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Last Wolf Watching. Rhyannon ByrdЧитать онлайн книгу.

Last Wolf Watching - Rhyannon  Byrd


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on by his scars because of the violence they represented. But even then, they still feared him because of his sheer physical size and power. And they got off on that fear, using it as a twisted means of sharpening the thrill when they found themselves beneath a man who could too easily break them if he wanted.

      Users, each and every one of them, and they’d used him until Brody had just grown tired of it all and said to hell with it—to hell with women—no matter how badly his body ached for one.

      And you’re being an asshole. Michaela isn’t like that, and you damn well know it.

      He ground his jaw down until his teeth ached, soaking in the pain, knowing he deserved it. He was being an idiot, because truth be told, Michaela Doucet scared the ever-loving hell out of him. Despite his determination to stay away from her, he’d known, deep down, that he’d come tonight. Known, instinctively, that it was where he belonged.

      He hated it—but there was no sense denying that he needed to be here to protect her. The entire time he’d hiked through the woods, he’d sworn to himself that he’d watch from the sidelines. Simply ensure she didn’t get herself into more trouble than she could handle, and he had no doubt she could cause trouble. The woman lived up to her fiery Cajun heritage like a pro, whipping men into a frenzy of lust wherever she went.

      Even now, when she was an emotional wreck, he could sense the unmated males’ interest as the Lycans watched her with a dark, feral hunger, the edgy scent of their lust thick on the air, making him want to snap at them with his jaws.

      She was just too beautiful for her own good. And too damn fearless! He still couldn’t believe the depth of her anger toward the pack, or her willingness to confront them over the treatment of her brother. He wondered if the Doucet kid knew how lucky he was to have someone who cared that much about him, who was willing to risk her life because she wanted to keep him safe.

      There was obviously a lot more to Michaela Doucet than a pretty face and a body most men would die for the chance to cover—and the uncomfortable knowledge made Brody want to let go of her, turn around and never come within a God-given mile of her again.

      But his arms wouldn’t cooperate. If anything, his grip tightened, the sensation of her soft curves plastered down the front of his body enough to make his teeth gnash. He’d known she’d feel incredible if he ever had the chance to be this close to her, to touch her, burying his face in her hair and letting her rich, seductive scent sink into him—but he hadn’t realized her effect would actually make his knees shake…or his mouth water for a slow, deep, intimate taste of her.

      He wanted her on his tongue. All of her. Everywhere. His face lowered, lips rubbing against the smooth silk of her hair, and he was a breath away from sliding lower, nuzzling behind her ear, when he suddenly realized where they were…and what he was doing.

      Goddamn it! He’d worked so hard to master control of himself—there was no damned way he planned on letting her strip it away so easily. But holding her…it was even more dangerous than he’d imagined. Richer. Sweeter. Every cell of his body ached with the need to claim, to accept the dark truth he refused to even consider.

      â€œBrody?” The sound of his name jerked him out of his internal hell, and he realized Mason was standing just a little to his left, a few feet behind him. He could hear his friend’s confusion, as well as his surprise that Brody had been the one to grab hold of Michaela. Around them, the pack’s energy grew sharper with the promise of confrontation between the Elders and the indomitable human he held in his arms, and Brody understood the need to retreat back to the safety of the other Runners.

      â€œIt’s okay, Mase,” he grated under his breath, carrying her with him as he backed up a few steps until flanked by their supporters. “We’re under control here. I’ve got her.”

      She’d grown quiet, but trembled in his arms even as she lifted her head high, too fragile for such strength, a contradiction that set his teeth on edge at the same time she sent his pulse rate soaring. He gently lowered her body until her feet touched the ground, but didn’t release his hold on her—and she didn’t try to pull away. She just stood there, pressed against his length, and stared soundlessly at her brother, the rapid panting of her breath making a quiet rasp through her parted lips.

      With a knot in his gut, Brody wondered if they had explained to her exactly what the Novitiate’s ceremony entailed. Any moment now, Max Doucet would experience his first shift as a Lycan. Under close watch, his guards would have alerted the Elders when it was time to begin, recognizing the signs. Fever. Sweating. Cramping. The initial change was always the hardest, both mentally and physically, and only the strongest humans survived. Brody hoped the kid had it in him, because if his body failed to completely accept the shape of his wolf, yet he still lived, the rules of the ceremony were that he’d be killed—and then he and the others would have a battle on their hands, with Drake inciting the pack into a vicious frenzy.

      With a cruel smile, the Elder’s cold gray stare traveled over their united force, lingering with bitter disapproval on his offspring, Eric and Elise, before cutting to Jillian Murphy. “It’s clear where your loyalties now lie,” he sneered, curling his lip as he addressed the pack’s Spirit Walker. Through her maternal bloodline, Jillian held the sacred position of holy woman, or witch, for the Silvercrest pack. She was also the mate and fiancée of Brody’s fellow Bloodrunner, Jeremy Burns. Beneath Drake’s scornful stare, Jillian didn’t so much as bat a lash, but beside her, Jeremy bristled with outrage.

      â€œRest assured, Jillian, that I’ll be demanding your resignation,” Drake continued with malicious pleasure. “Silvercrest will no doubt be better off without you. We can’t have you marring the purity of our young through your association with ones who are so repulsively impure. To be honest, I’m surprised you have the gall to face us.”

      â€œAnd after last week, I’m surprised you don’t know any better than to watch what you say to my mate,” Jeremy snarled as he took an aggressive step forward, looking more than ready to knock the racist Elder on his ass. Brody knew just how badly Jeremy wanted to take Drake apart, piece by satisfying piece, and he didn’t blame him. Under the Elder’s orchestration, an attempt had been made on Jillian’s life the previous week, and it was only by some clever thinking on the part of Eric Drake that Jeremy hadn’t killed the bastard in a murderous rage. If he had, the Silvercrest penalty would have been death, and Brody and the Runners would have lost a man who was more like a brother to them than a mere friend.

      â€œAre you threatening me?” the Elder demanded of Jeremy, the sinister gleam of triumph in his chilling gaze revealing his ploy. He wanted Jeremy to make a move on him tonight, so that he could retaliate with the full force of the pack, using his position to strike out against the Runners.

      Before Jeremy could react, Mason placed a cautioning hand on his partner’s shoulder and Jillian stepped into his side, putting her arms around his waist. The group held their collective breath as they waited to see what he would do. Finally, Jeremy shook his fisted hands out at his sides, and draped his arm around his fiancée’s shoulders. “I don’t make threats,” he said in a quiet drawl, flashing the Elder a contemptuous smile. “I make promises. I’d tell you to speak to my mate with respect, but the truth is that you’re not good enough to speak to her at all.”

      Drake looked round at the pack. “Are you going to allow him to address his betters with such lack of respect?”

      â€œStefan,” Dylan Riggs softly muttered, speaking for the first time, while the other Elders remained silent, their expressions tight with concern.

      â€œThe pack knows who deals with its trash so that it can sleep in peace at night,” Cian called out, his words crisp with the lilting notes of his Irish accent. He pulled a pack of cigarettes from the pocket of his black leather jacket, placed one between his lips, and cupped his


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