Moonburn (23 page)

Red stamped his feet, dislodging snow, and then gave a doglike shake before stepping over the threshold. He held the gun angled low, but his hands were positioned so that he could easily swing it up and level it at Hunter. Or at me. “Mind telling me what he’s doing here?”

“Pushing his luck.”

Red kept his eyes on my face. “Should I shoot him for you?”

If there had been a hint of Red’s usual wry humor in his face or voice, I would have pretended to consider it. As it was, I said, “There’s no need, Red.”

Glancing at Hunter, Red moved past him, toward the fire. “You’re both wearing my shirts,” he said, almost conversationally.

“His shirt was covered with blood, and I had to cut it off. He needed first aid,” I added, trying to emphasize that this had not been a social call.

Red grunted and held his hands up to the fire, ostentatiously presenting us with his back. “And did he get some?”

I swallowed, thinking fast. If he were close to his own change, Red would be able to smell everything that had happened. Despite my attempts at cleaning up, he would be able to detect the traces of every bodily fluid that had
been spilled. But Red was in human form, and he had been out in the cold for a long time, possibly hours. Maybe his nose was numb.

“I patched up his wound,” I allowed, glancing at Hunter, who was grinning in a most provocative way. I made the gesture of drawing my finger across my throat.

“Yes, it was purely a medical situation,” Hunter said, his tone suggesting the opposite. I shot him a warning look. Red had overlooked my moment of strangeness with Malachy, but this situation felt very different. I didn’t think Red would be offering my former husband any refreshments.

After another moment, Red rested his rifle within easy reach before pulling the coonskin hat off his head. “He staying, or going?”

“Going,” I said, at the same time as Hunter said, “staying.”

Red took off his damp sheepskin coat and laid it over a chair. “Going would be better.”

“For you, or for her?” Hunter dragged a chair closer to the fire. “Even though we’re not married, I still care about Abra.” He made a show of rotating his left arm as though it were still sore. “Even when she hurts me, I don’t retaliate.”

I didn’t fall for it; if that little brush with the wall really had bruised him, it would heal within the next half hour.

“I’m not going to hurt her, if that’s what you’re implying,” Red said, struggling to unlace his snow boots with stiff fingers.

“Here,” I said, “let me help you.” I knelt by his feet and pulled at the snow- and ice-encrusted laces. When I looked up, Red’s face was carefully blank.

“Thanks.” He pulled off the boots and I saw that his socks were soaked through. A few of his toes were white, and I sucked in a sharp breath.

“That looks like the beginnings of frostbite. We have to warm you up slowly.”

Red looked past me at Hunter. “Tell him to leave, first.”

I didn’t hesitate. “Hunter, leave. I appreciate your concern, but it’s misplaced.” Placing my hands on Red’s icy feet, I tried to think how best to warm them. “Can you feel anything?” I brought his feet under my shirt, against my bare breasts.

“Not yet.” His voice was perfectly even, as if his feet were resting on a hot water bottle instead of against my bare flesh.

“This is going to take too long. We need to get your feet immersed in some lukewarm water.” I grabbed an afghan from the back of the couch and wrapped it around Red’s feet.

As I ran water in the kettle, Hunter approached me, keeping a careful eye on Red. “Is it just me, or is he acting a little peculiar? I know if you put my toes where you put his toes, I’d manage to crack a smile.”

“Hunter, please get out of here.” Now that Red was warming up, he had begun to sniff the air. So far, he looked puzzled rather than angry, but I didn’t know how long that would last. Sex, like blood, leaves a strong olfactory footprint.

“I’m concerned. He’s not exactly acting like his friendly Texan self, is he?”

Red fixed Hunter with an unfriendly look. “Don’t push it tonight, Hunter.” His voice was very quiet.

“Hunter, take a look at him.” I put the kettle on the wood-burning stove. “He’s half frozen.”

Hunter jerked his thumb in Red’s direction. “Ah, yes. And is that why he’s glowering at you like that?”

