Fangs of Anarchy - Forbidden Alpha (Part 2) Girl Most Lycan: A Werewolf Vampire Shifter Romance (2 page)

She went limp in Liam’s grasp, falling back against him
until she felt him push her upward for support, hooking his hands under her
armpits.

“Claire? Are you all right?
Claire?
”

She slammed her eyes shut and trusted he’d fully catch her,
letting herself go completely boneless.

When his arms went around her, she let her head loll to the
right, mentally patting herself on the back for faking a good old-fashioned
faint.

Liam tapped her face with a gloved hand. “Claire? Claire!”

She kept her body slack and her eyes closed while he felt
for a pulse.

Liam grunted, muttering, “Jesus Christ,” before he scooped
her up and carried her out of the library behind everyone else.

The second they hit the bottom of the library steps, Claire
made a break for it, popping up in Liam’s arms and launching herself to the
ground, stumbling when she hit a patch of ice, and skidding into her car before
getting her footing.

She heard Liam cuss, felt the pound of his feet on the
snow-covered ground in her bones as she began to shift, focusing on the crunch
of morphing muscle and changing flesh. At the very least, she knew she could
outrun him or, if nothing else, get a good head start.

Her clothing seemingly melted away from her body, falling to
the ground as her paws formed. She threw her body forward at the waist and her
legs became haunches. The feel of the icy snow beneath her feet brought with it
a burst of exhilaration.

She might not love the hunt and even less the kill, but she
loved the freedom she experienced in shift. The salty wind blowing in from the
ocean swept over her fur, ruffling it as it began to sprout in thick patches
over her body. She gained speed, sprinting for the woods and listening for the
sound of the Dogs’ motorcycles.

Claire drove her nose to the forest floor, blocking out Liam
bellowing her name, intent on locating the scent of Gannon’s body. If Irish
truly had buried him, he could be in a million places, but if she could get to
Gannon before that pack of sweaty mongrels, she could prevent them from finding
him.

Maybe. She was only so fast.

Her thoughts flew to the old campgrounds, covered in white
pine, as the roar of the Dogs’ engines grew,
carried
on the frosty wind. It was as likely a spot as any—plenty of places to hide a
body.

Her sniff was frantic, her muzzle scraping the ground as she
flew over the dense areas, leaping over fallen logs, pushing her way through frozen
brush.

She skidded to a halt when she heard the roar of motorcycles
cut off. Twisting her head, she listened, trying to pinpoint their location.

Claire wondered if Irish had the gift of telepathy, as some
older vampires did, because she was damn well going to send him a message.

God damn you, Irish!
If they don’t kill you, I’m going to do it for them! What are you doing?

When it really worked, and his thick chuckle popped into her
head like a seed germinating, she almost jumped out of her skin.

Claire? Where are you?

Where are
you
?
she
countered.

None of your beeswax,
Librarian.

Irish! This is crazy.

If you’re not with
Liam, I’m going to tan your hide, Claire!

Meow.

You’re not with Liam,
are you?

She kept the words in her mind on silent.

Claire, Claire,
Claire…go home! What the hell are you doing, and where’s Liam? He was supposed
to be watching you.

I ditched him. I
pretended to faint. You should have seen me—I was brilliant. He totally fell
for it. Your brother’s a sucker.

Jesus, Claire. You’re
as bad at letting me play knight-in-shining-armor as you are at murder. Why are
you always so difficult?

Irish, please stop
this madness—you’re scaring me! I don’t need you to protect me!

She closed her eyes again, her ears twitching, listening for
his husky voice to invade her mind once more.

Nothing.

Argh, men!

Lifting her snout to the wind, Claire followed it, picking
up a vague hint of Irish’s cologne about a hundred yards away.

Her heart pushed at her chest so hard she was sure it would
pop right out when she found them all gathered around an old hardtop camper. It
sat in a row with three or four others, all of them rusted and covered in ice.

She heard Liam call out to Irish as he approached the group,
the Fangs coming out of the shadows behind him.

