Howl My Name (BBW Paranormal Shapeshifter Romance) (Grayslake Book 5) (2 page)

Her mouth remained shut and she didn’t ask questions. Didn’t mean she didn’t listen though.

Then she wondered why the hell her grandmother’s will ordered her back to his den. And because it’d been in the will, she’d had no choice but to go. She no longer belonged to her grandmother’s clan. She was part of Brookfield now and clan law required she present herself to her new Itan. Do not pass go, do not avoid returning to her hometown.

Which was how she found herself in a screwed up, perverted clan that lived and breathed death and rape. Even now, half-dead from being beaten for days—four? Five?—she wanted to vomit.

Those two males? Killed for objecting to sharing their mates with her father—the Brookfield Itan.

The women ended up in his hands anyway. His and her uncle’s.

“Stupid bitch, you made a call. Simone heard you,” her Uncle Daniel hissed. “Who was it?”

Simone. God, she prayed her little sister got away. The moment she’d met her dad’s eyes and then his Enforcer’s—none other than
Uncle Daniel
—she’d known there was trouble. She’d spun and shoved, pushing Simone down the front steps, with a shouted
run!

The battle afterward was brutal and punishing, Evelyn fighting not just for herself, but trying to delay their pursuit of her half-sister. And she didn’t blame Simone for ratting her out. Life in Patrick Archer’s home was kill or be killed. Simone didn’t want to end up dead… or the next taken to the basement. She wouldn’t put it past her father or uncles, either.

“I didn’t talk to anyone.”

The next strike was a backhand. At least he went for her other cheek that time.

“Liar.”

Yeah, she was, but she didn’t think he could scent it beneath the blood.

Daniel balled his fist, pulled back his arm, and she braced herself for the next punch.

“Brother,” the single word was murmured, but Daniel froze. Hell, her third uncle stilled as well. That was what happened when Uncle Ezekiel spoke. “My turn.”

Her mind flipped through the Brookfield inner-circle. Patrick Archer, Itan. Daniel Archer, Brookfield Enforcer. Sean Archer, Healer. Ezekiel Archer, Keeper… and so much more. Had he not been so batshit crazy, he would be the Itan. But he wasn’t and his grip on reality waned with each day. Only Patrick could keep him in line. Barely.

Ezekiel’s turn? She was screwed. Literally and figuratively. She just wondered when he’d rape her. Dead or alive.

It hadn’t been the first day. Or the second. Or the third…

The truth settled into her bones. After being tortured for days, she finally accepted that help wasn’t coming. She’d risked it all, her own life as well as Simone’s, with that rash call and for what?

Hope died, but pride at even
trying
continued to fill her.

It’d had to be her, she’d had to be the one to risk everything to save the clan. They’d suffered years of abuse, years of being constantly battered and threatened by the inner-circle, and they were all… broken. Shells of who they could be. Why hadn’t they reached out?

Fear. Death—murder—was a powerful motivator.

The only person Evelyn loved—her grandmother—was gone, but her teachings lived on in Evelyn’s heart. She should never—ever—allow those weaker than her to suffer if something could be done about it.

So she’d taken that phone number scribbled hastily on a tiny slip of paper by her ex-Itan. His handwriting was hardly legible, the numbers smooshed together to form the method of her salvation. After fighting to figure out what they said, she’d made the call.

The voice on the voice mail was soothing, a soft timbre that gave off a feeling of comfort and then those words…

“You do not have to bear your pain alone. Leave your name, number, and a brief message and assistance will be sent to you.”

Bear your pain… Sent to you…

She’d left a message, short and concise and… begging for help.

Staring into her uncle’s eyes, she realized help wasn’t coming. Or, at least, she wouldn’t live long enough to see her clan freed from the Archer males.

Evelyn played with Daniel, taunting and teasing him, when he came down to toy with her. In between those lovely
visits
, she suffered through her Uncle Sean’s treatments. She wasn’t sure why he bothered stitching her together just so Daniel could tear her apart again.

Ezekiel’s steps were slow and measured, the homicidal gleam in his eyes frightening and she fought back the tiny shudder of fear that overtook her.

