staring at her. There were only yards separating them.

So much for staying calm.

Once she had her legs under her she bolted for the back doors that led to the storage area and offices of the store. She could hear the Shepherds behind her and knew if they caught up with her it was game over. Ducking under a lower area of roofing, she hooked a quick right. As soon as she made it into the tiny room used as a storm shelter she closed the door, locked it and tossed the thick wood beam into the metal slot that would keep the barrier between her and the Shepherds firmly in place.

The door vibrated as it took a pounding from the opposite side. Knowing she had little time, she rushed to the wall next to the door. One of the perks of being paid under the table was she was given an easy escape route if the Department of Industrial Relations paid an unexpected visit. She opened the hidden panel, slid inside and closed it quietly behind her. She didn’t know how long she had, maybe another minute, before the bathroom door would be broken down.

She tiptoed as she climbed the stairs that would take her out of the building. Once she made it to the roof she ran as fast as she could to the fire escape. Her body was shaking and it was difficult to think clearly but she knew she had to get to her apartment. Just fifteen minutes—or less—and she’d have her things. Afterward she could decide her next move.

It felt like it took forever to make it to her building, dash up the stairs and get inside her apartment. For once she didn’t let terror win. Her things were in the closet so she retrieved them. Clothes, money, identification and the papers from her parents were all inside her duffel. Knowing she might need it, she snagged a hoodie and shrugged it on. When she finished and was glancing around to make sure she didn’t need anything else, large hands wrapped around her biceps.

“Mary.”

She didn’t recognize the voice, so she did the only thing she could—she ripped free of the hold, fisted the handles of the duffel and rushed to the window. She fought when the man reached for her again. He was covered in shadow but she could see portions of his face. His dark hair crept over his forehead and the shadow across his jaw indicated he hadn’t shaved in days. His urban attire—black leather coat, faded jeans and biker boots—told her he wasn’t a Shepherd, but that didn’t mean anything. Her uncle could have paid someone to come after her, hiring a mercenary to get the job done.

The man’s grip on her arms increased until she gasped in pain. He loosened his hold and looked her in the eye. “Calm down. I’m not going to hurt you.”

The room felt as if it shook from floor to ceiling as the door to her apartment burst off the hinges. The man in front of her immediately let go, turned and faced the intruders. These Shepherds also had guns, and the barrels were targeted directly at the man standing between her and danger.

“Use the bedroom window,” the man growled. “Get out. Help is waiting. They’ll find you.”

Questions hovered on the tip of her tongue but there was no time to ask them. The windowpanes had been broken apart—undoubtedly by the man in her apartment—making it easy for her to climb through. She felt a hand swipe at her head and jumped to the side. An ear-splitting roar made the hair on her nape prickle and stand on end. When she glanced back the Shepherds were too busy protecting themselves to use their guns on the man who was in the process of kicking their asses.

The solid railing of the old metal fire escape allowed her to slide to the bottom of the structure instead of stepping down. Despite the speed of her departure, the sounds of fighting were so close she knew she didn’t stand a chance if she didn’t get away. She was only delaying the inevitable. Left with no other option, she did the only thing she could.

The moment her feet hit the ground, she started running. And as she did, she released a bloodcurdling scream.

The shrill sound was loud in her ears, so out of place at three o’clock in the morning when everyone in the apartment building next to hers was sleeping. If she was going down, she wasn’t doing so quietly. Let the sadistic assholes on her heels work for their blood for a change.

In fact…

She changed direction, running for the main road thorough the small shopping center. Why hide when she could scream for help in the open? It was late so she wasn’t surprised she didn’t see any lights coming on or people rushing outside. But it didn’t matter. Her thoughts were focused on making it to the street. If luck was on her side, someone would be traveling this late at night.

Maybe her good fortune would continue to hold.

Any hope she had died when something grabbed a handful of her hair, an arm wrapped around her waist and she went down. She hit the ground hard, landing on her duffel and scraping her chin along the road. The weight of her assailant pinned her to the ground. Regardless of her chances of gaining freedom, she struggled. She wasn’t ready to die. There was so much she hadn’t seen. So much she wanted to do.

