Dirty Alphas Read online

  I slowly stand as my gaze surveys the darkening forest. “Troll?”

  Darrel continues stalking forward before jumping off the tree. Three paces away, he throws his head in the direction of the thick boulders beside them. Rock troll.

  The forest boasts a bigger and more varied troll population than San Francisco, not that they are any threat to werewolves, but the homeless human camps we’ve spotted in several groves might want to keep a vigilant guard looking out through the night with church bells on hand. Judging by the piles of gnawed bones we’ve found in a hollowed log, more than one camp has neglected to assign a sentry.

  “Your stalker werewolf must have taken some other route tonight,” I say as I brush off my jeans.

  The problem isn’t that we can’t find a trail for the wolf who had eavesdropped on Darrel’s conversation with Scarlet Riley; it’s that there are hundreds of trails, all layered on top of each other. From how many times the trail ends at our apartment building, I’m beginning to go with the theory that it’s the boyfriend. Which means I’m wrong to think Scarlet is involved with the fae prince—though that’s a bit of a disappointment.

  I’d had a very nice dream about Scarlet, the fae prince, and myself, and I’d woken up hoping I could one day make all my dreams come true. A jealous werewolf boyfriend with a penchant for stalking would definitely throw a wrench in that fantasy.

  If that’s how Scarlet Riley likes her men, it isn’t my business. When Darrel woke me in the middle of the night to track down the identity of this eavesdropper, I’d only agreed because I never turn down a good hunt. My choice to come here had nothing to do with how random snippets of my conversation with Scarlet Riley kept popping up in my mind, unbidden—at least that’s what I’ve been telling myself all day, and I’m sticking to it.

  Darrel trots over clover and into the thicker underbrush, heading for a quiet trickling sound—a creek, probably.

  “You fall off that drop-off over there, don’t yowl for me to come save your ass,” I call through cupped hands. “And as it’s been a full day with no food, I’m going to call it a night.”

  Brushing a leaf off my watch, I read the time and whistle. Fourteen hours of hunting is just about my limit. Whatever stick Darrel has up his ass about this eavesdropper, it can’t possibly be urgent enough to justify weakening ourselves. What if this boyfriend actually is a threat?

  “Your friend is going the right way,” comes a low, grating voice only feet away from me.

  I turn my head slowly, scanning the area, but I only see tree trunks and boulders. Troll. It has to be. Nothing else can get this close and evade my senses so completely. They can blend into the trees and rocks without a trace…until they attack, that is.

  I’m reminded of how thankful I am that trolls abhor the taste of wolves—rock trolls can grow to be the size of houses.

  “Going the right way for what?” I ask as I scan the moonlight dappled trunks and ferns, hoping I can spot the creature when it speaks again.

  “For the man-eating werewolf—he should be hunting deer. He’s scaring off prey.”

  Nope. I’m out of luck when it comes to spotting this troll. The low, grating voice seems to come from everywhere at once, as if the breeze carries it, spreading the sound through the air.

  Then the words register.

  I had thought the scent was perhaps a little off—but a man-eater? And under Jack Riley’s nose the whole time? Dating his daughter?

  I shake my head, but I’m not sure if it’s out of negation or exasperation. From what I’ve seen of the Six Rivers Pack, it’s very poor. Most of the werewolves around town are working construction or service jobs. The few times we did fly-bys on the pack-house, it’d been buzzing with wolves—eating and drinking and laughing. If this pack had been anywhere else in the country than the Heartland, I’d have told my brothers to let this pack manage itself. Poor didn’t mean unhappy any more than rich meant happy.

  But if there are man-eaters here…

  An alpha should know these things—he or she should feel it through their pack bonds. Clearly, Jack Riley can’t manage his pack—or anyone for that matter.

  Three yips have me bounding after my brother. Seriously, why haven’t we taken a fucking break for lunch and dinner? My boots fly over the ferns and soft brush. When I feel the sediment give way beneath me, I leap into the air and splash down on slippery, wet rocks.

