With no time to bother with stealing a vehicle, Breslin shifted. His cougar kept up the brisk chase, paralleling the van while remaining out of sight on the straightaway, and then weaving into the hills and watching from a distance to gain a faster shortcut to the van’s destination. He doubted that the target was far away if everyone had an hour to get there.

Besides, dedicated time surveilling the area, not luck, gave him a good sense of the remote sections of parkland in the area that would hide shifter activity.

It enraged him he hadn’t been in time to stop Sam. Sure, he’d heard the details of Calvin’s discussion with Sam. Breslin’s hearing, even over the distance, was excellent. But his all-out sprint didn’t cover the distance in enough time to catch the van, much less stop the brutal assault on his—no, his prisoner. Better to think of her in those terms and keep the fury in his beast contained. Barely.

He gauged the remaining miles to Beauvais Lake and watched the brake lights of the van flicker. Several miles too early, it turned into a tree-covered lane. He cemented his decision to leave Sam in a shallow grave. He’d scented Sam’s lies. His endorphins had carried on the breeze, thick with his eagerness. Jacob’s henchman didn’t intend to deliver Rayven alive any more than he planned to leave the parents living.

Rayven must have known. Otherwise, she wouldn’t have set herself up as a distraction.

Neither of those realizations now had minimized his shock when she’d provoked Sam into attacking her, because even after knowing her such a short time, he could read her intent from the inflection in her voice. And hell, she’d spit in that asshole’s face. A smart and brave move, one Breslin never wanted to hear her do again in his lifetime. No matter how guilty Rayven might be of her crimes—and his doubts were growing by the second—he hoped he got to her in time.

If the team was really on its way, Sam needed to be cautious, or pretend caution.

But why had she exposed herself to save this family? And what had whipped Jacob and his team into such a full-on assault to find them, much less take Rayven back?

Gauthier no longer called the shots, leaving Jacob free to pursue his own course until a new alpha rose to power. One who wasn’t Rayven, because the energy lash from a new alpha claiming their territory would have rippled for hundreds of miles. He’d have sensed the power within her. She couldn’t hide something like that in close proximity. More importantly, Deacon and the neighboring alpha, Whit Sheridan, would have felt the surge.

With that much power, Rayven wouldn’t need to run or kowtow to a clan member the likes of Sam or submit to an enforcer from a neighboring alpha. Which begged the question of who considered Rayven enough of a threat to frame her for her father’s murder and kill her before she could clear her name?

Not Jacob. His lust had permeated the courtyard of Gauthier’s sanctuary, even while he watched her unconscious, injured body being loaded into Breslin’s SUV. What a sick SOB. He’d wanted her and yet been forced to give her away, but by who? An existing alpha or a new, hidden alpha?

It didn’t matter. Someone else was in control. Not any of the men who’d pursued Rayven after the vehicle crash. They didn’t fit the profile. If there was one skill he considered his strongest, homing in on the likely culprit won every time, because he’d refused to add innocent kills to his conscience.

Thinking back, he’d observed both Calvin and the humans milling about when he picked up the food order Brindy had placed. No dominant killer scent from them had alerted him. Yet Sam, who’d obviously stayed out of sight, Breslin would have remembered. The enforcer carried a stench thick with lust, not for a woman, but for the kill. One who nearly matched the profile of a feral shifter due to his cold disregard for life and addiction to violence.

Breslin had mastered stalking and killing the way some people learned how to garden or fish. Much of what he knew he wished he could unlearn, yet he couldn’t turn off his instincts. They remained primed no matter how mundane his task. Now, he’d leverage all those skills to save a life instead of ending one.

At least until Rayven stood before the tribunal. He shook that thought free, unable to focus on sacrificing her.

Was there a reverse scenario to Stockholm Syndrome? Could he have fallen for his prisoner? Yes, he’d scented his mate. But it took more than physiology to turn his cat from disconnected to possessive protector.

Breslin shifted back to human form and stilled his mind, preparing for the hunt. He followed the lingering gas fumes a quarter mile or so down a park maintenance road and found the vehicle. A glance inside confirmed a stain in the back still fresh with the honey metallic scent of Rayven’s blood. He turned and glanced around. Unfortunately, layered throughout the clearing were scents of more humans and several wolf shifters.

He crept closer to the empty van and held his palm up toward the van. Heat still registered from the vehicle. He angled his head and listened as he searched through the woods around him. The river was several hundred yards away and the path leaving this clearing rose toward the mountains. A distant click of weapons sounded, and several birds flapped into the sky.

He sniffed again, relieved to be downwind. More humans and more wolves, headed at a steady jog this way. Apparently, Jacob didn’t trust Sam enough not to send in more troops to enforce his orders. Good, it was time for his own debut performance.

