Page 9 of Bad Blood Wolf

Maniacal laughter came from the oak tree.

Lissa turned and stared at the snowman, and then up at the tree, where Xander was lying stretched out on a huge branch.

“Xander, you miserable Christmas-hating elf-fucking panther,” she yelled. “You killed my snowman!”

She stomped over to the deflated snowman, pulled the knife out of it, and headed for the tree, yelling the whole way. “Come down out of that tree, you sneaky pussypanther! I’m going to bleed you.”

“Come and get me, Ursa Minor,” Xander called. “I just wanted to add a little realism to the display. Did you know, studies have shown that the number of deaths increase around the holidays?”

“There’s gonna be one more when I get my claws on you,” she snarled. Growls started emanating from her throat.

Tank raised his eyes to the heavens and shook his head. He ran after Lissa and grabbed her jacket, sliding it off her shoulders as she walked. She kicked off her boots, and then she exploded into a black bear and went straight up the tree after Xander, her jeans and t-shirt shredding off her body.

Xander yowled as her claws got him in the flank just as he Changed. He tumbled out of the tree. Lissa leaped after him, and they rolled around on the dead grass, clawing and snapping at each other.

Tank patrolled the perimeter, scooping elves and wire reindeer out of their way, hampered by the pink jacket tucked under his arm. Jasmin detoured to go past him, silently holding out her hand.

Tank handed the jacket over. “Thanks. She loves that jacket.”

It was the first pretty, girly thing Lissa had ever owned, and Tank had bought it for her. Even though it was stupid, it meant a lot to Lissa, and Jasmin didn’t have the heart to see it get ruined in a brawl.

She scooped up the ridiculous bunny boots and took them into the main cabin as well, hanging the jacket on the coat rack and dumping the boots underneath it.

She stepped into the living room and almost got her eye poked out by a branch from the twelve-foot pine tree lying haphazardly in the middle of the floor.

“What the fuck?” she snarled, ducking underneath the branch and stomping toward the open kitchen. Every surface seemed to be covered with lights, garlands, and ornaments that had yet to be put up.

Sloan was standing at the kitchen island, blond hair mussed and morning scruff on his face, breaking eggs into a bowl. He looked hopefully at Jasmin.

She ignored him. As a former professional chef, she did most of the cooking for the crew, but she didn’t cook in the mornings.

Fuck mornings.

Especially when they were full of Christmas cheer.

“Who left a goddamn pine tree in the middle of the floor?” she demanded, pouring herself a giant mug of coffee.

“Flynn,” Sloan said. “He was pissed off because they tried to put it in the dining area.”

“What the hell’s wrong with the dining area?”

“The trapdoor to the weapons locker is under it.”

Jasmin’s hand stopped with the mug halfway to her mouth. “He thinks we’re going to be attacked at Christmas?”

Sloan crossed his arms, widened his stance and deepened his voice in an imitation of Flynn. “It’s not even three months since the Nashville pack tried to kill us. What if there’d been a fucking Christmas tree on top of the weapons stash then?”

Jasmin gave a half-shrug. “He has a point.”

It was true. The only reason they weren’t dead was because of those weapons—and because of the Nashville rebels that had turned on their pack and come to the rescue just in time. The rebels had their own territory now, out in Idaho, led by Donnie Jenkins—the only son of the old Nashville alpha who wasn’t somewhere between a complete asshole and downright evil.

Sloan shrugged. “When they’re done brawling, I’ll help Tank set it up in the other corner, next to the fireplace.”

Jasmin took her coffee and went to the window. “It’s already over,” she said.

Xander was still in panther form, licking the scratches on his flank and sending Lissa baleful glances.

Tank had taken off his shirt and was wrapping Lissa up in it, oblivious to the blood seeping through from her own wounds. They must be minor—Tank ruffled her hair, grinning, and said something that made her laugh. Then he scooped her up in his arms and headed for the house.