He’d left Gannon in a camper? Really? Rather than dump his
sorry ass somewhere in the ocean where he’d be so much chum, Irish had left him
right out in the open where almost anyone could find him—and worse, with
her
scent still all over the corpse?

Jesus. Jesus and a ring of fire. What kind of fresh hell was
this?

No. This couldn’t be right. Irish was proving to be one
surprise after another lately, but he was no idiot.

For sure, Freya would call her stupid for trusting a
vampire, but Claire knew better than to question whether Irish would out her.
Irish was many things, but he wasn’t a snitch; her instincts hammered that into
her gut.

If he survived this round of werewolf versus vampire, she
was going to knit him a jacket from the skins of a thousand heads of garlic—maybe
a matching scarf and a jaunty hat.

The group’s voices grew louder, more frantic by the second,
full of heated words and angry snarls, making her stomach lurch with fear she
could taste on her tongue.

She crept closer, staying downwind and behind a large maple.
Her ears homed in on Courtland’s taunts as he shoved Irish up the set of narrow
steps leading to the interior of the camper while the Road Dogs egged on their
new alpha and the Fangs hovered in the background.

Why wasn’t anyone doing anything to prevent Irish from going
through with this? The Fangs were all hanging back, practically giving each
other pedicures and sipping herbal tea, while Irish was going to be charged
with murdering an alpha he didn’t murder.

This was insane, and there was nothing she could do to stop
it. Sure, she could probably take out Courtland, if she took him by surprise
and was quick about it. But could she take on six or eight of his crew, too?
Would the Fangs back her or would they leave her to the business of her pack?

And what had Liam been alluding to when he’d said to trust
him? What was Irish up to?

So now what, Claire?

She didn’t have to wait long to find out.

A biting breeze shot up from nowhere—and on it floated
Courtland’s bone-chilling scream before he and Irish plowed through the flimsy
trailer door and fell onto the frozen ground in a tangle of fists and limbs.

The Fangs rushed in, piling on top of Irish and hauling him
off Courtland, while the Dogs scrambled to help the werewolf to his feet.

Courtland strained against the grip Rosy and
Twinks
had on his arms and shoulders, his chest puffing
out, the veins in his neck thick and purple. “What the fuck is going on,
McConnell?” he roared, baring his teeth.

Irish shook the Fangs off with an angry jerk of flexing muscles,
with orders to step back, before he confronted Courtland. “I told you, he was
there just last night, Dodd. I dumped his mean ass right here. Now back the
hell up before I eat your face off!” Irish bellowed.

As the wind picked up another notch, driving its icy talons
into Claire’s fur, Courtland screamed, “Then where the fuck is he? What did you
do to my brother, you son of a bitch?”

Irish squared his shoulders, his body language changing from
confrontational to antagonistic, and he smiled at Courtland, slow and easy. “I
told you what I did to him. Maybe he just didn’t like dead and got up and
wandered off? I’m undead proof that can happen,” he said, to the tune of
laughter from the Fangs. “
Orrrr
maybe he didn’t like
the location? I made sure I picked out the perfect trailer for him, too. But
they say where you pick your resting place is as important as where you choose
to live. It’s like real estate. Location, location, location.”

Courtland let out a low, threatening growl, his booted feet
scraping the ground as he tried to pull from the forceful grip of his crew. “You’d
damn well better tell me what happened, McConnell! How the fuck did he end up
dead?”

Irish assessed Courtland with a critical scan of his body
from head to toe. He was buying time—buying time to make up some ridiculous lie
that was only going to dig him a deeper hole.

“Here’s how I see it—there’s no body. So as far as I’m
concerned, he’s not dead.”

Courtland’s head fell back on his shoulders. His wail of
anger struck Claire’s ears like a gong, echoing until her head throbbed. It was
a howl of pure rage and infuriation. He dropped to his knees, saliva dripping
from the corner of his mouth while
Twinks
and Rosy
held tight to keep him from springing into attack, knowing it would only create
all out
war between the two clubs.

The Fangs moved in, surrounding Irish, their bodies tense
like bows,
their
fists clenched. But Irish clapped
Courtland on the shoulder. “So, we’re good, right? No body, no problem?”