The weight vanished and the hand in her hair tightened, causing her scalp to burn. “On your feet.”

It was awkward, rising with fingers twined in her hair. When she finally stood, fisting the handles of her bag so tight the material bit sharply into her palm, she saw the men directly in front of her. Her heart slammed into her throat, blocking her intake of air, making it difficult to breathe. Shepherds formed a semicircle around her, and she knew her number had been called. They were all dressed the same in brown dusters, button-down shirts and Stetsons that created shadows around their eyes. She didn’t recognize any of them, so they had to have been sent from another farm or compound. She knew her uncle wanted her dead. She just hadn’t banked on how far he would go to get the job done.

Did she run? Scream? Try to fight?

Dismally, she realized the answers were no, no and no. She’d only give them a reason to kill her faster. Her heart hammered in her chest, the will to live battling her compulsion to end her suffering before it started. Maybe it was better if they killed her now. Elijah wasn’t with them so they obviously planned to take her to him. Her body quaked in fear when she thought of the ways he’d make her suffer. She knew what her uncle was capable of. If he wanted, he could extend her anguish for days.

A van pulled off the road and drove toward them. The Shepherds in front of her turned and started walking toward the vehicle.

Transportation had arrived.

This is it, the final showdown.

She brought her free hand to her head and grasped the fingers of the man gripping her hair. When she had a good idea of where his wrist was located, she buried her fingernails in his flesh, clawing like a crazed alley cat. He released her hair, which gave her the opportunity she’d been hoping for. She ran as hard and as fast as she ever had in her life. The only sounds she could hear were muted shouts from behind her. The fence barring her path to an alley was one she’d scaled before, and she was damn grateful she’d practiced climbing and jumping over it when she reached the chain-link obstacle. After she tossed her bag over the side, she hoisted herself to the top and jumped over it.

“Shoot her!” someone yelled. “Elijah will understand why we didn’t bring her in. Her soul is lost. She’s damned.”

The same airy poofing noises she’d heard in the store seemed to buzz past her when she retrieved the duffel and took off. Then she felt a sharp slice on the side of her head. It was impossible to run when she crumbled to the ground. She had to use one of her hands to keep her balance, placing her palm on the ground. Warm wetness coated her scalp and dripped down her face. Lifting her free hand, she touched the oozing pool of blood coming from her head. Everything became hazy as the world started to spin and distort, as if she were floating on a rotating cloud.

She fell forward, landing on the unrelenting hardness of the pavement. Warmth bloomed from the wound in her head, blood spreading like thick, hot paint through her hair. She didn’t notice the shouts from the men chasing her or the odd snarls and growls that accompanied them. All she could think about was how cold it had become, how weak she suddenly felt and how much she wanted to close her eyes and go to sleep.

“Kill them all!” a hoarse voice thundered. “We don’t have time to fuck around. Get your woman. We have to leave.”

Footsteps approached but she couldn’t run—not like this. She waited for her end, to meet death with her pride intact. Unexpected, gentle hands turned her over so that she was no longer facedown on the dirty concrete. She blinked several times to bring the face of the man staring down at her into focus, to get a glimpse of the person who would see her life come to an end.

“Mary,” he whispered.

She closed her eyes and basked in the sound of those two hushed syllables. She’d know that voice anywhere, would recognize it no matter how much time had passed.

Emory.

Elijah hadn’t killed him. But what was he doing here? Why was he showing up now? How did he know where she was? What in the world prompted him to show up at the same time Shepherds had decided to strike? There was so much to say, too many questions, and her grip on reality was quickly slipping.

“Don’t hate me,” she pleaded. Damn it. Her voice was so weak, so helpless. “I didn’t mean for any of this to happen.”

“I could never hate you.”