I had to do a little two-step to get around Hunter, and Red gave a low growl of irritation. “No, I think your presence has more to do with that.” Kneeling back
down by Red, I said, “Here, give me your feet again.” Wrapping my fingers around his chilled flesh, I realized that the bottom of his jeans were wet. “Okay. We’re going to need to get your pants off.”

Red’s eyes met mine. “If I start stripping, I might just decide to take a bite out of your ex over there.”

“Hunter,” I said, thoroughly exasperated now. “I’ve already asked you to leave.”

“I’m just worried about you,” he said, and Red gave a short, harsh laugh.

“I know what’s worrying you,” he said, beginning to stand. “You’re worried I’m going to breed her, and you’ll have missed your chance.”

I put my hands on my hips. “First of all, I’m nobody’s prize bitch, and nobody’s breeding me. Second of all, Hunter doesn’t even want kids. Third of all, Red, you shouldn’t walk on frostbitten feet.” I might as well have been a Chihuahua yapping for all the attention the men paid me.

“I don’t like your tone, old man,” said Hunter, in his most aggravatingly faux British accent.

“Let me rephrase it.” Red pulled his wool sweater over his head. “She’s in heat, and you want her. But you left over a year ago, and Abra’s mine now.”

“I rather think that depends on what the lady says.” Hunter turned to me, and I realized that for some reason, my werewolf of an almost ex was more in control than my shapeshifter lover. Something was very wrong here. The moon was supposed to be riding us, but Red was a very different sort of beast.

And something else was wrong, because for the first time since I’d met him, I felt a faint, nervous tension building inside of me. To my surprise, Red’s air of quiet menace was giving me butterflies in my stomach.

At that moment, the kettle started whistling, and I poured the boiling water into a big cast-iron pot that we
sometimes used to bathe rescued animals. “How about you help me bring this over to Red, Hunter, and then leave?”

Hunter lifted the heavy pot as though it weighed nothing. “Just tell me where to put it.”

“By the fire,” I said, filling the kettle with cold water. “Thanks.”

“And now you can leave,” said Red through gritted teeth as he pulled his pants off.

“Oh, I don’t know—Abra might need more help.” Hunter came up to me and took the kettle from my hands. “Put this on the stove?”

“Thanks,” I said. “By the time he gets in, it’ll probably have cooled down.” I took a scissors from the drawer and began cutting through the frayed hem of Red’s jeans. “I don’t suppose you want to tell me what you’ve been up to,” I said softly.

“Not while he’s here.” When I paused in my cutting, Red took the two sides of his jeans and ripped them clear up to the thigh.

From the other side of the room, Hunter gave a derisive snort. “Sounds familiar, doesn’t it, Abra?” He lifted the steaming kettle off the stove and walked over to pour it into the pot. “Funny, isn’t it, how you can start a whole new relationship with an entirely different sort of person and still wind up battling the same sorts of issues?”

“It’s not the same,” said Red, looking tired. “Tell him.” The tattered remnants of his jeans clung to his lean, muscular thighs, the faded denim cupping his masculine bulge.

“I think she’s lost the power of speech, old man.”

Confused, I turned back to Hunter, only to find myself distracted by the contrast between the two men’s bodies. Hunter’s chest, longer and broader than Red’s, was heavily furred with dark chest hair. “What?”

I tried to say something, but found myself touching Hunter’s chest instead. Whatever the sheriff had given me must be wearing off.

Red took me by the shoulders and spun me around. “Abra,” he said warningly, his hands tightening on my shoulders. He was angry. I had never really seen him angry before. I moistened my lips with my tongue, suddenly nervous.

“She likes playing the poor, defenseless female, doesn’t she?” I opened my mouth to tell Hunter to shut up, but Red’s hands pressed down, telling me wordlessly to hold my tongue. “But you’re not really a very aggressive male, are you, Red? You’re more like the scout, or the third in command—everybody’s good old buddy in the pack.”

“I’m not your buddy, Hunter.” Red’s eyes were heavy-lidded, deceptively casual. His arm slid around my back. “I’m not your pack.”