He walked around to the back of the van and yanked the doors open only to slam them shut. Then he headed for the passenger door.

Right on time, two men and two wolf shifters emerged into the clearing.

Breslin leaned against the side panel of the van. “Looks like I’ve tracked my prisoner to the right place.”

One of the men raised his weapon. “For all your trouble, you’ll get a bullet to the brain.”

“Not if you want the information the Karndottir woman hid.” It was a long shot, but given what he’d overheard Calvin mention, it was worth a try. He didn’t have other options besides killing everyone, and he’d grown to despise useless killing. They’d live as long as they left their hands off Rayven.

As a unit, they closed in on him. Breslin fought to keep his cat in check, and as they came within range, he lunged out.

* * *

Rayven’s cheek throbbed, and, trussed up like a turkey, her arms and ribs ached too. She risked opening her eyes and scoped out her location from beneath a large fir tree. She’d jerked awake as Sam had tossed her to the ground, luckily missing the large boulder beside her, but she’d passed out again.

Now he stood in the middle of several men, fists stuffed in his jeans pockets and his brows drawn into a scowl.

He appeared no happier than the last time she’d been awake. She dug deep, calling again for her bear, waiting for a tiny bubble of power, any sign to indicate she’d get help escaping from this situation. Nothing answered back.

At a loud thud of a vehicle door, Sam spun toward the trees and motioned toward four of the men beside him. “Someone’s at the van. Go take care of them.”

Without another glance at his men, he headed her way. She’d run out of time.

He stood a few feet away from her and crossed his arms over his chest. “For years your father had me tail you. Did you know that? All those times you thought you slipped away unnoticed. Not even Jacob knew what you were up to.”

He leaned forward and grabbed her chin, squeezing until tears threatened. Hell, no. She wasn’t about to give him the satisfaction. But he’d learned his lesson from earlier and forced her jaw shut, so she couldn’t spit on him this time. She couldn’t even fight back.

“All those sad, pathetic, little half-breeds,” Sam taunted, waggling her jaw from side to side. The ringing pain in her head became a discord of drums beating on her temples. “And there you were, trying to rescue them, and we were testing them.”

He stepped backward as the two humans emerged again from the trees, dragging an unconscious man between them. One she recognized all too well.

They tossed Breslin at her feet, and she bit back a gasp as his head landed inches from her ankle. What happened to the invincible Ghost who was more dangerous than anyone she knew? Her pulse jacked at the thought. His death would be another in her long list of regrets. Not that anybody would ever believe her if she admitted sadness over the death of an enforcer.

“What testing?”

Sam laughed, the sound ugly and empty. “Rebel evacuated the major lab an hour before you got there. Just to make it fun, we took some of those pathetic little monsters and told them to run for their lives. Not one got away.”

He licked his lips in a way that made her stomach turn, and she swallowed back vomit. Who the heck was Rebel?

Pleased with her reaction, he moved closer. He pulled back his boot and kicked Breslin in the rib cage. The body moved on impact without a cringe or sign of consciousness “Looks like he’s dead. Doubt old Alpha Black will lose a night’s sleep over his Ghost.”

“Sir, I have a call coming in for you,” one of the men said before he walked toward the trees and out of everyone’s hearing.

Rayven watched Sam leave and felt a soft, warm touch of lips on her exposed ankle. She bit back a reaction, even as a shiver passed through her body. He was alive. Nothing had given her so much joy in the last few months.

Sam’s voice carried from beyond the trees. “Why? You’ve already got people looking for the family.” The men left on guard glanced around, anywhere but at Rayven. “Like hell.”

Breslin cracked open one eye and whispered, “Jacob’s warning him not to harm you. Get ready.”

How could he have heard that? Her hearing was good, but—oh right, cat. She could only smell Sam a quarter mile away, not nearly as convenient a skill as long-range hearing.

Sam charged back into the clearing, phone at his ear. He waved his hand at the guards to move into the trees. “Fine, Jacob, I’ll use restraints only.” He grabbed her bound wrists and pulled her toward him, yanking her arms high enough he pulled her to her knees. He clipped a leash to her restraints and tossed her facedown onto the ground. Only Breslin’s bound hands managed to stop her face from impact. He lay hidden beneath her. Luckily, Sam failed to notice Breslin’s change in position, too incensed by his new orders.

“I can’t guarantee she’ll be in one piece if she gets feisty,” he continued before he threw the phone into the trees and whirled back on her. “Let’s see how you smirk at me when that pretty face of yours is ripped apart from rocks and gravel.”