He stroked the tips of his fingers across her cheek and she sighed and closed her eyes. The pain was less now, the burning stab at her temple becoming an annoying throb. All she wanted to do was sleep, to succumb to the land of slumber. The caress abruptly ceased and the once-tender fingers against her skin became firm as they trapped her jaw and squeezed.

“Don’t do it, angel eyes,” Emory snapped, but it was alarm and not anger she detected in his tone. “I’ve been through hell to find you. Don’t give up on me now.” As he lifted her in his arms, he screamed, “Doc, I need you!”

The shuffle of feet whispered in her ears and then someone appeared and flashed a light in her eyes—first the left then the right. After several seconds the man inspected the wound on her head. His touch was gentle, fingertips lightly prodding her scalp. Dimly she realized people were talking but she couldn’t understand them. She was hovering above it all, blanketed in the one thing that gave her peace.

Emory was alive.

She’d allowed herself to hope he was. To believe he’d survived the gunshots she’d heard as she’d run from him. No matter her horror at learning what he was, she’d never wished him harm.

He shifted her against him, cradling her head in the space between his neck and shoulder. Although he’d held her hand once—had wrapped his long, calloused fingers around hers in a gentle fashion—he’d never taken her in his arms. She’d always wondered what it would feel like. He was so much larger than her, so intimidating. What would it be like to be held against his chest? To feel him exhale against her mouth before he kissed her? Would he be slow and gentle? Aggressive and bold?

As though he read her thoughts, she felt the enticing heat of his breath right before his lips brushed against hers. So soft and sweet, moving side to side in a lingering caress. He was deliciously warm, the muscles in his arms flexing as he angled her head for better access. He smelled as good as she’d known he would—a clean, woodsy and masculine scent. The absence of his mouth when he pulled away made her want to draw him back, to ask him to do it again.

Her very first kiss, something she had daydreamed about since childhood, had happened like this. With her bloody and dying in the arms of the man she had fantasized about.

It didn’t seem fair.

Emory said something but she didn’t understand him. As she tried to piece his words together she found herself drifting into darkness. Her final thoughts were of being in Emory’s arms, the odd but profound comfort his nearness created and the sadness that arose from knowing they never had, and never would have, the opportunity to truly know each other.

“Mary?” Emory shook his mate gently, trying not to panic.

He’d found her. Thank fucking God he’d beaten her uncle’s henchmen to her location. As he peered down and gazed at her face, he noted the dark circles under her eyes, the tiny scrape on her chin. She’d lost weight—too much weight—and felt so tiny in his arms, so frail. No wonder, considering she’d been on the run for months and living in a shithole.

A growl crept up his throat.

When he’d gone to her apartment, he’d been shocked at her living environment. She kept the place clean but it didn’t matter. The furniture was falling apart, the flooring was cracked in multiple places and the wallpaper was peeling. She should have been living in a home that had been built especially for her, with all of the amenities and luxuries he could provide. Not a haven for addicts and hobos.

“Wake up.” He shifted her weight, freed one of his arms and gently cupped her scraped and tiny chin in his large palm. “Look at me.”

“Leave her be.” Doc slid the flashlight in his fingers into his pocket and laid an understanding hand on Emory’s arm. “The wound needs stitching but she doesn’t have a concussion. She’s woozy because of blood loss.”

“Is she in danger?” Fate couldn’t be that cruel. He refused to believe he’d found her only to have lost her.

“Not if we get that gash stitched up.” Doc motioned toward the end of the alley. “Hurry. Since we have to haul ass we’ll apply a bandage until it’s safe to stop and I can patch her up.”

Damn.

He’d been so concerned for his mate he’d totally forgotten about the police who were likely en route to the scene. He followed the pack doctor to one of the SUVs that pulled into the vacant lot. It was time to clean up the scene, take care of the mess they’d made and go. Usually shifters didn’t put themselves in danger by fighting in the open, but due to recent events that policy had changed.

