12. Val #3
“You will not harm him,” I say, aiming for calm and landing somewhere closer to a growl. “You will not touch him. I won’t let you, and neither will the Alpha Anax.”
Confusion flashes openly across his face.
“What the fuck is an Alpha Anax?”
The bewilderment in his tone catches me so off guard that I actually blink. Every shifter in North America knows Marcus. Even rogues know Marcus. The title alone should have been enough to make this man reconsider whatever he’s planning.
Unless he really doesn’t know.
“And what the hell,” the man continues, anger flaring suddenly, “you’re the one mauling the guy in the alley. What were you doing, setting him up to turn him? You think that’d accomplish your goal?”
I stare at him.
For one strange suspended second, neither of us speaks.
Then understanding begins to shift uneasily through my mind, pieces refusing to fit together cleanly. He isn’t stalking Harley like prey. He’s watching him. Protecting him, maybe. Or trying to. The realization crashes into me hard enough that my grip loosens slightly on the knife in my pocket.
“And what do you know about my goal?” I demand. “You think killing him is the solution?”
“Killing him?” The man looks genuinely horrified now. “I don’t think so.”
He says it quietly, almost to himself, but I hear the sincerity in it anyway. Confusion tangles tighter inside my head. Nothing about this makes sense. If he isn’t here to hurt Harley, then why shadow him through the clubs? Why lurk in alleys half shifted like some damn horror movie creature?
The hesitation costs me.
One second we’re standing apart. The next, the huge bastard lunges.
Even damaged, instinct jerks my body sideways before conscious thought catches up. I dodge the first punch barely, air rushing past my face hard enough that I feel the displacement against my skin. Then his arm slams around my waist, and suddenly I’m airborne.
“Fuck!”
The word explodes out of me as I’m hauled over one massive shoulder.
Pain shoots through my thigh instantly from the awkward angle, white-hot and vicious enough to blur my vision for half a second. I hammer my fists against his back automatically, twisting hard, trying to break free before he gets me somewhere isolated.
No luck.
The man barrels straight into the nearest alley carrying me like I weigh nothing.
Panic crashes through me then, sharp and humiliating. I don’t have a fear of dying, but a fear of failing. Fear of Harley alone in that apartment while I’m bleeding out in some gutter because my body isn’t strong enough anymore to do the job Marcus trusted me with.
I claw for leverage and get a mouthful of filthy shirt instead. The taste is horrible. Sweat, grime, old blood. I bite down anyway.
Hard.
The man grunts but barely slows. Then he slams me into a wall. The impact explodes through my ribs and skull simultaneously. For a second all I can hear is ringing. Brick tears at my shoulder while his weight crushes me awkwardly between his body and the alley wall.
“Fuck with him, will you,” he snarls. “I’ll kill you before I let you do the same thing to him one of you did to me.”
The words barely penetrate the ringing in my ears.
One of you.
Not Marcus’ wolves specifically.
Shifters.
This man hates shifters.
My thoughts tangle messily around that realization while I struggle for air. I’m upside down, half pinned, disoriented enough that my vision keeps blurring at the edges.
But his balls are right there.
Human tactics it is.
I reach blindly and grab hard.
The roar that tears out of him is almost impressive.
We hit the ground together a second later in a painful tangle of limbs. I keep my grip and twist viciously despite the nausea rolling through me. The man curses loud enough to wake the dead while I wrench myself sideways and finally manage to roll free.
My lungs burn. My leg screams. But I manage to get loose. The other shifter curls partly onto his side clutching himself with one hand, murderous fury blazing across his face. I stagger upright, nearly falling immediately when my bad leg threatens to buckle beneath me.
“You better stay the hell away from him,” I rasp.
The butter knife is gone. Probably somewhere back in the alley. Fucking wonderful.
“Come near Harley again and I’ll rip your fucking head off.”
The threat would sound more convincing if I wasn’t limping and half gasping for breath, but anger keeps me upright when strength fails. One way or another, I’ll keep Harley safe. Even if it means going fully human about it and buying a damn gun tomorrow.
The thought alone almost makes me shudder. I’ve carried firearms before when missions required it, but I always hated them. Wolves are supposed to be the weapon. Teeth, claws, instinct, speed. Not bullets.
Not anymore, apparently. The huge shifter starts pushing himself upright again.
That is my cue to leave.
Immediately.
I spin toward the alley entrance too quickly and almost go down when my thigh protests violently. Pain streaks up into my hip hard enough to blacken my vision around the edges.
Harley’s face flashes through my mind so stay on my feet. Then I run.