2
* * * *
Drek didn’t stop moving until he’d put at least a quarter mile between himself and the shootout, hoofing it through rough brush and spiny undergrowth to where he’d parked his own gleaming SUV.
He only slowed when the sounds of gunfire faded.
Sweat stung his eyes and soaked the collar of his shirt, but he forced his breathing to steady, refusing to show weakness even alone in the wild.
Too bad he’d lost all five men, but they’d known what they were getting into. Their sacrifice helped Drek get away before those filthy wolves had a chance to end him.
The wolves would think they’d won a victory. Let them savor it for now.
Pausing at the edge of a disused cattle path, he doubled over with a ragged breath, finally letting go of the pain that throbbed along his leg from the bullet Luca had put there.
That wolf had damn good aim. Drek spat in the grass and yanked up his pant leg to assess the damage.
A gouge torn out in his calf, bleeding but clean enough. He could stitch it up later if need be.
He dug through the glove compartment for napkins or gauze but came up empty. Instead, he ripped off part of his shirt tail, wrapped it tight around his leg above the wound, and knotted it twice for good measure. It pinched hard, made him wince with every flex, but pain kept you alert.
Only after bandaging himself did Drek light a cigarette, striking the match against his teeth like he’d done since he was a juvenile.
Smoke filled his lungs and slowed his heart rate to something manageable.
Once upon a time he might have enjoyed this—fresh air, freedom—but these days nothing relaxed him other than sex or nicotine.
On an ancient flip-phone, he dialed the cops. No smartphone tracking for him. As it rang, he let himself sag against the SUV’s rear bumper, the tension finally easing.
“Emergency services,” came an operator’s distant voice after three rings.
Drek deepened his tone and added a tremor to sound frightened. “I want to report some shooting.”
He flicked ash into the wind while keeping one eye on the prairie horizon, scanning for movement just in case anything with fur or a badge crept up on him from behind.
“Can you provide your location and name?” the dispatcher asked.
Drek let silence hang just long enough to sell it before answering, “I’m not far from Hawk’s Ridge.
I heard a lot of gunshots, really loud, and then engines racing away.
” He didn’t bother hiding his contempt as he continued.
“There’s been trouble lately with those bikers in town.
They’re such a menace.” He coughed softly for effect, imagined himself as an elderly retiree peeking through curtains at hooligans tearing up the country road.
“We’ll send someone right away,” the operator assured him.
“Thank you,” Drek replied sweetly and ended the call before any more questions could be asked.
He tossed his phone onto the passenger seat and took another drag from his cigarette as rain began to tick softly against the windshield. He loved storms. Their chaos suited him perfectly.
Last hyena alpha had been too unhinged. Rico had aimed too high, taken too many risks, and gotten himself killed in some filthy warehouse. But Drek knew how to play it smart.
With the wolves distracted by the police, they wouldn’t have time for him.
Drek’s deep chuckle filled the air, the sound almost feral in nature. He tossed his cigarette and slid back into his SUV.
This was far from over.
* * * *
Darcy licked the grease off his thumb, full from his chicken-wing feast but still wishing he had more. If that was Jamie’s first attempt at frying wings, Darcy couldn’t wait until he got even better at it.
You’re acting like you’ll be around for that achievement.
Not when Luca had stood him up. It was the first time someone had ghosted him, and Darcy didn’t like the way it made him feel.
He should’ve known. They’d hit it off too fast, and Darcy liked him too much.
It’d been only two days, and nothing could be taken seriously in that short amount of time.
Still, it would’ve been nice to get to know Luca. He’d seemed like a really nice guy.
With a sigh, Darcy pushed his plate of bones aside and finished off his second glass of soda. It was time to go. Obviously, Luca was no longer interested, and Darcy didn’t want to look desperate by hanging around.
He set his glass down when he heard a flurry of deep voices past the kitchen doorway.
Their tones sounded urgent and clipped, drawing Jamie’s and Percy’s attention.
The two exchanged a look, then quickly rushed toward the kitchen exit.
Cesar wiped his hands on a towel and cursed in Spanish—the tone implied a curse—before he was hot on their heels.