He glanced at the shifters who were busy tossing dead Shepherds into the back of the black unmarked van they’d arrived in. Mary’s uncle wasn’t in the group. Emory knew it for fact. He’d scented the air the moment he’d come to his mate’s aid. Elijah Shepherd had sent others to collect his niece—something that caused Emory’s hackles to rise. The demented piece of shit wanted Mary alive.

That meant she was still in danger.

Although she’d hidden herself like a pro, avoiding anything that forced her to use her name, Elijah—like Emory—had been able to locate her. One monumental slip, one huge mistake and she’d outed herself in the border town where she hoped no one would pay her any notice.

All it had taken was a simple phone call.

The pack computer wiz, Wade, had been monitoring all the calls made to the attorney Mary visited before she vanished into thin air. For a couple of weeks Emory had waited, edgy and restless, until his mate had slipped up and made the phone call that would reveal her location. When she’d checked in to verify the status of a new bank account she was out of the closet, existing in the open.

Nothing more than a sacrificial lamb waiting for slaughter.

Doc opened the passenger door and stood back as Emory climbed inside with Mary cradled against his chest. He moved over the length of the seat, making room as the older wolf settled next to him and closed the door.

“Give me my bag.” Doc extended his hand past the front seat, toward the driver.

“Is she okay?” Caden glanced at Mary as he turned from the wheel and handed the large satchel over. “Fuck me.” He exhaled the words, his gray eyes darkening. “She’s bleeding all over the place.”

“The head is vascular and her hair is blonde,” Doc muttered and opened his bag. “She’s not losing as much as you think. It’s normal.”

A soft knock next to his head put Emory on full alert. His canines dropped and he snarled through the window, coming face-to-face with his brother. Trey was covered in blood from his chin to his stomach and his eyes remained a bright, stark gold. He smirked as Emory hit the switch in the door panel and lowered the glass.

“We’ve got to go. Her apartment was at a simmer when I left. It’s probably engulfed in flames by now.”

“You set her apartment on fire?” It was official. Trey had finally gone off the deep end.

“No choice.” Trey shrugged, unfazed. “When she made it home Shepherds were on her ass. I had to improvise.”

“Motherfuckers.” Emory tightened his hold on his mate. He’d wanted to find Mary so he’d left Trey inside the decaying residence. In hindsight, it wasn’t his smartest decision. “Did they hurt her?”

“I was waiting, remember? Bastards didn’t so much as touch her.” Trey swiped the back of his hand across his mouth and smiled. “They died slow but I didn’t have time to destroy the evidence. I had to think fast. The building was condemned for a damn good reason. There was enough shoddy wiring to start an inferno that no fire department will care to investigate. Since I removed the Shepherds’ weapons, they’ll think squatters found the wrong haven for the night. It’s as clean as I could manage given the circumstances.”

“They won’t be able to trace her?” Emory asked, concerned and frustrated by the turn in events. “Nothing can point to Mary. We can’t have the police showing up asking questions. It’s bad enough that Shepherds shot up the fucking store.”

Jesus, what a clusterfuck.

If Diskant—the Alpha and Omega of all the New York shifters—discovered they’d placed their race in danger with sheer stupidity, he’d have all their balls. Considering Emory intended to settle down with Mary in New York under Diskant’s authority, it wouldn’t be wise to piss the mean son of a bitch off any further. Diskant wasn’t sure Emory could control his wolf or his Alpha nature, which meant he had been reinstated in the pack on a trial basis. One small fuck-up could ruin everything.

Fucking unacceptable.

“The only people the police will investigate are locals,” Trey drawled, as if he was discussing what he had for dinner the night before. “As far as they’ll be concerned, someone got desperate and tried to rob the local grocery store. If Mary was on the payroll, Wade would have found it.”

“And the apartment?”

“The fire will go on the books as an accident caused by bad wiring and ratty insulation.”

“You’re sure?”

“I’m positive, how’s that?”

“It’ll do,” Caden interrupted Trey and revved up the engine. “Get your ass in the Caddy or call a cab. The others are ready to move. Time is up.”

