Page 72 of Cold Moon

I sat there, across from him, biting my lip, and whispered. “I’m so sorry.”

“For what?” His voice was rough, like, oh, he’d just coughed up the bullet that almost killed him. “Didn’t it work? I feel like it must have worked.”

“It did,” I agreed. “But you’re an omega.”

For a moment, he just sat there, blinking and staring at me. Then... he burst into laughter. Wild, loud, hysterical laughter, that left him clutching his sides and leaning against me, panting. His voice was almost a sob, when he mumbled into my shoulder, “Of course I am. How’s that for karma?”

“Open this door, Emile,” the old man’s rough voice demanded from outside the room. “Open it now.”

“Why, Grandfather, so you can shoot me again?” Archer asked, voice less raspy, and gaining in strength. In anger. “Or so you can poison more werewolves with your chemicalmasterpiece?”

He scanned the room for a moment, finally stopping on a huge ugly oil painting on one wall. Rushing over, he pulled it down, braced his foot against the bottom of the heavy wood frame, and jerked hard on the top piece until it broke away in a long chunk.

A piece about as big as a baseball bat.

“You don’t understand the dogs like I do, Archer. They’re not like us. This is a war, and only one species can prevail. We have to make sure the mutts don’t overtake us.”

We both looked to the door, then each other, and Archer rolled his eyes, sighing and muttering about how ignorant he’d been to not see the old man’s madness. I wanted to reassure him, because really, who jumps to the conclusion that his grandfather is a monster without hard proof? And now that he had proof, he wasn’t trying to pretend otherwise.

Turning back to me, Archer held out the piece of picture frame, a question in his eye. Did I want to be the bait, or swing the bat? Neither of us were big strong guys, but with a piece of wood and enough space to swing, I thought either of us could muster the force necessary to lay a man out. I looked between the wood and him, then shook my head and pointed at him, trying to make my decision clear in my expression, lips pursed and looking at him hard.

Your grandfather. You choose.

He turned to look at the door, and for a second, his eyes hardened, but then he shook his whole body, and held the piece of picture frame out to me. I nodded and took it, positioning myself just inside the door.

Archer went to the dresser, shoving it aside with frustrating ease—of course, even if he was an omega, he didn’t have the Condition, so he just plain old had werewolf strength, now. He opened the door and took two big steps back, hands held aloft.

“What the hell were you thinking, Grandfather?” He lowered one hand, giving a convincing wince and clutching the edge of the bloody spot on his shirt. “You shot me.”

“Where’s the mutt?” The old man demanded. He didn’t step into the room, and I couldn’t see him from my vantage, but Archer pointed to another corner of the room. One in the opposite direction from where I was.

“He’s hiding from you, of course. Where do you think he is? You kidnapped him and shot me right in front of him. He thinks you’re a monster.” And there it was. The old man stepped into the room. Eyes and gun raised in the direction where Archer had pointed. Without even a warning, he fired off two shots into the corner of the room.

I didn’t have any hesitation left after that. I lifted the splintered piece of wood over my head and brought it down on Sterling’s skull. He dropped like a rock, the gun skittering off into the far corner of the room, and Archer slumped down onto the bed.

For a moment, we both stared at the unmoving body of Archer’s grandfather, before Archer asked, dispassionately, “Is he dead?”

I shook my head. “No. Just unconscious. Strong heartbeat.”

The thunderous crash from downstairs had me turning back toward the door, my impromptu bat raised again, in case I had to defend us. Archer dove for the corner of the room, coming back up with the gun. His hands trembled, but he braced himself, ready to fight for our lives.

But what came bounding down the hallway had the tension slipping out of me. I dropped the piece of wood and fell to my knees, arms outstretched, as the big, beautiful white wolf that was my mate rushed straight into me, sniffing and licking and whining his concern over me.

A moment later, I heard Linden and Aspen and Brook’s voices, all wound together and asking questions. I didn’t listen. It didn’t matter. Archer and I beat the bad guy. My alphas were here. We were safe. Everything was going to be fine.

41

Dante

Turned out, that thing inside me I’d been denying my whole life was right there when I needed it, a huge white wolf with legs strong enough to outrace a car, senses keen enough to find my mate even lost out in the woods, his scent masked in melting frost and the smell of diesel trucks and wet asphalt. My wolf knew what to do.

Well, plus or minus dealing with the front door, but Linden and the others piled out of the car and took care of that for me after just a few moments of whining and clawing at the thick wooden obstacle. Then, it was a mad sprint to Skye, pushing my nose into his stomach, sniffing for blood, licking his smooth skin and feeling the anxious flutter of his pulse.

He was whole and unharmed, the blood in the room concentrated around Archer Sterling, who had the curious scent of enemy and pack all mingled in at once.

I saw the bite mark on his wrist and growled. That was Skye’smark, there on another wolf.

An omega wolf.

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