But he caught it. Caught it and smiled wide, exposing his pale fangs. The tips were sharpened, a hint longer than a natural human’s, and she knew his beast lurked just beneath his skin.

“I like you afraid, Evelyn,” he murmured, voice low but it felt as if he roared through the room.

That was her fear talking and she hated it. Instead of saying anything, unwilling to reveal the depths of her terror, she gathered saliva and blood in her mouth and spat at him. The red scattered over his face, marring his tanned skin with the liquid.

Instead of striking her, he smiled even wider, his eyes turning the full black of his bear. And with him so close, invading her space, she caught something rise above the coppery tang of her own blood.

Desire.

A quick glance at the juncture of his thighs revealed he was hard.

Maybe if she taunted him, he’d end it before he violated her. She hoped.

“Blood do it for you, Zeke?”

“Your blood.” He ran a finger along his jaw, gathering droplets as he went, and then he slipped it into his mouth. He moaned with the movement, pure pleasure coating his features. “Delicious.”

“You’re one sick fuck. You know that, right?”

He shrugged. As if being a perverted psycho was normal.

In Brookfield’s world, it probably was. Which was… sad.

“Who did you speak with, little bear?” He made a fist and then uncurled his fingers one by one. As each finger lifted, a claw formed, a gentle fan revealing his deadly intent. Then the process was reversed, those claws receding as he reformed that fist.

One, two, three, four, five. Fist.

Five, four, three, two, one. Paw.

One, two, three, four, five. Fist.

Five, four, three, two, one. Paw.

It was hypnotizing in a bizarre, macabre way. The transitions were fluid and graceful, almost beautiful in their simplicity.

“I didn’t talk to anyone.” She wouldn’t tell them they asked the wrong question. They’d figure it out soon enough. Or they wouldn’t and would only realize their mistake when help came. Or didn’t.

The claws weren’t surprising, the deep furrows cutting a fearsome path across her face. They dug into her flesh, scraping against her bones as they slipped easily through her features. They’d kept her injuries restrained to punches and slaps. Apparently that was done.

She didn’t have the strength to spit anymore. Not as the pain thumped through her body to the beat of her heart. The agony was so bright it blinded her with its intensity, vision flashing white with each pummeling wave.

“Who did you speak with?” His voice was calm, as if he hadn’t just clawed half her face. When some of the pain ebbed, she squinted through her swollen eyes and noted his features were calm as well.

He didn’t care. Not a bit. She wasn’t sure why she was surprised.

“No… one…” she rasped, and she realized her words were hardly audible.
O… un…

He must have understood because his hand returned. He kept the claws restrained though. He simply dug those fingers into the wounds he’d created, sinking into her flesh and pulling.

And she screamed. God, did she scream. The loudest yet, it bounced off the walls, tearing from her very soul, releasing into the world with a whip fast rush.

“Try. Again.”

Try again? He wanted her to speak? She couldn’t even
breathe
. Pain did that. It stole every hint of strength from a body until only it existed. It crept into every muscle and bone, replacing the very blood in her veins with its power.

But she didn’t have to. Not when the pounding of a fist against steel resonated from the other side of the room and ended Ezekiel’s torture. His hand loosened and he slowly pulled it free of her flesh before finally turning toward the room’s only door.

“Open it,” he snapped. Uncle Daniel was quick to respond. Daniel may be the clan’s Enforcer, but Ezekiel held the power when her father wasn’t around, through brute strength and evil.

The door swung open to reveal one of the weaker bears, the male cowering and hating what was to come.

The brothers had no problem killing the messenger.

“What?” Ezekiel growled.

“We have a problem.” The way the male trembled, the slump of his shoulders, told her he had very bad news. But his cowering posture wasn’t the only thing that let a tendril of hope slink past the pain. No, it was two new scents that the bear brought with him—death… and her father’s blood.

Despite her pain, despite the agony that stole the very oxygen from her lungs and the new rush of blood that came with the movement, Evelyn smiled. “Zeke,” she waited for the deadly male to look at her with those midnight eyes. “Go fuck yourself.”

