Chapter 42
FORTY-TWO
M oonlight spilled through the cabin windows, painting silver paths across hardwood floors that Meara’s grandmother had lovingly maintained for decades. Now those same floors might become a battlefield. Meara’s fingers trembled as she drew the heavy curtains, leaving only strategic gaps for Artek’s security team to monitor the grounds.
“Sweetie, come sit down before you wear yourself into a complete mess.” Frenchy patted the space beside him on her grandmother’s antique settee. “Though I must say, anxiety does wonderful things for your complexion. You’re practically glowing.”
“How can you joke right now?” Meara sank onto the cushions, tucking her feet under her. The familiar scent of lemon furniture polish and old wood wrapped around her like a comfort blanket.
“Because if I don’t, I’ll start screaming, and, honey, my vocal coach would never forgive me for the strain.” He squeezed her hand. “Besides, we’ve got an army of gorgeous shifters out there ready to protect us. Speaking of which...” He waggled his eyebrows. “Have you seen how Trey’s tactical gear hugs his?—”
“Frenchy!” But she couldn’t help laughing, some of the tension easing from her shoulders.
Her amusement died as she caught movement in the tree line. Artek emerged briefly from the shadows to check a security position, moonlight silvering his black hair. Even from this distance, she read the coiled power in his movements, the protective intensity that had drawn her from the start. Her heart clenched. If anything happened to him tonight...
“He’ll be fine,” Frenchy said softly, reading her expression. “That man would move mountains to keep you safe.”
“That’s what terrifies me.” Meara pressed her palm against the cool window glass. “I can’t lose him, Frenchy. Not him too.”
Before he could respond, the quiet shattered. Glass exploded inward as a massive figure crashed through the picture window. German Lopez landed in a predatory crouch, shards of crystal raining around him like deadly diamonds. Four more men crowded through the broken frame, their eyes gleaming with cruel intent.
“Time’s up, little artist.” German’s lips pulled back in a sneer. “You should have taken our earlier warnings.”
Everything happened at once. The front door burst open as two more Lopez men charged in. Meara’s heart stopped as she realized they’d split Artek’s security team, attacking from multiple angles. A roar of pure fury shook the cabin walls—Artek launching himself through the side entrance, his body rippling into bear form mid-leap.
The sight stole Meara’s breath. She’d seen him shift before, but never like this. Never with such raw, magnificent power. His massive form slammed into German, sending them both crashing into her carefully arranged living room. The coffee table splintered beneath their combined weight, old wood giving way like kindling.
“Holy mother of—” Frenchy yanked Meara behind the settee as Trey and two more security men charged in from hidden positions. Their transformations sent furniture flying, the kitchen becoming a battlefield of snarls and snapping jaws. The sound of breaking dishes punctuated each clash.
“We can’t just hide here!” Meara peered around the settee’s edge, her heart in her throat as she watched Artek battle German. Blood already matted patches of his thick fur, but he moved with lethal grace, each strike calculated despite his rage. “They’re getting hurt?—”
“Then let’s even the odds!” Frenchy grabbed two iron pokers from the fireplace, tossing one to Meara. “I may not be a shifter, but I did take that stage combat class in college. Plus, I once fought off three drag queens for the last pair of rhinestone platforms at a sample sale.”
A half-shifted attacker lunged for them. Meara swung her poker with all her strength, catching him across the shoulder. The man howled, stumbling back. Frenchy’s follow-up strike connected with a satisfying thwack.
“Did you see that?” Frenchy’s eyes sparkled with manic energy. “I should add ‘improvisational weapons expert’ to my resume—along with ‘crisis-appropriate humor specialist’ and?—”
His voice cut off in a shout of warning, but too late. White-hot pain exploded through Meara’s skull as another of German’s men slammed her against the wall. Stars burst behind her eyes, something warm and wet trickling down her temple. The poker slipped from suddenly numb fingers.
“Meara!” Frenchy’s scream sounded distant, underwater.
Through blurring vision, she saw Artek’s head snap toward her. The momentary distraction cost him—German’s claws raked across his flank, drawing a spray of blood. But Artek barely seemed to notice the wound, his massive body already turning to charge toward her.
The world tilted sideways as Meara slid down the wall. The last thing she registered was Artek’s anguished roar and Frenchy’s terrified face swimming above her before darkness claimed her.