  Darkness consumes the inner ravine, and I see only the barest of green outlines of the trees and brush around me. Inhaling past the pungent smell of moss and lichen, I scent my brother. My heartbeat thuds so loudly, I swear I can hear it. I only slow my movements when my brother’s muzzle pokes out from the brush.

  “Seriously? You fucking dickhead. I thought the man-eater got you.” I stand. “Well, now my jeans are soaked. Thanks for that.”

  Darrel only shakes his head, chuffs, and disappears back into the bushes.

  “You’re welcome,” I say as I climb up the bank.

  Probably on purpose, Darrel leads me straight into a patch of blackberries, so I spend the rest of the hike repeatedly detaching my skin from thorny stalks. I end up crawling on hands and knees in soft mulch and consider changing into a wolf even though it would be wildly inconvenient at this point and make me even more hungry.

  Darrel halts and whacks me in the face with his bushy tail.

  “Shit. Is he in there?” I whisper as I try to peer past my brother’s fuzzy ass. So little light ventures into this part of the forest, making even my night vision useless.

  It only takes a second for my alarm bells to stop ringing. Darrel isn’t growling, he just isn’t moving even though we’re in a tunnel of thorns. Maybe we’re going the wrong way after all. Pushing at the blackberry stalks with my hand, rather than my leather jacket covered arm—my hand will heal—I peek my head around one more time. A waft of putrid air hits my nose.

  Well, fuck.

  It seems like their man-eater has quite the appetite. The smell of death is thick and fresh—meaning there are probably several bodies in there. Darrel is going no further, too, which probably means the scene isn’t one he can force himself to walk into.

  What am I thinking, anyway, making my brother go first?

  “Hey, buddy.” I lean into the stalks, making sure I can get through to my brother. “Let’s back out, and I’ll go in while you find his most recent trail out there.”

  It takes Darrel a few long seconds to show any sign that he’s heard me, but he finally shakes his head and continues trotting forward. Three paces on, the area opens up enough for me to crawl alongside my brother. The rancid piss smell is so strong here, I can taste it at the back of my throat. Along with the urine smell mingles the smell of blood and rotting corpses.

  Soft sediment rains down on my back. That, coupled with the stillness of the air, makes me conclude that it’s so fucking dark around us because we’ve been crawling through a cave.

  Reaching into my pocket, I pull out my phone. Using its flashlight app will smart my pride a little—admitting I need help to see when my brother likely doesn’t—but the darkness is so thick here, it feels solid.

  “You might want to close your eyes,” I say right before I click on the app. When I shine the beam around the cave, I’m glad I probably just blinded Darrel for a few minutes. I can ignore the piles of corpses. I let my gaze pass over them without focusing on their faces. I know Darrel won’t be able to do that. It just isn’t in his nature.

  We appear to be underground within a massive system of tree roots. Thick, gnarled roots web around us, holding up dirt and rocks that slowly rain down. The space is probably only ten feet deep and twenty feet wide. Just like Darrel had said, the eavesdropper smells awful, and the entire area reeks of piss, blood, and semen. From what I can tell, the man-eater is the only sick fuck—which is a relief. The scent of the wolf’s musk clings to one side of the cave, and when I crawl over the wet dirt toward that side to check out what the man-eater is so attracted to, my
heart nearly stops within my chest.

  Underneath all the other scents, I smell Scarlet. Pieces of her clothing are piled to one side, along with photographs of her smiling face. Some of the photos remain perfectly preserved, where others are marked with a red pen across her throat, clearly depicting her with a slit throat.

  “Fuck!” I say, making Darrel turn to me from where his nose was buried deep in a discarded and ripped sweatshirt. “There’s a Scarlet shrine in the corner, and it looks like he’s planning to do more than jack off to her photos.” Checking my phone, I find what I fear most, no signal. “Damn it! Lance is in town—but I don’t have a motherfucking signal.”

  It takes me five minutes to scramble out of the cave and up to a vantage point that has a cell signal. Darrel stays close on my heels. When the call finally goes through to Lance, I greet him with, “Some man-eating werewolf sicko is after our Scarlet.”