Reid hadn’t meant to tail the girl, but it was kinda hard not to. Wolf liked a good chase and the kid had to have some idea about why he’d been called. So that’s what he did. Oh, she was quiet as hell and nearly lost him when she took to the trees, but he was a better tracker than she was an escape artist. Bears—human or on four feet—may be able to climb and make it from tree to tree, but they always forgot about the leaves. Leaves that their bodies brushed and then fell to the ground as they made their run for freedom.

He wasn’t sure who she’d been running from to learn her tricks, but he didn’t have to see her to chase her.

Hell, he knew who’d been on her tail. Patrick Archer. How many times did he corner the kid? Didn’t seem like the first, but he was thrilled it’d be the last.

Reid kept his wolf near the edge of his control, animal hunting for her scent while his human eyes scanned the terrain. The farther they moved from Patrick—and civilization—the more the geography changed. They headed up a mountain, dirt giving way to rocks, and the trees slowly thinned. They didn’t disappear, they hadn’t traveled
that
far, but their closeness lessened.

She was running out of forest, which meant she’d have to make her stand soon. And he wanted to catch her before she shifted. He could keep her from changing, but if she got there before he did… he hated forcing a shifter back into their skin. But he’d do it if necessary. Bear or wolf, lion or hyena, Reid could control ’em all. Except Terrence. The bastard was strong as hell.

A tree fifty feet ahead of him rustled and he flicked his gaze at the surrounding vegetation. Her path to freedom had ended, which meant Reid broke into a run, watching the girl’s descent. She climbed down as if she was part monkey and jumped away from the trunk when she still hovered fifteen feet from the forest floor.

And that’s when he pounced, tackling her before the first bone snapped or the first nail darkened to a black claw. He kept a tight hold on her squirming body, wrapping around her as they rolled and keeping her from harm. It was things like that that made Terrence tell Reid he was a study in contradictions.

Reid told Terrence to go screw himself.

The girl struggled harder, kicking her legs and digging her slowly sharpening nails into his arms. He wasn’t gonna tell her he liked the pain. It told him he was alive, he was breathing, he wasn’t six feet under, and he still had another day of fighting in front of him.

“Let me go,” she growled and yanked against him.

“No.” He didn’t bother ordering her to quit fighting. It’d be a waste of breath. He’d just let her tire herself out so he remained in place; flat on his back, the girl’s back against his front and arms tight with one leg capturing her two.

Who was the monkey now?

Didn’t matter. She’d relax in three… two… and—a few more growls and scratches coupled with an attempt at a head butt. He’d teach her how to do it properly later. Then… one.

A low huff was followed by a soft sob and her scent told him she was done. The fight she’d clung to during her race to freedom had finally given out, which meant she was ready to listen.

And tell him what he needed to know.

“You done?” He had to get her used to his voice.

The girl whimpered and remained silent.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen, kid. I’ll let you go. What you’ll do is get to your feet and try to run. I say try because I’m faster, I’m stronger, and if I hafta, I’ll get my wolf to keep your ass still. Hate doing it, but I will. You get me? So, since I know what you have planned and you know what I’ll do, how about we skip that shit and you take it easy?” He kept his normal snarl outta the words, but she stiffened and trembled anyway. Fuck. He wasn’t cut out for kid shit. Give him an adult to maim and torture and he was fine.

Dammit, Terrence was right. He shouldn’t have killed Patrick. He hated when that happened.

The kid nodded.

“All right. Here we go.” He did as he said, but he gave her a little nudge, forcing her to roll right while he headed left and snapped into a crouch with ease. He kept his gaze on her while also remaining conscious of their surroundings. He didn’t bring out his claws—yet—and stayed low. “You good, kid?”

She trembled, those eyes wide, but nodded. He took in her appearance head to toe. Clothes were a little torn and more than one gaping hole marred the fabric. Patrick or the trees? A couple of scratches bled and stained her pale skin, but all in all, she was breathing and she wasn’t raped.

A motherfucking win.

“Good,” he grunted and slowly rose, still staring at the world around them. “Now, tell me who you are and what the hell is going on here.”

She swallowed hard, meeting his gaze for a split second before lowering it to the ground with a low whimper. Dammit. He hated that shit from women and kids. He used to not care, but then his first therapist got into his head about blah, blah, bullshit. But something musta sunk in because now his wolf hated it.