He jerked on the leash, dragging her toward him as he back-stepped toward the bushes. She flipped with a grunt, shot to her feet, and used her body weight, intending to pull the leash from his hold.

Unfortunately, he didn’t wobble as she’d hoped, or release the leash, and instead charged her. She turned sideways as he kicked, but he caught her in the hip and she went flying backward onto the ground. She rolled and forced herself up, prepared for more.

Behind Sam, she caught Breslin’s open eyes narrow with unswerving focus, and his mouth tighten into a hard, merciless line, right before all hell broke loose.

* * *

Breslin tensed as Sam dragged Rayven across the clearing. His assault signaled Breslin’s time to ditch the bonds and take charge. First, he needed to clear out the rest of the hired guns and shifters. Everyone stood riveted to the scene playing out before them, their backs to him.

Just the opportunity he needed. Reaching down toward his waist with his tied wrists, he slid the zip tie beneath a hidden hook designed in his belt loop. The edge cut the plastic as quickly as any claw.

He burst to his feet and snagged the leash holding Rayven captive before ripping apart the ropes binding her wrists. As she crouched to free her feet, he moved between her and the remaining men and Sam. The bastard slid backward into the crowd as a new shifter entered the fray from the woods. Breslin inhaled and analyzed the scent on the breeze. Not a wolf scent, but a coyote, and the man was a half-breed at that.

Before he had time to consider more, one of the enforcers shifted and lunged for him. Breslin landed a snap kick into the muzzle of the wolf, halting and dropping him like a rock.

Rayven dodged around his side, grabbing the rifle barrel from the next human assailant, and whipped it around to smack him in the skull with the butt. The fool had misjudged the speed of a female shifter. Rayven might not embrace her bear, but her reaction time beat that of any human here.

Breslin moved past her and twisted in time to drive his elbow up into another shifter’s throat, swinging down with a hammer-fist strike before the man could summon his wolf.

Three down.

As he vaulted to strike the next wolf with his feet, he caught the coyote shifter tackling another of Sam’s men to the ground. Help in a pinch made him a momentary ally, but trust wasn’t earned that easily.

A spray of pine bark scattered across Breslin’s cheek. He spun on the last human crouched in front of Sam, reloading his weapon. Breslin leaped across the fallen bodies and shot a palm heel strike to the throat of the remaining human hunter. He flew backward and hit a tree trunk. Evidently too determined to die, he scrambled up for more punishment. Breslin kneed him in the head, and he sank to the ground.

Satisfied the idiot wasn’t dead but would wake up in several hours with a serious headache, Breslin searched for Sam. He caught the movement of the enforcer out of the corner of his eye and the glint of a pistol. No.

Breslin charged, managing to knock Sam’s arm, and both of them went down. Ready to finish off the enforcer, he heard his cougar whine and smelled fresh blood. Rayven’s blood. He swore and rolled, grabbing Sam by his shirt and tossing him toward the coyote shifter. They could kill each other for he cared.

Feral growls and snapping teeth rang behind him as both of them shifted and battled. He ignored everything and dropped to Rayven’s side.

“It’s not that bad,” she said, kneeling on the ground, one bloodstained hand over her shoulder. “Don’t think it hit anything major.”

“It hit you, that’s major enough.” Breslin caught her before she wavered and eased her to the ground. “This propensity you have for getting injured is going to be a fatal problem. You know that, right?”

“Wiseass.” She glanced over his shoulder toward the final battle which had gone strangely silent. “I’ll be fine. We need to get to the Wilsons before Jacob’s team finds them.”

“Wrong answer,” Breslin said. “Do you know if the bullet went through?”

She kept her eyes closed but nodded. “Hit the tree behind me.”

“Good.” He rolled her gently to her side and moved his hands beneath her shirt.

“What the hell are you doing?” The coyote shifter, back in his human form and looking none the worse for wear except for the blood streaking his arms, stalked toward them and halted a foot behind Rayven.

“I could ask you the same question, Quinn,” Rayven said quietly. “Where is Sam?”

“He got the best of me with the last swipe, sent me into the friggin’ bushes. But I’d already given him marks that will take him days to heal. By the time I got free, he’d run like a coward instead.”

She smacked at Breslin’s hands as he attempted to push down the waistband of her pants. “What are you doing?”

“Retrieving the first aid kit I stowed on you.” Breslin ran his fingers along the inside of her wide waistband, sliding open a hidden seam there running from one hipbone to the other. He plucked out a long folded plastic pouch and placed it on her stomach before rolling her waistband back in place. He’d been impressed with the nurse’s choice of pants, containing an attachable waist pack, when he’d borrowed the clothes for Rayven. Now he thanked his good luck.