  I’m not sure where ‘our' Scarlet came from, but Lance immediately comes back with, “She said she taught dance on Thursdays at a shelter—there are two shelters in Arcata and three in Eureka—I’m heading to the one nearest her house now.”

  Thank the gods Lance has a memory like a steel trap, because I had completely forgotten about Scarlet teaching dance at a shelter. I quickly tell Lance what Darrel and I found in the cave. “We're following the sicko’s most recent trail now. If he’s stalking her, we’ll be right behind him.”

  Darrel takes off, not waiting for me—which is fine.

  The moment Lance disconnects, I start sprinting. What terrifies me to my core is this most recent trail is at least an hour old, meaning if the man-eater is stalking Scarlet now, he might already have her.

  Chapter Fourteen

  Scarlet

  The teens funnel out slower than I want them to tonight, many of them lingering to help Mack and me right the furniture into a living room and hang-out space. They pepper us with questions until the shelter workers finally insist the teens head into the secured, residence part of the building. From what I’ve been told, the area is fortified with silver, iron, bells, and garlic, as well as conventional locks—which gives me inexpressible relief with how paranoid I’m feeling tonight. The flames of my paranoia have fanned into full out wildfire, and I pull out my phone to shoot off a text to Zane—feeling stupid all the while I’m doing it.

  I challenged the three Knight alphas to a dominance fight for next week. I’m probably just getting worried over nothing, but I’m at the shelter and afraid they might try to take me out of the equation early. Will you stop by and bring Brenda and the cavalry along with you just in case?

  Thank goodness Zane is already patrolling with the dominant wolves of the pack and I don’t have to call my father or mother—especially since I’m probably just freaking out over nothing. I don’t know the Knight brothers, but they don’t seem like the type of cowards who’d pull a move like this.

  Their brother was, though.

  Maybe they truly aren't as different as I want to believe.

  Looking at the text, I regret not opening up to Zane days ago about the Knight brothers. This is a really crappy way for him to find out about all this—right when I’m fearing attack, but…should have, would have, could have and all that. I’m telling him now. I guess part of me believed the Knight brothers wouldn’t attack.

  Maybe they won’t.

  Maybe I am losing it.

  Mack picks up his bag after the last couch is pushed into place and comes to wrap an arm around my shoulder, pulling me into a hug.

  “Did something else happen?” he asks, proving that while he gave me a reprieve, he’s not letting me out of telling him what’s the matter. “Is it about Zeezee?” He nods to my phone.

  Almost sighing in relief at the out he gave me, I give him an amused twist of the lips I barely have to fake. “I love my sister, but a new day pretty much means a new Zeezee drama. My dad wants me to talk some sense into her again.”

  “Why do your parents let her get away with this shit?” he asks. “How many times are you going to have to go smooth things over with her employers and find her another job?”

  I know he’s saying “smooth things over” as a courtesy, as what happened on Monday with the fae-dance-shoes dude was mild compared to some of the situations Zeezee has landed herself in.

  Holding up my hands, I gesture up to the sky in exaggerated exasperation. “She’s so freaking smart. Unlike me, she got accepted to Perez with zero effort—I did all the leg work for her, but she got in. Now that I’m not going back, she’s claiming she has to stay home to help me support the pack, but she’s the one who keeps running us into legal complications. I just don’t speak Zeezee.”

  Yep.

  She’s definitely pissed me off more times than I can count since I got back a year ago, and I’ll use her as an excuse for my bad mood any day if it can get Mack to take off while I deal with whoever is staking out the warehouse.

  “Well, where are you parked?”

  “Down the street,” I say, gesturing in the direction of the bus station parking lot a block over.

  “I’ll walk you to your car.”

