Page 1 of Bad Blood Alpha

Chapter 1

There was bad trouble coming—Flynn could smell it. It had been following him for months, like a monster in the shadows, raising the hair on the back of his neck and making that spot between his shoulder blades prickle in warning.

Like an unseen knife was about to come out of the dark and stab his entire life through its heart, destroying his shifter crew and everything they’d built together.

He’d keep that from happening if it was the last thing he ever did.

It probably would be.

The nightclub was filled with writhing bodies and dark shadows cut by flashing neon lights. Flynn leaned against the wall near the bar, the vibration of the too-damn-loud music rattling his back teeth, making his head pound and jangling his nerves.

Whoever had invented clubbing should be stuffed into a glass VIP booth with eighty-six other people and forced to listen to a never-ending loop of techno party music until their head exploded. Or until someone vomited appletinis all over their gelled-up hair and skinny jeans.

Flynn hated crowds, and nightclubs, and people. And the stupid shit they said to each other when they were trying to get laid. And…people.

To his lion shifter senses, the whole place stank: the chemical artificial fog, the perfume and fancy cocktails, and the overheated bodies pressed too close together, oozing with lust and anxiety and the brittle desperation of too many people trying too hard to convince each other they were having a good time.

But his contact liked meeting in clubs. He liked the anonymity. As a twenty-something who could pass as a hipster, the asshole could blend in. Flynn, not so much—considering that he was a fucking six-foot-six lion shifter the size of a linebacker, with a crap-ton of shaggy black dreadlocks.

People noticed. And got out of the way, usually, which was how he liked it.

But to someone with his military training, a club was a nightmare. A huge room packed with bodies, where people were constantly touching and bumping into each other, where anyone could come up behind you and slip a stiletto between your ribs, and melt into the crowd before your body hit the floor.

Or drop poison in your drink. Hell, he could think of about sixteen ways to kill someone in this room without getting caught.

He subtly shifted his body, feeling the comforting weight of his weapons. The gun in his shoulder holster under his oh-so-unfashionable leather vest. The backup strapped to his right thigh under his equally unfashionable cargo pants, where he’d ripped the backing out of the side pocket so he could reach right through to the weapon if he needed it.

Some people dressed for style; some for comfort. When Flynn went out in a crowd, he dressed for battle.

He scanned the club for his contact. Again. His body language deliberately said casual—maybe even bored. Slouched against the cinder blocks, one knee bent so the sole of his boot pressed flat against the wall.

But he was paying attention to everything. Because…paranoid. Always had been, always would be.

Fletcher was late. Flynn glanced at his phone. No messages. Fuck.

He tried to tell himself it didn’t mean anything. The guy could have hit traffic. Changed his mind.

Or he could have found out too much, and be lying in a pool of blood somewhere.

That place between Flynn’s shoulder blades was prickling again. A few months ago, he’d used ancient magical dragon artifacts to rescue one of his crew from a life-threatening situation. He’d known that would draw some attention—both from people who wanted the artifacts’ power, and from the original owners. He’d been waiting ever since to find out who would find him first—and what they’d want from him.

Because fucking dragons always wanted something.

And the other people who wanted the artifacts would kill him to get them.

He absently rubbed one of the cuff bracelets that encircled both his wrists. He’d wrapped them in leather because they were pure gold, which tended to draw attention. He used to keep them in his safe, but lately, when he was in a crowd, he felt better with them on.

If there was a price to be paid for using them, he just had to make sure that he was the one who paid it. Not his crew, who’d fucking been through enough.

As if on cue, his phone vibrated with a text alert.

Shit. Not his contact.

It was Xander. Again. Black panther, recent dad, and by far the most annoying member of his crew.

Did your date show up yet?

He’d made the mistake of telling the crew he was going out to a club. Implying that he was going to meet a woman, because they didn’t know about his contact or his intel operation, and he planned to keep it that way.