He was weakening, but so was I. My arms and legs shook, and my jaws spasmed, even as one canine finally found the goal. The pulse of warm blood arcing across my face made me peel my lips back from my fangs in a death grimace. The warmth was welcome, but the coppery, metallic taste filled my mouth and flowed into my nose, making me snort it clear to breathe. I flexed my jaws, braced my arms, and tore upward, ripping the artery wide open. Dillon unleashed a final, unearthly shriek and his legs gave a mighty kick. Numbness spread through me as we sank fast into the darkness.
Cracking impacts, like bullets through glass. The water erupted with foam, and it felt like a million knives speared into my shoulders, making me gasp in pain. Dillon slipped from my grasp, and I flailed for him. No . . . must finish him . . . can’t let go. Something clubbed me hard on the side of the head and everything went black.
13
Someone swore with a fluidity that impressed me. Several times I thought I caught my name as part of the tirade, but my brain kept fading in and out, and there were gaps I couldn’t quite fill.
“Chris,” an unfamiliar voice chided. The voice stopped its rant. My head pounded, but once the swearing ceased, I became aware that a lot of other things hurt worse than my head.
“He’s coming out of it. You didn’t have to hit him so hard.” I decided I liked the voice for another reason. It had a soft, slight burr that added depth to the feminine overtones. Whoever she was, she had a lovely way of speaking. It drew me like a fly to honey.
“Yes, I damn well did. He wouldn’t let go of that bastard.”
Hands stroked my forehead, skin roughened across the fingertips.
“Determined. Stubborn too. Sounds like someone else I know.”
“Respect your elders, girl.” Chris, definitely.
“Watch your tone with my daughter.” A strange rumble, not as deep as Chris’s, but with a similar burr to the female’s.
Curious, I opened my eyes. The moon silhouetted a form, my nose brought me a scent that started my heart pounding—wulfan, and female. The strength of my physical reaction surprised me, and I struggled to make out her features. She moved, and I saw high cheekbones, a square but feminine jaw, and a mouth with corners that told secrets. But her eyes—the color of moonlight— pierced straight through to my soul.
I felt as though I’d been hit by lightning. Startled and a little alarmed, I ripped my gaze away. Which was when I realized she was naked, and my brain ceased all ability to function.
Her gaze widened as she noticed my attention roam, and she cuffed me on a shoulder. “Eyes up, soldier,” she said in a no-nonsense tone. “Only fathers and gay men get to see anything else.”
“That smacks of discrimination.” Chris pointed out from somewhere behind her. “And what about Garrett?”
“He’s castrated.”
“I wondered.”
Castrated? Is she serious? I inhaled to speak and regretted it. Pain lanced through my damaged ribs, which set off a cacophony of complaints from all over my body. I closed my eyes and moaned.
“Serves you damn well right.” Chris’s words were angry, but his voice was filled with a curious mixture of self-recrimination and concern. “You were supposed to help Peter, not go pelting off after Dillon. Now we’ll have to carry your sorry ass outta here.”
“Chloe . . .” I managed. My worry for her seemed muted. Why?
“Josh has her.” The other voice, the male one, sounded grim. Father? My memory supplied a name. Matt. The girl must be Sam, his daughter. Chris had brought the enforcer brigade.
“Dillon?” I took small breaths to speak.
“Dead.” Definite pride in Chris’s reply. “You did good, kid. That bastard was too far gone to save, likely has been for some time. Chloe should have known better. Peter almost died because of it.”
I agreed and had even thought as much myself. But she’d paid a high price for her blindness. “She didn’t deserve what she got,” I whispered. The faces and voices blurred, and fog moved in around the edges. Something wouldn’t let me go under, niggling at the back of my mind like an annoying worm. It involved Peter. But I stitched him up. “Peter?” I mumbled.
“You’re lying there in pieces worrying about everyone but yourself.” Chris sounded exasperated. “Doc Hayek is with Peter.”
Not Peter, then. But I remembered the smell of Peter’s blood. By the dead sheep. And on Chloe. I blinked and my vision blurred, but I fought through the fog. Peter was naked. He’d started as a wulf. What made him go into the house for the gun?
I pictured Dillon loping toward the house, the sheep in his jaws. Peter wouldn’t have taken Dillon on in wulf form, because he’d done it before and lost. So he’d changed to human and confronted Dillon for killing the animal. The claw marks on Peter’s back—not a kill strike, but more of a “piss off” move. Dillon hadn’t taken the criticism well. But he’d given Peter enough time to go for the gun—was he too busy eating the sheep? Likely. And too arrogant to consider Peter a risk. That fit.
Too much thinking. My brain throbbed along with everything else. But it refused to let me go. Dillon was too far gone to save, so Peter got his gun, intending to finish him once and for all. Then Dillon hit him with the bat and tried to rip out his throat.
No, that makes no sense. I pictured Peter emerging onto the deck, naked, but for the gun. Aiming it at Dillon, snacking