  Crap. Bringing a fae prince to a werewolf challenge would probably be like bringing a sword to a bazooka fight. Mack might be superb back-up—I don’t know, but there’s no way he won’t involve himself if he sees three giant male werewolves challenging me. Werewolves have rules for combat and challenges, and having Mack insert himself could make those rules fly out the window. All three Knight brothers might attack at once and most likely kill us both--easily. Even if we win, it would add another three illegal alpha killings to my record—scratch that, it could start a war between the werewolves and fae.

  Bringing werewolves from my pack as back-up—that’s alpha challenge 101—but Mack can’t be part of this.

  Trying to steady my voice, I say, “That’s not necessary, Mack. I’m going to be in the bathroom for a little bit anyway. I think Aunt Flow might be making the rounds a little early this month.”

  He holds his hands up in mock horror as his eyes glint with humor. “That information is need to know, Scar, and I don’t need to know that.”

  He grins at me and pulls me into an even tighter hug, and I force a laugh.

  “You’ll text me when you’re driving off and when you get home safe?”

  “Yes—you overprotective bear.” I cuddle against his chest, breathing in his sweat and minty scent that’s so wholly him. “I promise to text you as much as you want me to.”

  He pulls back and brushes some hair off my shoulder.

  “See you Saturday for lunch?”

  “Absolutely.”

  He stares at me for a moment before a new emotion darkens the soft color of his eyes. I swallow hard, noticing the change in the atmosphere but not really understanding what’s going on.

  Mack, my best friend…looks like he’s seriously considering kissing me again all these years later. My dream memory swims up in my mind, the bleachers, his mouth on mine, his hands sliding under my clothes. Here, now, his hands slowly slide to my lower back and draw me in closer until my chest is touching his. My nipples harden beneath the fabric of my leotard as heat swims through my core.

  What the hell is happening?

  He tilts his head forward, eyes locked on my lips.

  “Mack.” I raise my hand between us, pressing my fingers over his mouth.

  He stops moving as his blue gaze snaps back up to mine. “Sorry,” he whispers onto my fingers. “Scar, I’m—”

  “It’s okay...just, maybe we should wait to hang out until next Thursday. Maybe we need a breather.”

  Maybe we both need a breather, judging by how my body is humming at his lightest touch. But I’m not a cheater. Never will be. What happened in my dream was involuntary and not wrong—I realize this now—this is voluntary. This would be all kinds of wrong.

  The slam of the door startles us both, and Mack’s arms drop from around me.

  We both look at the
front door, but nobody is there.

  Even though my heart is pounding out a furious rhythm, I manage to let out a strained chuckle.

  “Probably just the wind,” I say.

  “Right.” He nods and rubs the back of his neck, looking a little embarrassed and uneasy. “We should get going and lock up before the wind does some real damage. And I’m starving.”

  “Me too,” I say, probably a little too enthusiastically. I’m relieved for any change of subject. Hopefully, we can forget this bizarre and uncomfortable moment ever happened rather than analyze it any further.

  “I’ll walk you to the door and lock it behind you,” I say.

  “And then you’ll text me.” He points at me like I might consider anything else. “I want you to tell me when you’re safely in your car, so I don’t get worried.”

  “Nothing to worry about.”

  “We both know that’s not true, Scar.”

  I nod, knowing Mack’s never going to get over the way we took off for New York so long ago.

  “I’ll text you,” I say with a nod.

  I walk him to the door and watch through the window as he gets to his suped-up electric SUV, waves a final goodbye, and drives off.

  Going back inside to grab my dance bag, I’m not all that astonished when three very large men step from the far corner of the room—I am surprised, however, that they’re complete strangers.

  Well, shit.

  They fan out around me in the wide space that serves as the shelter’s hang out area, stinking of vanilla of all things. What? Is there a sale on vanilla bath bombs or something?

  “I didn’t take the Knight brothers for such cowards,” I say, “sending betas instead of facing me themselves. I was actually hoping they were worth submitting to, but, oh well.” I actually do feel disappointment thrum low in my belly. I want to believe the plan I gave my father would have worked. I want to believe that while they might share blood with Jacob Knight—Aaron, Darrel, and Lance are nothing like him.