Chapter Thirteen

The wolves were stupid, but they were fast.

Not Leo. He went down first. Easy, while he was wrestling with the door to the SUV, probably going for a gun. They were fast and they were cheats, so steeped in human corruption that they couldn't face an honest challenge.

Blake didn't give him a chance to fight dirty. He tore through the younger man's leg, bringing him down, and ripped out his throat just as fast.

Another wolf slammed into Blake, knocking him to the ground. They rolled and came up snapping. The other wolf was large, almost as big as Blake, and fast. Bryce, judging by his scent, which meant he was younger, too.

He was cornered, desperate. But Blake was fighting for Ashley.

They clashed again, Bryce twisting in fast and angling for Blake's throat. Blake turned at the last moment, and those heavy jaws closed on his shoulder, instead, lighting him up with a pain he ignored.

When he didn't go down, Bryce broke away, panting and circling. The sharp scent of blood filled the air, a warning that Blake couldn't afford to play games. Bites from werewolves healed human-slow, and bleeding would weaken him.

He didn't have time to be weak.

But he could fake it, just a little. A step back, a stumble, as if his injured front leg couldn't hold his weight. He started to sag and Bryce was on him, lunging in for the kill so recklessly that all Blake had to do was spin at the last moment and close his teeth around his enemy's throat.

The wolf gurgled and thrashed as blood poured. By the time he fell still, Blake heard quick footsteps advancing at a run.

It was Mac. He called out Blake's name before skidding to a halt in front of him. "Emmett's dead," he panted. "But we've got a fucking problem."

It was hard to get control of himself. To find any shred of calm, or the will to regain his human form. He was stronger like this, faster like this. Deadly like this.

But he could be deadly in any skin.

It hurt more, shifting back. His shoulder screamed with it, and he ended up on his knees, sucking in a shaky breath as his arm tingled. It was a struggle to force out human words. "What's wrong?"

"Connor and Jud headed back to the house." Mac pressed his lips together in a grim line. "We can't find Eyepatch."

Tim. The one who'd glowered in silence. The one who'd watched Grace with an absentminded dedication that would have been familiar if there'd been anything tender in his eyes. A man with an obsession wouldn't let anything stand in his way.

Blake lurched to his feet, shoved past Mac, and ran for the house. Mac thundered after him, yelling something, but all of Blake's attention was focused on one thing.

One person.

Ashley's door stood open, a dark smear marring the polished wood. His heart stopped, just stopped, a blackness rising up to swallow him.

He'd fucked up. He'd lost control. He'd gone running after an enemy who had taunted him with stupid, meaningless words, and left everything that mattered unprotected.

Blake stumbled through the door, fear tunneling his vision. For an endless moment, all he saw was Ashley. Jud had her head tilted back and to one side, and light fell on dark bruises ringing her throat. Connor said something to her, and she looked over and nodded, then froze as her gaze clashed with Blake's.

Alive. Bruised and scared, but whole. He needed to go to her, to run his hands over her, press his ear to her chest and listen to the steady thump of her heart. He needed it more than anything...

And he didn't deserve it. Hadn't earned it.

"Grace." The pleading tone in Connor's voice finally dragged his attention away from Ashley.

Tim's body lay on the other side of the room, sprawled face down in a spreading pool of blood. Grace straddled his hips, her bloody hands clutching the hilt of the knife she'd jammed repeatedly into the man's back.

Her eyes were feral. Unseeing. Her hands shook as she lifted the knife again, and she bared her teeth when Connor reached out to her.

Mac took over, sliding one hand down her arm. She whipped around, slashing the blade blindly across his shoulder before he managed to secure her wrist. "He comes back," she snarled, her voice breaking on fear so intense it hurt. "Nothing kills him. I have to—"

"Not this time," he said soothingly. "He's over, honey. You got him good. Now give me the knife, okay?"

Grace open her hand one shaky finger at a time, relinquishing the weapon with a choked sob. It was heartbreaking to watch, yet another failure digging hooks into Blake's heart. If he'd been where he belonged, Ashley wouldn't be decorated in bruises and Grace wouldn't have blood on her hands.

"Blake." Ashley's voice, hoarse and pained.

He didn't deserve to go to her, but he had to. At least one more time.

He sank to Ashley's side and wrapped her in his arms. "Are you okay?"

Instead of answering, she shook her head and buried her face in his shoulder.

He hauled her closer and rested his chin on top of her head. "You will be. We'll take care of you, sweetheart. I promise."

"I heard the howling. I tried to come out, but Tim—he—" She shuddered. "He was so angry."

"He was fucked up." And they should have seen it. He should have seen it.

"I hit him, but it didn't faze him. But Grace..." Her shaky voice hitched into borderline hysterical laughter. "Grace took a knife during dinner."

Another thing he should have seen—a girl desperate enough to steal silverware because she knew she might need to defend herself. But he'd been too busy dragging Ashley into a fucking closet to rub all over her, like a human pounding his chest. "Shh, it's okay, honey. We can talk about it later."

"I need to get out of here." She clutched at his shoulders, her hands sticky-slick with blood. "Help me."

Blake gathered her and rose, holding her tight to his chest as he carried her from the room. His bedroom door stood open, and he nudged it wide with one foot. He carried her through it, past the bed, straight to the bathroom with its wide-tiled shower. "Can you stand up for me?"

She did, swaying only slightly as she stared down at her ruined clothes. "My dress..."

It was sweet, the top hugging her curves, the skirt swaying around her legs. And it couldn't be salvaged. "Connor will get you another one," he promised, guiding it over her head. "A dozen just like it, if you want."

The dress cleared her head, and her eyes locked with his. "I was worried about you."

He barely felt his shoulder now. Physical pain was inconsequential compared to the fear that filled her eyes. "You don't have to be, Ashley. I'm tough. I'm fine."

"I can't help it," she whispered. "I love you."

His heart didn't stop this time. It damn near beat its way out of his chest.

I love you too. The words were there, on the tip of his tongue. He could say them, be selfish, accept everything he didn't deserve and bind her to him before he'd earned the right.

And the next time he lost his fucking mind and put her in harm's way, she might not have a broken girl with a stolen steak knife to save her.

I love you.

He couldn't say it, but he couldn't hold it back, either. So he sank his fingers into her hair and kissed her, silencing himself this time.