Touch of Evil - Cecy Robson Page 0,13

lot of the strong, traditional alphas, the goody-goody-types who fiercely instilled right from wrong. At best, these morons have learned not to munch on humans, at worst…” He motions to me with an irritated gesture. “You get Donald.”

“Ted,” I clarify.

“Whatever,” he mutters. “Still an asshole.”

I lift my glass to take another sip of water. The rim doesn’t quite reach my lips when I return it to the bar.

“What’s wrong?” Bren asks.

The stress of how really bad the night was hits me all at once and I haven’t even told him about the presence I felt and all the weres who went after it. “Ted wasn’t disciplined, like you said,” I admit. “He wasn’t careful with me or his words.”

Bren doesn’t move. “You saying he hurt you?”

Yes. He did. But I wish I hadn’t let him.

“Not in the physical sense,” I reply. I play with the glass in my hand. “He said things about me and about Liam and his mate. He told me it was actually Taran he wanted and only went out with me because I was available and he felt sorry for me.”

“What the hell?” Bren says, no longer trying be quiet. “I’ll kick his ass.”

Bren places his palm on the bar, ready to leap over and track Ted down. I grasp his wrist, my touch nothing compared to his brute strength, but enough to keep him in place. “It’s all right,” I tell him. “I made it clear he was out of line when I threw him out the window—”

Bren regards me as is if he doesn’t recognize me. “You threw him out the window?”

“Yes?” I say.

Bren leans in and smiles with enough warmth to melt the ice cubes in my glass. The annoyance darkening his features skitters away, leaving only the wolf I know and adore.

“That’s my girl,” he says, skimming his rough knuckles against my cheek.

A tease of heat flickers along my skin with Bren’s caress, stirring desire and invigorating my tormented spirit. I welcome the ardor like my next breath, claiming it and permitting it to lick the scars marring my damaged soul.

Bren stops, his eyes widening as if he’s committing the most heinous sin. Pain, anger, greed, and rapture—every emotion akin to grief warring along his features.

“Bren,” I whisper, sensing him pull away.

He doesn’t want me. He’s withdrawing, abandoning me and my touch, just as he’s done before.

But then, he doesn’t, returning like an unbridled storm.

Bren hooks his arm around my neck and pulls me to him.

He kisses me, savagely, his tongue probing and dominating.

This time, it’s not an accident.

This time, we both mean it.

This time, the world vanishes, and Bren and I become one.

Chapter Five

Bren

I wrench myself off Emme. It takes some doing, the cement or whatever invisible glue is pinning me to her making it damn near impossible.

My back smacks against a row of bottles, tipping some over and knocking even more to the floor. My heart is making mincemeat out of my chest. I’m having the big one, I know I am.

What the fuck?

What the actual fuck?

Emme is sweating and panting, her face so red she’s a hard second away from passing out.

“Hey,” I say, like an absolute moron.

She makes a noise. I think. A word mixed with a sound. Aside from that, she keeps quiet, keeps breathing, keeps sweating.

Shit. I think I killed her with my hotness.

Damn my sexiness to hell.

Seriously, why did I do that? Why did I kiss her?

Because you’ve wanted to for a long time now, asshole.

“Yo, dude.” A werewolf in a houndstooth jacket motions me over. Who the hell wears houndstooth to the Hole? He plannin’ on going pheasant hunting up in this bitch?

I point to him but speak to Emme. “I’ll be right back, okay?”

“Unt,” she says. Or something like that.

Aw, hell. I hope she’s still alive when I get back.

My feet feel heavy. I have to practically lift them with my arms. I stop when I see the wolf is accompanied by three more weres. All newbies, all dressed like they’re on their way to Coachella or whatever the fuck.

“What do you want?” I ask.

“Witch’s Brew,” the wolf who called me over says. He exchanges glances with his pals. “Word on the street says you got some.”

“Word on the street?” I ask, looking at them like they deserve to be looked at. “You mean the mean streets of Tahoe?”

“Ya,” he says.

Whatever. I have to get back to Emme. “Sure. Whatever. It’s a hundred a bottle. How many do you want?”

Again, they look at