The kitchen suddenly felt twice as empty now that he was alone. It would be smarter to head out, to put Sin’s behind him.
But Darcy kept his butt in his chair while the conversation outside the room grew more urgent.
He glanced at the entrance, strummed his fingers, then bit his lip. It was none of his business. What he should be concentrating on was that plate of chicken abandoned on the workstation.
One look. That’s all he would take. One look to see what was going on then he would leave and try to forget about his dog whisperer.
Stop being so nosy. Luca clearly lost interest. Take your butt home.
Who was he kidding? Nosy wasn’t a strong enough word for what he felt sometimes. He’d always poked into things. Curiosity ran his life way more than common sense did.
He slid from his seat and drifted toward the entryway. The kitchen didn’t have a door. It was just an archway, which made it easier to snoop.
With a glance back at the plate of uneaten chicken, Darcy sighed and crept out of the room.
To his left was a long, dim hallway with multiple doors. Men were crowding the small space, a figure dangling between them. They were carrying someone.
Darcy watched as they shouldered open a door at the far end, then disappeared inside.
Just go. Leave the chicken, forget your dog whisperer, and walk out the front door.
Every step made his stomach pitch, but Darcy kept against the wall, sliding closer to the commotion. The voices were muffled but became clearer the closer he got to the room.
For a moment, he felt like he was intruding, then he slipped around the doorframe.
The room reeked of antiseptic and sweat. There was a bed in the center of the room, sheets pulled half off, and a blur of hands working fast over someone sprawled across it on their chest. One yanked off the shirt of the unconscious guy, flinging it aside.
The fabric was soaked in blood. Why weren’t they taking the person to the hospital?
All Darcy saw at first was smeared, golden skin and a mess of dark hair. Latex gloves snapped. Gauze was pressed into flesh, bright red blooming through white.
It took a second to recognize the jaw, the line of stubble, the stubborn arch of eyebrows.
The world shrank to a pinpoint. Darcy covered his mouth with shaky hands. It wasn’t some unlucky bystander or a customer.
It was his dog whisperer.
Luca.
His face was pale, his eyes closed, blood pooling across his back.
The inside of Darcy’s mouth went dry. Blood oozed from a hole in Luca’s shoulder blade when the red gauze was thrown aside and a pile of fresh gauze replaced it.
The man with the killer eyes was on the opposite side of the bed, phone to his ear. “You get your ass to the den now!” he growled. “We got a gunshot wound that ain’t letting up.”
Den? Was he talking about the bar? Some back office? Darcy’s brain scrambled to make sense of the word, but it couldn’t.
Then Killer Eyes hung up and gazed at Luca, who was barely breathing.
Darcy took a step back when the guy’s eyes glowed amber. The same amber Darcy had seen briefly in Luca’s eyes.
It had to be the lighting. Darcy blinked hard, but no one was reacting to the bizarre sight.
Two men in a corner started arguing, low and guttural, their voices rough. “I know one of those hyenas got away. I counted six, but only five shifters went down.”
“I only counted four dead,” the other argued, his growl animalistic.
Hyenas, shifters? Was that some kind of biker code? Drugs? Guns? Gangs? Why would they bring up wild animals? Unless they’d grown opposable thumbs, a hyena hadn’t shot Luca.
Someone else echoed that growl, lips pulled back.
Killer Eyes looked Darcy’s way. “Who are you?” he demanded, stepping toward Darcy. “What the fuck’re you doing in here?”
Darcy backed up until there was a wall behind him. His gaze darted to Luca, his heart in his throat.
“Luca invited him here,” Santiago said.
Killer Eyes frowned, glancing back at Darcy. “He invited you here?”
What was with that damn question? Why did everyone act like Darcy’s presence was so shocking?
Percy hurried to Darcy’s side, hooking their arms. “He’s my pizza guy. Puedo flotar en latas amarillas, ” he said fiercely.
Killer Eyes’ brows knitted deeper. He stared at Percy like he was a puzzle to solve.
“I told him you’re my guest too,” Percy whispered to Darcy, patting his shoulder. “Let’s head to the kitchen so they can deal with this without us in the way.”
Brows furrowed, Darcy stepped out of the room, trying desperately to put all the pieces together.