Isn’t that what you’re about to do, Dec?
He snarled silently, teeth and tongue wet with exertion.Yes.To his kind, Epocwasthe Devil.
The growing wind rippled through his fur, ruffled its length along his spine.He weaved through the trees, knowing the guards almost snapped at his heels but loath to run any faster.Not until the north fence-line came into view, at least.
After that, even a cheetah would be humbled by his speed.
The gusting, hot wind shifted, blew into his face, flattened his ears to his head, and with it came the strong scent of theEudeyrnAlpha.Anger roared through Declan.At the exact moment the northern boundary came into view.
Behind him a wolf howled, an ear-shattering alarm that their target was about to escape.
Declan creased his muzzle in a wolfish grin and he finally let his full speed surge through his legs.Come and get me, you flea-bitten whelps.With an image of Regan smiling and laughing in his mind, he vaulted the fence, hind legs clearing the razor-sharp steel points a heartbeat before Epoc’s Beta guard tried to snap his jaw shut on them.
He pounded into the night.Heading toward the distinct and belligerent scent of the Animal Control officers, his blood roaring, Peter’s bullet wound a burning throb in his chest.If the cop’s trap failed…
Let’s hope Animal Control in this country know how to do their job, Dec.
Nine different growls followed him over the fence.Filled his ears.Close.Very close.
Too close.
Ears flat, Declan pushed forward harder.
Jesus, please let the Australians know what they’re doing.
Peter moved through the dim hallway, revolver raised, nerves tight.His gut churned, telling him everything was wrong.O’Connell had warned him they were walking into a trap, that Epoc would be waiting for them, but he’d expected something other than empty, quiet hallways.Wherewaseveryone?
The sound of his footfalls on the marble floor echoed off the richly-painted walls, and it seemed to Peter the eyes of the massive portraits hanging on them followed his progress.Sharp, almost animal-like stares weighed down on him, each subject wearing a look of arrogant contempt, as if they knew who andwhathe was—mere human—and only waited now to witness his impending death.It was complete rubbish, of course.He’d seen enough B-grade movies to know about the “ubiquitous stare” phenomenon butknowingdidn’t make walking under the ancient paintings any less disconcerting.For fuck’s sake, until an hour ago he hadn’t believed in werewolves.Now he was raiding one’s house to save his sister.Who knew if the eyes of the paintings really were just pigment and linseed oil?
He moved his stare from the portraits, studying a collection of swords hanging from the wall in an ornate display.Long, bronze and obviously heavy, each bore engraved images of wolves in their shiny blade, wolves who looked like men.A chill rippled up Peter’s spine.Those swords seemed to radiate death, as if countless men had lost their souls to their wicked edges.Wielded with lethal grace by those not entirely human.Waiting to taste blood once more.
Peter ground his teeth and raised the revolver closer to his shoulder, disgust roaring through him.Jesus, you’re getting yourself worked up over?—
“Hello, Detective.”
He spun, gun raised, heart thumping.
Yolanda Vischka stood behind him, her lush, sensual body encased in snug, black leather.An unreadable, blue gaze studied his face, a small wry smile pulling at her full, blood-red lips.“You are planning to shoot me, yes?”
Peter aimed the revolver at her left breast.“Yes.”
Her smile turned sad and for a moment her eyes seemed to shine with tears.And then she blinked and the same lofty expression she’d worn for most of the day returned.“’Tis a pity.After everything we have shared.”
Peter’s blood turned hot.He glared at her, anger and self-contempt stringing his nerves tight.“After the way you played me for an idiot, you mean?Perfect reason to shoot you, if you ask me.”
She shrugged, but a flash of what looked like sorrow crossed her features.“If you must.”
Keeping the heavy revolver leveled on her heart, he closed the distance between them.“Just who the hell are you, Yolanda?”
“I work for Nathan Epoc.”
“No shit, Sherlock.”He shook his head, disgust coating his mouth.“How could I have been so stupid?”
Indignation flared in her eyes and her shoulders snapped straight.“I think it had something to do with your cock.”
Fury thumped at Peter’s chest.He rammed the gun against the swell of Yolanda’s breast, his pulse a rapid tattoo in his neck, his gut a churning mess.The urge to shoot her was powerful.His gut told him to do just that.To make her pay for her deception.To make her suffer the way Reggie may be suffering now.But his heart…His heart wanted him to throw the gun he’d taken from the antiquities dealer away, crush her to his chest and demand an explanation for her behavior.Demand an apology he would accept, before kissing her passionately until both their heads spun.He bit back a curse.Christ.He was more screwed up than he thought.“Where’s my sister?”he ground out, hating himself as much as he hated the woman before him.
Yolanda met his level gaze.“Being used as bait.”A shadow fell over her face—sad, regretful—and she took a slight step back.“As am I.”
