Wolf at the Door (2 page)

Whether she’d help him was another thing. She
smuggled in women who needed help, but his one and only experience
with the purple-haired alpha had made two things clear: One,
someone in her past had hurt her...maybe not physically, but she
carried more than enough emotional scars in those flint-gray eyes.
And two, she had an almost pathological mistrust of Shifter Town
Enforcement.

She wouldn’t be eager to help.

But maybe Brandt could buy himself a bit of
leverage. For the most part, he had ignored her little ragtag gang
of misfits, ignoring the fact that most were unregistered rogues.
Maybe that could garner him some help. Either way, it had to stop.
There’d be no more turning a blind eye to the people she welcomed
into her pack. He needed to know about all the women under her
protection.

“Stay on call,” he said as he glanced back at
Tate, suddenly certain it was going to be a long day. It’d already
been one hell of a long night.

***

Timber rubbed her eyes, weary. Her entire
body ached from spending the night propped up in her recliner.
She’d drifted in and out of sleep, jerked from one nightmare to the
next, each of them filled with one woman or another’s anguished
screams, or pleading whimpers...

Her stomach clenched and the hair on the back
of her neck prickled. Even now, three years later, she could still
feel his breath on her skin, spinning her back to those moments
right before he’d ground his teeth into her neck. Blunt, hard teeth
that meant he had to chew to break skin. Every time.

She gagged and staggered to her feet. Her
book fell to the floor with a quiet smack but she ignored it, just
focusing on her breathing.
Inhale. Exhale. In. Out
. Fists
clenched, she held herself utterly still, waiting for the roiling
panic to subside.

Some nightmares never went away—and Charles
Wolfe would forever be hers.

There was a knock on her front door and she
jumped, ready to scream, but she cut it off before it became a
sound. Damn, she really needed sleep. Blissful, dreamless sleep.
The kind of sleep she’d hadn’t had in years. Not since before
Charles had kidnapped her. Before she’d learned, up close and
personal, just how monstrous people could be.

Whoever it was knocked again and she sighed.
A member of her pack would have walked right in. Timber’s house was
their safety net, and they knew they were always welcome. She
frowned. Then who? She mulled the question over as she walked to
the door, tucking the stray strands of her hair behind her ears as
she went in an attempt to smooth out the bed head. Her bare feet
slapped over the linoleum of her front hall before she stretched up
on tiptoe to look out the peephole.

Bloody hell
.

Hound. Every one of her senses alerted her to
exactly what the man on her front porch was. Hounds who worked for
Shifter Town Enforcement had a unique feel to them. Part
dog-shifter, part witch, part I’m-going-to-make-your-day-hell. The
last was especially true for her. She had a number of illegal
rogues hidden in this pack of hers, and it tended to make Hound
visits not...pleasant.

“Ms. Kearney?” the man said politely, his
voice calm. Soothing.

It’d stay that way right up until he realized
she had no intention of giving up one of her own.

Her hand tightened over the door handle. She
should at least get dressed.

“Please, I just want to talk.” He sounded
tired, and she looked through the peephole again. He had dark
circles under his eyes to match the exhaustion in his voice. Her
stomach twisted, suddenly even more nervous.

Timber opened the door just enough to stand
braced between the doorjamb and the door, unwilling to let him in
further. “Talk about what?”

Surprise flitted across the Hound’s face just
as his gaze traveled down the length of her night shirt. It hung to
mid-thigh, not short enough to show him anything, but the masculine
flare of interest made her wish she’d left his ass on the porch and
dressed before opening the door.

His gaze jerked back up to hers. “Brandt
Lawrence, Shifter Town Enforcement. May I come in?”

“I’d rather you didn’t.”

He grimaced for a moment, then, as if he’d
figured something out, he reached in his back pocket and pulled out
a picture. “Do you know her?”

No was on her lips, ready to be spoken before
she even looked at the picture. Still, she took the photo, ready to
fake giving it a once-over. Right up until she saw Rebecca Morgan’s
lifeless face. Her hair was splayed wildly over the bloodstained
concrete where she lay dead.