Trey pivoted and stared at the shifters in the distance. One group had removed the Shepherds’ bodies and waited inside the unmarked van. The others were piled into the SUVs beside it. Emory raised the window when Trey pounded his fist on the roof, nodded and started walking toward the front of the Escalade.

“All done for now.” Doc nodded at the bandage across Mary’s head. “Keep pressure on it until we stop.”

Emory moved to do as instructed as the doctor revealed a vial and syringe. He frowned when he asked, “What are you doing?”

“If she wakes up and panics she’s liable to hurt herself. I’m going to give her a sedative.” Mary didn’t flinch or make a sound when the needle pierced her arm and he injected the medication. “There we go.” Doc spoke in a soothing tone Emory was sure he used often with his human patients. “Rest while you can.”

Trey opened the front door and slid into the passenger seat. “Get a move on,” he quipped as he settled back. “We haven’t got all night.”

“Fucking smartass,” Caden retorted and put the vehicle in gear.

They pulled away from the lot, driving slowly. Within a minute police vehicles and a wailing fire truck blew past them.

“Just in time.” Doc sighed and pinched the bridge of his nose between two thick, blunt fingers. “That was close.”

Too close, Emory thought and stared at the young woman in his arms.

Even with her blonde hair and parts of her face smeared with blood, she was the most beautiful female he’d ever seen. Her features were perfect—full lips, pert nose and enormous chocolate-brown eyes. The memory of her smile caused his cock to stir, coming to life against the plush roundness of her ass. She didn’t know what her smile did to him, especially when she caught him staring and became embarrassed and aroused.

God, her scent.

Even now the wolf within brushed against his skin as the fragrance returned to him—the perfume of lavender, sunshine and sweet, feminine musk. Many nights had been spent fantasizing about the ways he’d tease her, taunt her and introduce her to the joys and pleasures of sex. She’d never had to confess how little she knew about the art. He’d known it from the way she reacted to him, how she’d tensed, shivered and relaxed when he placed his hand into the small curve of her back.

She was so innocent—too fucking innocent.

He’d known Mary was too young for him when they’d met—only twenty years old—but he hadn’t been able to help himself. Denying the need for her was like existing without a reason, living each day with no purpose. So he’d decided to give her time, to allow her to get to know him as a man and a person, to give them the chance to become comfortable with each other.

Then the unthinkable happened and all of his carefully laid plans were destroyed.

Never had he dreamed it would be like this, with him forcing her to accept him and his bestial half. For fuck’s sake, the last time he’d seen her she’d been terrified of him. The way she’d looked at him—like he was a damn monster—hurt more than the bullets he’d taken from her family. Yes, he could oftentimes be an animal in the literal sense, but he never would have hurt her. He’d never given her any reason to believe he would. Yet she’d run just the same, screaming as if she’d seen the devil instead of the man who’d fallen in love with her.

His cock was undeterred by the remembrance, remaining firm against the crease of her buttocks. No amount of regret could ice the heat racing through his bloodstream, the need to fuck and claim his female rolling like thunder inside him.

Shame for his lust hit him like a punch in the gut.

Pitiful. You’re like a pup sniffing around for his first whiff of pussy.

And things were only going to get worse.

He’d ridden the edge for as long as he could. His patience wasn’t what it used to be. If he’d been given the opportunity, he’d have done right by his mate. He’d have afforded her a couple of years—no matter how difficult those years were for him—to come to terms with her future. They could have been friends first, getting to know each other before tackling the important steps. Ones that would change her life forever. Holding her, having her and knowing she was finally his wasn’t as fulfilling as he’d thought it might be, not if it meant she would experience fear, uncertainty or doubt as a consequence.

Despite the fact everyone in the vehicle could hear him—regardless that she wasn’t awake to accept the apology—he wasn’t too proud to whisper, “I’m sorry, angel eyes.”

He said a silent prayer she would offer forgiveness, get past her fear of what he was and accept their life together.

Even if, deep down, he knew what he was asking for was too much.