of frustration.
He was a Bloodrunner, the offspring of his human mother and Lycan father. A hunter of rogue werewolves. A protector of the Lycan way of life for the Silvercrest pack. But unlike his fellow Runners, Brody knew that in some ways he was more monster than man. He walked a delicate balance between the two opposing worlds, and the woman inside this house upped the stakes to a dangerous, deadly level. For too many months, his beast had been denied the physical pleasures that fed its soul, not unlike the way a wild kill fed his animal appetites. By the time heâd understood the dangerous effects of his self-imposed celibacyâit was too late. He hadnât dared to seek out a woman, even a Lycan one, because he didnât trust his human half to be able to master the savage urges of his beast.
Then Michaela Doucet had walked into his life, and Brody discovered what it was like to live in true fearâwhat it was like to live in hell. Every moment spent in her company took him one step closer to the crumbling edge of his control, until he could all but feel the fires of damnation licking at his skin.
âYou need to go home, grab a bottle of Jack and find a way to forget she even exists,â he muttered to himself, squeezing his eyes tight as he lifted his fist and knocked harder, all but shaking the sturdy door within its frame, nearly cracking the wood. The wind grew savage, riffling through his hair, pulling the dark auburn strands across his face until he had to swipe at them with his hand. Drawing in another deep, ragged breath, Brody hammered at the door againâ¦and again, feeling every bit the part of the Big Bad Wolf getting ready to huff, and puff and blow her picture-perfect world to pieces.
Finally, the lock on the front door clicked, the handle turning, and Brody shoved his shaky hands deep in the pockets of his jeans, steeling himself to get what needed to be said over and done with as fast as possible. After all, heâd come tonight to tell the woman whoâd become his secret obsession that sheâd lost her brotherâor rather, the brother sheâd always known.
The boy sheâd raised was gone. Forever.
âAnd you get to be the lucky bastard who tells her,â he snarled, the whispered words so guttural, they barely sounded human.
Brody muttered a foul word under his breath, and with the rasping ease of an old, comfortable house, the front door quietly openedâ¦
Chapter 1
Eighteen hours laterâ¦
Fear sat on the tip on Michaela Doucetâs tongue, as bitter as an aspirin waiting to be swallowed. It possessed a sharp, acidic flavor that made her mouth water in the way that it does when youâre about to be sick, while her eyes burned with a stinging wash of gathering tears. She willed them back with the sheer stubborn force of her will, reminding herself again and again that Doucets werenât ones to cower. Raised in the superstition-rich environment of the Louisiana Bayou, sheâd grown up on whispered tales of ghosts and goblins, vampires and werewolves.
Yes, sheâd always been a believer, even if sheâd never seen proof of the paranormal creatures most humans consigned to the realm of fantasy and fiction. But now the veil between the two worlds had been lifted. Two weeks ago, she and her brother Max had learned the truth about the secret that resided in the eastern mountains just a few hoursâ drive west of their home in Covington, Maryland. Werewolves did indeed live among us. Some good. Some bad. Some so evil, they were more monsters than men.
And then there were others who were truly heroes. Dark, dangerous and tortured ones, yesâbut undoubtedly heroic.
Michaelaâs best friend, Torrance Watson, had fallen in love with one such hero: Mason Dillinger, a man who was half humanâhalf Lycan. Mason was one of a select breed of hunters known as Bloodrunners who were committed to hunting down and exterminating the rogue Lycans whoâd begun murdering humans. Because of their half-human bloodlines, the Runners lived separately from the Silvercrest werewolf pack they protected, in a place named Bloodrunner Alley.
The Doucets had been under Bloodrunner protection ever since a rogue werewolf had made a move on Torranceâs life. And while Michaela didnât care for the lack of privacy, Wyatt Pallaton and Carla Reyesâthe Bloodrunning team assigned to their protectionâhad become friends to both her and Max. She had been thankful for their watchful eye, especially for her brotherâs sake.
Yes, she could accept the existence of werewolves. Sheâd even begun to embrace a few of them as part of her family. But tonight, terror consumed her.
Beneath the wraithlike streams of silvery moonlight, the autumn wind whistled past her ears, reminding her of a specter imparting secrets, the cool frost of its voice chilling against her skin. Shivering, she inhaled deeply through her nose, searching for the fresh scents of the surrounding forest, for pinesap and juniper and the moist smell of the soil. Like a frightened child grasping at a frayed security blanket, she needed the familiarity of those things to ground her in a world that had tilted on its axis, knocking her off balanceâbut all she could find was the acrid stench of aggression. Feral and thick, the heavy scent closed around her like a physical vise, banding her chest, making it difficult to draw enough air into her lungs.
Even as an outsider in this ominous setting, she understood instinctively what the menacing energy permeating the night signified. They were readyâthe Silvercrest packâs anticipation ripe for the ceremony that would soon begin.
Hold it together, she silently scolded. Do not fall apart.
Willing her backbone to keep her upright, Michaela focused on the towering blaze of a roaring bonfire that rose from the far side of the clearing, its orange flames burning with maniacal zeal against the ink-black curtain of night. Not even the stars shone in the eastern sky. Only the moon burned in the stygian darkness of the heavens, its yellowed mass seeming to reflect the fiery glow of the sinister flames.
The mountains were silent but for the low, nearby noises that filled her ears, more animal-like than human. This was Silvercrest pack land, and the werewolves were tired of waiting. Michaela kept her gaze fixed on the fire, aware that many of the Lycans had already shifted into their preternatural shapes, their fur-covered bodies standing like monstrous shadows at the edges of the forest as they waited with restless expectancy.
If not for her friends, sheâd have thought she was in hell. But she wasnât alone, thank God. Mason stood on her left, while Torrance moved in closer to her right side and grabbed her hand, squeezing her icy fingers in support as the wind surged around them, rattling the autumn leaves upon the gnarled branches of the trees, scattering others in the ravaging gusts. It still seemed astonishing that her best friend, whoâd always been wary of the supernatural, had married a man who could howl at the moon, but Michaela liked Mason, as well as respected him. And there was no denying that the gorgeous half-breed was head over heels in love with his redheaded wife.
âEverythingâs going to be okay,â Torrance murmured, the tone of her voice soothing, as if gentling a cornered animal. âMason wonât let anything happen to Max, I promise.â
Okay? she thought, blinking rapidly as tears threatened to spill once more from her raw, swollen eyes. How was that even possible? Her nineteen-year-old brother had been attacked by a rogue werewolfâa Lycan who preyed upon humans for food. Max had been bitten in the attack, which meant he was no longer human, but a breed of creature that existed between the two worlds of man and beast, much like the Bloodrunners themselves.
Last night, it had been Carla Reyesâs turn to wait at the hospital while Max worked his shift as a security guard. Michaela had been enjoying a relaxing
