Author: J.D. Tyler

"Nice puppy," she crooned again, voice wobbling. Holding out a shaking hand, she tried a command. "Stay!" The beast stopped, cocked his head, an almost bemused expression on his canine face. "Good boy. Sit!"

He did.

Some of her fear began to ease and she wondered how well trained the animal was. Maybe he was someone's guard dog that got lost? He'd certainly protected her from those bastards. "Roll over."

At that, the creature's form began to waver. Sort of reshape. She blinked rapidly, thinking there must be something wrong with her vision. But no, she was simply losing her mind after all, because fur retracted, became skin. Paws became hands and feet with very human limbs attached. Tufted black ears went away; the snout disappeared and was suddenly a regal nose.

And now a black-haired man crouched where the wolf had been seconds ago. A big, very naked man who unfolded his tall body and gazed down at her, one corner of his mouth quirking upward.

"I'll do a lot of things on command," he drawled lazily. "But I don't roll over for anyone, sweetheart."

Her brain fritzed. "I-I . . . you . . ." She trailed off helplessly, unable to form a coherent response.

Her eyes raked his body, and she thought he had to be about six-foot-four and more than two hundred pounds. He was pretty well ripped, his chest, long limbs, and torso sculpted with muscle. Thick, strong shoulders led to defined collarbones and a broad chest sprinkled with springy dark hair and graced by two bronzed male nipples. His right shoulder was marred by a bloody gouge, just stopping at the edge of a large tribal tattoo of gorgeous scrollwork that spilled over the deltoid area and ran down his arm. Did it extend down his back as well? There also appeared to be some sort of design worked into the swirls on his shoulder, but she didn't pause to study it.

Her scrutiny drifted lower to his taut, ridged stomach, the dip of his hips. Skimmed down mile-long athletic legs. A network of scars twisted around his right thigh, knee, and calf, and she wondered how the terrible injury had happened, but it did nothing to detract from his physical potency. Inevitably, her attention settled at the apex of his thighs, to the proof that whatever else he might be, one hundred percent pure male stood before her now. A well-endowed man, even in repose, his impressive sex nestled in a neat thatch of curly dark hair.

A hysterical giggle escaped before she could stop it. Her wolf manscaped. How courteous, since he obviously didn't have a problem with public nudity.

"See something amusing?"

The frown in his tone brought her head up and she studied his face for the first time. A single word whispered through her brain, made her shiver-lethal.

If she hadn't already known he was seriously badass, his looks confirmed the impression. He was no modelperfect pretty boy. His spiky black hair seemed to defy gravity, somehow arranging itself into an artfully messy style that reminded her of tangled sheets. Dark brows were arched above a prominent nose and full mouth with lush lips. His ears each bore a piercing of a shiny black stud. His jaw was strong, dusky with a five o'clock shadow, and a soul patch graced his chin. Normally, she preferred men without facial hair, but on this guy? It fit him.

No, not pretty at all.

Raw. Stunning. Untamed.

He spoke, and it took her a second to realize he'd repeated the question. "No, not really. I was just thinking it's so nice that you find time to stay well groomed. When you're not tearing out people's throats." What am I saying? Shut up, idiot! "Are you going to do that to me?'Cause I gotta tell ya, I'm probably a little gamey. Really, really stringy and-"

"Relax," he said, reaching out to caress her cheek. "I'm not going to hurt you. I heard you scream and I . . ." Suddenly he went rigid, staring deeply into her eyes. Lowering his hand, he grasped her wrist, his hold gentle but firm. His eyes glazed and he seemed to be looking beyond her somehow. Into her soul.

"What are you doing?" She tugged, trying to pull free, hyperaware of the warmth of his palm, his manly scent. A mix of fresh leaves, the outdoors, and sweat. God, he smelled good.

He shook his head, the weird moment broken. Just as quickly, his expression darkened, his mouth thinning in anger. "What are you hiding? Tell me what you stole from those bastards-the ones I killed to save your ass."

The blood drained from her face. Oh, shit. Did he work for them, too? "I don't know what you're talking about."

His eyes were flinty. "Sure you do. Spill it."

"Fuck, man. What happened here? Can't leave you alone for a goddamned hour."

Startled, Kira twisted and peered over the roof of her car to see two tall men-one redhead and one blond-step into the circle of light and eye the dead suits with grim expressions. The blond pushed a strand of silvery hair from his eyes and whistled.

"Shit. Cleanup on aisle six." His voice held a note of humor, and his expression was kind as he looked up, spotting her. "Ran into a bit of trouble, huh?" So it was the pissed-off guy with the long, dark auburn hair who'd first spoken.

She nodded, windpipe shrinking to the size of a pinhole.

"Well, don't worry, honey. We'll take care of you," he said gently.

Hours, make that days, of fear and worry caught up with her in a rush, and she was suddenly exhausted. The empathy from this stranger in the middle of all the chaos, not to mention the anger radiating from his two buddies, just about did her in. Tears stung her eyes and she struggled not to let them fall as her captor dragged her around the side of the car to meet his companions.

"Don't look at them," he ordered her, nodding toward the sprawled bodies.

Which, of course, made her look again. And almost get sick.

"For God's sake, Law, put on some damned clothes before my eyes bleed," the redhead growled.