“My goodness. Is that a challenge?” Hunter gave a mock shiver and walked slowly toward us. When he was only a couple of feet away, he stared pointedly down at the smaller man and drawled, “I’m shaking in my boots.”

“Thing is, I don’t challenge,” said Red. “I don’t announce when I’m about to attack.” From across the room, the red-tailed hawk gave an agitated flutter from atop her perch. Hunter glanced at her, but Red ignored her completely. “I do kill,” he added conversationally.

“I see,” said Hunter, heavy on the sarcasm. “Not very sporting of you, is it?”

Red shrugged. “Killing isn’t a sport.”

“True enough. You know, I have an idea,” said Hunter, a little too brightly.

“What?”

I glanced at the raccoon hat sitting on the floor, and wanted to tell Hunter not to push his luck. But before I
could say anything, he put his hands around my waist. “Why not just share her? Then there’s no need to fight.”

A strange passivity seemed to have settled over me. I knew that between us, Red and I had the strength to stop Hunter whenever we wanted. But for some reason, I wasn’t stopping him yet. Not because I wanted my ex-husband—I’d scratched that itch, and it had given me a rash. And suddenly I knew why I was holding my breath, waiting for Red’s next move, instead of hauling back and tearing a chunk out of Hunter.

This was a test—a test for Red. As I knew from my life as a veterinarian, a person’s true character comes out under pressure. Both the wolf and the woman wanted to know what Red would do if Hunter continued to press him.

“You’re looking at her face,” said Hunter. “Tell me, does she look distressed?”

Red’s hands closed over my wrists and he pulled me against him. I put my palms against his hot chest, trying to fight for breath as my heart pounded in my breast. He was radiating heat, as if he had a high fever, and his face was flushed.

“Well, Red? What do you see?”

I struggled to break free, but found that I was well and truly caught. Red was holding my wrists against his chest, and Hunter had me around the waist.

“She likes it, doesn’t she?” One of Hunter’s hands slipped under the flannel shirt I was wearing and cupped my right breast. I whipped my head around, intending to say something nasty, but all that came out was a low growl.

Hunter removed his hand, but grinned. “She doesn’t want to admit that she likes it, but she does.”

Red was looking at me, but instead of lust, the expression in his face was almost wistful. “She’s not herself,” he said simply. “She’s in season.” For a second, I felt a
crashing, terrible sadness: He wasn’t going to fight for me, he was going to share me out, like a third grader offering his lunch to the class bully, hoping to hang on to part of his sandwich.

But then, with a sudden shift in tone, Red added harshly, “and so am I.” Moving in one fluid surge, Red reached up, grabbed Hunter’s face in his hands and kissed him forcefully on the lips.

As I watched in astonishment, Hunter reared back, his hands wrapping around Red’s wrists to pry him off. But Red was stronger than he looked. His biceps bulged with the effort, but he held Hunter in place, kissing him openmouthed as Hunter tried ineffectually to shake him off. For a moment, I thought: Oh, my God, he’s chosen
Hunter
as his mate.

Then, as Hunter flailed in disgust, I watched as a muscle in Red’s cheek twitched and stretched, and his jaw elongated into a muzzle. He was no longer kissing Hunter; he was biting him. This wasn’t love. It was Bugs Bunny, tricking Elmer Fudd. Except Bugs didn’t have fangs, and cartoon violence didn’t leave scars.

“Stop it,” I shouted, trying to separate them. “Red, stop!” Blood was trickling from Hunter’s nose and mouth, and I wondered if Red would stop himself before he’d actually severed something. Could werewolves heal from amputation? I didn’t want to find out the hard way. “Red, please, stop!”

But Red wasn’t paying me any attention. From the waist up, he had shifted to an intermediate form, like a wolfman from an old horror movie, only his ripped jeans keeping him from shifting fully. Which was a problem; our transitional forms are better for fighting. Using the technique for separating fighting dogs, I got behind Red and pulled hard on his legs. But I was too short, and couldn’t find the leverage to lift him off his feet. I tried pummeling Red’s back, even hitting his head,
but his attention never wavered—I might as well have not been there.