Her fingers tightened on the picture. She’d
seen enough dead people thanks to Charles that Timber knew the
answer, but she still had to ask, had to hope even for a second
that she was wrong. “She’s dead?”

“As of last night.” He reached out and took
back the photograph. “She wasn’t registered to any pack in the
state. But then again,” he added with a smile, “most of your pack
isn’t.”

She arched an eyebrow, not confirming or
denying, but, hell, she was impressed he’d figured out that
much.

“Brandt Lawrence,” he said again, extending
his hand.

She wrapped her arms over her chest. “You
already seem to know my name.”

“May I come in?”

“I didn’t know Rebecca well. I don’t know who
would want her dead.”

“Ms. Kearney—”

Her jaw tightened. Every time he said her
name like that it made her sound ancient. “Timber,” she
corrected.

“Timber,” Brandt said with a gentle smile. “I
have reason to believe that Ms. Morgan’s death wasn’t an isolated
incident, and that the rest of your pack could be in danger.”

The air whooshed out of her lungs. For a
moment she couldn’t inhale. She reached for the door to support
herself, her fingers slapping for the wood, but she missed. Instead
her hand found the Hound’s shoulder as he stepped closer, catching
her. “You okay?”

“What do you mean you don’t think it’s an
isolated incident?” The women in her pack came to her because they
were all on the run from something or someone, but that rarely
spilled over to cause trouble for anyone else. Isolated incidents
were run of the mill for her pack.

But one look at the Hound in front of her and
she knew he was telling her the truth.

“Why don’t you let me in so we can talk about
it? And you can sit down.”

Hell. It didn’t look like she had a choice
anymore.

She let the big, bad Hound inside.

Chapter Three

Brandt felt
her stiffen in his arms, right before he felt her give in. She
didn’t want him in her house. She’d made that very clear, but the
ripe fear that had flared in her a second ago had left her
vulnerable. Then he applied a smidgeon of gentle pressure, and
she’d caved.

That vulnerability of hers was about the only
thing he had going for him right now.

Timber righted herself and pulled out of his
arms. The smooth cotton of her nightshirt whispered along his
fingers as she pulled away. Damn, but who answered the door in
nothing but an oversized T-shirt? His gaze skimmed down the loose
navy T. It stopped at mid-thigh and below that...nothing but
smooth, creamy skin.

He swallowed and forced his eyes back up.

She hip-shoved the front door open wide
enough to let him in. “Come on.”

“Thank you,” he said, realizing his voice
sounded a bit rough. But then Timber Kearney had caught him by
surprise. He’d met her once before and pretty much decided the
purple-haired alpha was a bit of a crazy, wild-woman type. One
hell-bent on feminism and shoving the laws up Shifter Town
Enforcement’s theoretical ass.

This woman didn’t fit that description at
all.

He’d seen the flash of terror a moment ago.
That wasn’t a woman who wanted to face down everything, waving
rebellion like a flag. Last time they’d met, he’d guessed someone
had hurt her, but now he wondered just how badly.

She gestured toward the couch, a
make-yourself-at-home invitation, and Brandt’s gaze snagged on a
flat spot on her chest. Her right breast was plump, filling out the
shirt with a nice curve, but where her left breast should have
been...there was nothing.

Cancer survivor, he decided.

Maybe he hadn’t been so far off in his
original assessment. Perhaps her prickliness was not so much about
rebellion as it was about survival.

“Have a seat,” she said. “I’m going to put
some jeans on.”

Brandt jerked a slight nod and watched her
walk away, the curve of her butt making the shirt dance over the
backs of her thighs. Hell. He was here on business to discuss the
possible reappearance of a very real serial killer and here he was
lusting after Timber Kearney’s ass like a thirsty man in the
desert.

With a groan he sank back into the couch and
tried to shake the image out of his head. No such luck. Instead, he
turned his attention to getting a better idea of what kind of woman
he was dealing with. A tangled blanket and a book were heaped in
the recliner. He could smell coffee in the mug on the table beside
it.