"Yeah, well, it's kinda hard not to lose the threads when we get furry, dickhead."

Get furry. We?

Red cut her a sharp look. "She see you change?"

"Affirmative."

"Oh, fantastic. You do realize Sweet Thing is now our special guest?" At Red's venomous glare, she pressed backward, into the man who'd come to her rescue. "We. Are. Fucked. Nick's going to shred our asses."

"For what?" A fourth man joined the party, jogging from the darkness. The dark-haired newcomer halted, scanning the scene. "Christ."

"Trust me, it gets better," Red informed him, curling his lip. He flicked a hand at Kira and the man-Law?-who now placed his body protectively between her and the others. "The fair damsel got herself into some shit. Our friend here got his hero goin' on, wiped out the vermin, but oh, wait-the chick saw him do his White Fang impression. So now she goes with us, whereupon we can look forward to a reaming from the boss. That about right?" He snarled the question at Law.

"You got it in one," he said coolly, eyes like steel. A muscle in his jaw ticced. "And I'd do it again. So now we deal with the mess, and if you don't like it, tough. After the cleanup, she's my responsibility. I'll field the heat from Nick and take care of her."

"Damned right you will."

"Knock it off, you two." The blond tossed a pile of clothes at Law. "Get dressed so we can ghost out of here. I'll go get the SUV."

The dark-haired guy palmed a set of keys and tossed them to the blond.

Law let her go and pulled on a pair of jeans, followed by his black T-shirt. As he tugged on a pair of heavy lace-up boots, Kira found her voice. "Hang on a second," she said, edging away from them. "Take care of me? Like you took care of them? No, thanks. I'll be fine on my own."

"No longer an option." Law straightened, shot her a feral grin. "Welcome to Alpha Pack, sweetheart."

Chapter Two

"Wh-what's Alpha Pack?"

The woman was about two seconds from short-circuiting. She was tired and frightened as hell, and Aric's sorry attitude wasn't helping. Friend or not, if the red wolf snarled at her again, Jaxon would plant his fist in the moron's face.

Even if she was a criminal on the run.

"I'll explain that later." He gestured to the beat-up car. "You got anything important to bring along?"

She nodded. "My purse."

"Is that where you stashed whatever it is you stole?"

Her shoulders slumped. "Yeah. How did you know?"

"Get the purse. That's part of the talk for later."

Avoiding the bodies, she stepped up to the driver's door, opened it, and leaned in. In seconds she emerged, clutching the bag to her stomach. "Ready."

"What's your name?"

"Kira," she said hesitantly. "Kira Locke."

Kira. He liked it. The name fit her. "I'm Jaxon Law."

"What should we do with these guys?" Zander asked, interrupting the introductions.

Jaxon thought a moment. "We'll take their wallets so we can run their names later, do a background check. See who they worked for. Then we'll put them in the car, one behind the wheel, the other in the passenger's seat, and light a bonfire."

Aric grinned, his mood improved by the prospect. "My pleasure."

"Before you do, let me see if I can get a reading or two." Crossing to the nearest man, the one who'd shot him, he squatted and wrapped his fingers around the wrist, making sure to get part of the coat sleeve.

Objects and clothing often carried better signals than people. The impressions he could pick up from a dead person faded quickly, and the living sometimes shielded their thoughts whether they realized it or not.

In the background, the woman, Kira, whispered, "What's he doing?"

"Shh."

As always, he braced himself for the buzz in his brain, like a thousand angry bees. His vision grayed out, the ground beneath him disappeared, and he was falling, falling. And then caught, snared in a web of someone else's making. Sticky threads brushed at his cheek, snagged his hair and tugged at his clothes, but he no longer tried to brush them away in panic as he'd done when he was thirteen and his Psy ability had first manifested.

The strings weren't really there in the physical sense. Rather, he'd come to think of them as the tattered moorings of memories to their owners, ripped free and waiting for someone with his ability to grab hold and use them as a guide to the images he sought.

They were anything but consistent, and he likened latching on to one to catching a soap bubble without causing it to pop. The process was tedious, exhausting, and the quicker he grabbed a thread and made the reading, the better.

The first two slipped away, but he took firm hold of the third, following it to the end. Some memories were mere snapshots, but this one was a snippet of film, and Jaxon found himself looking through the eyes of the initial speaker-the dead man in his grasp. The man's residual anger, his trepidation, enveloped Jaxon.

"I'm telling you, this is not my problem. I don't give two shits what Chappell says, I'm not getting paid enough to deal with his freaky God complex!"

The middle-aged, average-looking man in the white lab coat twisted his lips into a condescending smile. "You're being paid plenty, and you'll do your job. Unless you'd rather volunteer to be his next subject." He reached for the phone on the counter. "I can call him right now and make him aware of your issues-"

"Try it, you nasty little fuckwad, and I'll break your neck. I didn't say I wouldn't do it, just that I'm not getting paid enough to take these kinds of risks. I'll talk with him myself, and you mind your own damned business. Got it?"

Without waiting for an answer, he spun and slammed out of the lab.

"Slimy creep, he's gonna call anyway. Shit, what am I gonna do about . . ."

"Jax!"

". . . and sooner or later the cops will notice . . ."