When Courtland raised his head, his eyes full of
unadulterated hatred, he spewed, “I don’t know what kind of game you’re
playing, McConnell, but I’m
gonna
get to the bottom
of this. I have a witness who says that hoity-toity Claire is in on it, and
when he makes an official statement, I’ll make you watch the bitch die!”

Irish squatted in front of Courtland, gripping his jaw with
a gloved hand, squeezing until the werewolf’s cheeks puffed outward. “Call her
a bitch again, and meet your maker. Maybe you can ask
Him
where Gannon is,” he spat with a flash of his fangs before
shoving Courtland away and rising, directing his crew and Liam to go back to
the club.

As Irish stalked off toward the thicket of pines, Claire
skirted the shadows, following until she was directly behind him.

“I told you to go home, Claire-Bear,” he chanted, just
before turning to confront her, walking backward, a smile on his face.

More Irish smiles? That was two in two days. And
Claire-Bear? It made her wonder if she shouldn’t be listening for horse hooves
and preparing her doomsday kit.

He gazed down at her, stopping in the middle of a patch of
snow. “This is killing you, isn’t it? You all in-shift, unable to nag me for an
explanation. For the record, as much as I enjoy our heated debates, I like this
side of you. It’s…what’s the word I’m looking for, Librarian? Oh, wait. You
can’t tell me, can you?” He chuckled at his joke, turning once more to saunter
off.

After she’d nearly lost a life worrying he’d end up fried to
a pork rind, he was going to make jokes about it?

Oh, no sir.

Leaning as far back on her haunches as she could, she
settled on them, planting her front paws on the ground to get good leverage
just before springing forward, one goal in mind.

Taking Irish and his smug ass down.

Claire zeroed in on his back and the patch he wore on his
jacket to represent the Fangs—it made a perfect bull’s-eye. As she soared
through the air, she fought to keep from howling her joy, calling out her rebel
yell in euphoric release.

She landed on Irish, creating a resonating crack when he hit
the ground, dropping him as if she’d just cut down a big oak with a chainsaw.

He landed in the snow with a harsh grunt, sprawled out and
still as beautiful face-first in the snow as he was when mocking her.

He fought to turn over but Claire wouldn’t let him. Instead,
she let her full body weight press down. She weighed far more in shift; her
muscles were heavier, sharply defined from so many pack runs over the years.

Leaning into his ear, Claire panted heavy and hot, making
him swat at her nose. “Aw, c’mon, Claire. Can’t you take a joke?”

She growled, low and rumbling. It was no laughing matter
when the man you liked far more than you should—or was allowable, for that
matter—had scared twenty-years off your life in a mere thirty minutes.

Irish finally managed to twist his body, leaving her to rest
on his chest. He grabbed her face between both hands, a single eyebrow propped
upward. “Is this any way for a damsel in distress to treat the man who saved
her from her band of vicious pack members?”

Claire bared her teeth, narrowing her eyes.

Irish’s gaze, black as the surrounding night, glittered with
amusement. He gave her muzzle a shake. “
Whatsamatter
,
cuddlebunny
? Feeling out of the loop? Shift back and
I’ll explain.”

If her eyes were laser beams she’d burn a hole in his
forehead. She couldn’t shift here in the middle of the damn woods. She had no
clothes; she’d freeze to death. Claire pawed at his jacket to indicate as much.

Irish nodded his head with a wink. “Ah. I get it. Your
clothes are shredded. Yet another outfit ruined because of Gannon, huh? That
bastard. Even in death, he’s making a shambles of your life,” he teased.

Catching her off guard, he rolled from beneath her, rising
to his feet in a blur of motion and color. He hitched his jaw toward the lights
of town, running a finger over her ear. “C’mon, Lassie. We’d better hurry
before Timmy gets stuck in the well.”

As he began to walk away, Claire made a face at him in her
mind.

Irish didn’t even turn around when he said, “Now, now,
Claire. Don’t be ugly. I’ll explain everything at your place. You know, when
you can add your two cents with those luscious lips.”

She huffed at him, following behind his long strides,
forcing herself to avert her eyes from his yummy backside.