He gave her a quick look, taking in her pale face and the amount of blood soaking her sweatshirt. “Let’s see what we’re dealing with.”

Taking a grip at the neck of her sweatshirt, he ripped open the fabric enough to clearly see the bleeding bullet wound between her clavicle and shoulder ball. He bit back a curse and then unrolled the pouch and removed several alcohol wipes, a pack of suturing thread, some gauze, and a folded paper sleeve of needles, dropping them on top of the pouch. The other items would be of little use to a shifter, but he took out the individual-dose aspirin packs anyway.

“You’re going to stitch me up here?” she asked, body tensing.

“Yep.” He looked at Quinn. The newcomer stood over them naked, hands fisted at his sides, and his eyes riveted to Rayven’s wound. “Are you here to help? Because I don’t have time for drama.”

“She’s part of my clan and you aren’t. Which is why you need to move away from her.” Quinn stepped closer, his hair half shielding his face.

“He’s—” Rayven started.

“Not important right now.” Breslin didn’t need to see him or scent Quinn to detect the desperation that oozed from the man.

“At least let me sit up,” Rayven countered.

Stubborn woman. But he lifted her back to her knees, holding her in place until she got her bearings.

“Jacob sent me on a job nearby,” Quinn continued. “Had me drop off a vehicle. I ran across Sam’s trail and knew that couldn’t be good.”

Breslin wiped away the blood from the wound and shifted Rayven’s position to block her view of Quinn. It wasn’t that he had any modesty, shifters being naked around each other after shifting wasn’t uncommon in most clans.

But Rayven wasn’t just any shifter. His beast wanted her shielded from other men, and Quinn had charged to the rescue with too much recklessness for just a friend, heightening the possessiveness in Breslin’s cougar. A dangerous situation and one that required he manage his beast and himself. “Since your clan doesn’t seem to share magic, go borrow some clothes from one of the unconscious men. Make sure they’re tied up tight too.”

“Why not kill them?”

“There’s no need, and it shouldn’t be our default option.” Breslin continued examining her and shouted over his shoulder, “Bring some extra shirts. Clean ones if you can find them.”

“Any other demands?” Quinn muttered as he moved to one of the humans and stripped off the man’s black cargo pants and T-shirt.

“Yes. Brace her back. She’ll jerk by reflex and that will only hurt her more as I sew her up. Keep her shoulder and neck immobile.”

“She’s right here,” Rayven muttered without much venom.

“Good to know.” Breslin finished threading the needle and handed it to Rayven. “You feel well enough to assist with your own surgery?”

“Depends on whether you’ve ever done this before.” Her voice came out a bit too soft for his peace of mind, and he brushed the back of his hand against her forehead and cheek. Her skin was cool to the touch, yet her eyes looked a bit glazed. Evidently, her bear wasn’t kicking in to help her, which left her at a serious disadvantage. What she’d already endured would have killed most humans.

In the back of his mind, he wanted to know more about the child rescues Sam was talking about when Breslin’s captors had dumped him at Rayven’s feet. One thing was certain, Rayven Karndottir was nothing like her father. At least if Sam’s claims were true.

“Sewed myself up several times,” he responded as he gauged the placement of Quinn’s hands on Rayven. It angered him to have another man touch the woman his cat wanted desperately to claim, but the thought of her ripping stitches as he punctured her skin bothered him more.

He moved Quinn’s hand to her upper arm and pointed toward her clavicle where he wanted the second hold. Then he brushed the black curls away from Rayven’s face. “I’ll work fast. Push back against him if you need to.”

“What did you do when you stitched your own wounds?” Her gaze traveled over his face, ending with a look at his lips that heated his blood.

“I carried a knife with a tough handle.” She met his eyes, still rigid and not leaning on Quinn. He wondered if she was as reluctant with another man’s touch, as he was to see her seek comfort there.

“I’ll give it a try.”

Hell, how fucked up was he that pride surged through him.

“Why would a shifter carry a knife?” Rayven didn’t twitch at Quinn’s snide comment. Instead, she remained focused on Breslin.

“My kills weren’t for sport. Silence and anonymity are an assassin’s best tools. Leaving shifter DNA can lead to consequences for the clan and for falsely accused wildlife.” Breslin withdrew the timeworn knife from a slender pocket in his favorite jeans. Thanks to first Vendrick and then Deacon, he could pull on the magic that blessed their kind, rejuvenating clothing and a few personal items. Since it came back each time he shifted back into these jeans, it seemed his knife counted as part of him.

He offered the carved wooden handle for her to see. Burnished wood marred by the imprint of his teeth.

She swallowed hard and opened her mouth.