He leaned over to get a look at the book when
he heard soft footsteps in the hall. After that, all he could think
about was what she’d be wearing now. Would it match the wild hair
or the vulnerability?

He couldn’t wait to find out.

***

She’d let a Hound into her house. Not
something Timber had ever thought she’d do. She’d gone to them for
help once, when she managed to escape from Charles. Tried to tell
them what he was doing, and Shifter Town Enforcement hadn’t
believed her. They’d decided it was nothing more than a lovers’
quarrel. As if she enjoyed the beatings, the torture, the rape.

And lovers’ quarrel?

What a joke.

She’d never loved Charles. She hadn’t chosen
him, either. But she’d been a wolf with no home, no living family,
and so few friends that it was no wonder no one noticed her absence
after he kidnapped her. She wrapped her arms around her middle and
tried to stifle the clamoring memories.

And now she’d let a Hound into her house.
But...

Oh, God. Becky was dead.

Bear Creek was supposed to be a safe haven, a
place where women could hide until they were ready start over.
Timber did everything she could to ensure her wolves’ safety. New
identities were top of the list, and Becky’s had almost been
complete.

I don’t think her death is an isolated
incident
. The words scrambled around in her head. Oh, how she
hoped he was wrong.

Sighing, Timber forced herself into action.
She yanked on a pair of well-worn jeans, her favorites, with a hole
over the right knee from too much time spent crawling around in the
dirt, tending to the pack gardens last summer.

Even after a half dozen washes the pair still
looked dingy, old. But they were comfy, and she had a feeling she’d
be grateful for comfy during this meeting. She turned to get her
bra and paused. She’d been out there in nothing but a T-shirt, not
even wearing a bra, let alone her prosthetic.

She touched the spot where her left breast
had been.

No one knew about it. Not even another wolf
in her pack. That was part of her cover.

Maybe he didn’t notice. She wouldn’t be
surprised. He’d spent a lot of time staring at her thighs, maybe
he’d never looked up. Maybe—

And she could play this game all morning but
it wouldn’t get anything done.

Quickly, she finished dressing,
double-checking this time to make sure everything was in place, and
then bracing herself before going back downstairs. The Hound was
sitting on her couch, his elbows resting on his knees as he watched
her approach. His gaze flitted over her chest and then back to her
face.

So he’d noticed. Her throat started to
tighten.

“So what’s with the hair?”

Timber blinked. The hair? She reached up and
touched a strand, the bright purple wrapping around her fingertips
as she twirled it. “I like the color.”

“You like the—” He cut himself off with a
nod. “All right, then.”

He gestured for her to have a seat, but
Timber couldn’t bring herself to move. His dark eyes watched her,
and she could see it now, they were always working, busy trying to
read her. She hated scrutiny like that. Everything in her life was
designed to keep herself hidden, even the purple hair. She didn’t
want someone trying to figure her out.

“How’d Becky die?”

His eyes narrowed, even as one corner of his
mouth twitched with the hint of a smile. “I thought you didn’t know
Ms. Morgan well?”

Damn him. Just his presence was throwing her
off. Timber shook off the mistake and stalked closer to him, hoping
like hell she looked more intimidating than she felt right now.
What with the nightmare, seeing Becky’s lifeless face in a picture,
and having a Hound in her house, the whole world felt like it was
on shaky ground, ready to splinter apart at a moment’s notice.

“Let’s just cut through the bullshit, Mr.
Lawrence, and get to the point.”

“Brandt. And let’s.” He stood, and suddenly
the few feet she’d kept between them seemed way too little. She
wanted to take a step back, craved it, but she didn’t dare. This
was her house, she wouldn’t back down here. “How well did you know
Ms. Morgan?”

“She came to me for help.” The words were
whisper soft and she hated herself for it. What had happened to Ms.
Tough Girl?

“I get that. I’ll take a wild guess and say
most of the wolves in your pack—if not all—are hiding from
something or someone. It’s why I haven’t been beating down your
door every time I see a new wolf in town that I know isn’t
registered.”

“Your alpha must be thrilled over your
restraint.”