Gentry (Wolves of Winter's Edge Book 1)(5)

Gentry wasn't down and out, but he could look weak. Rhett didn't have to  know he'd kept his body in fighting shape. He didn't have to know he  was a wild wolf hunter. Gentry curled in on himself, arm slung around  his ribcage. He groaned a pained sound and spat red onto the floor.  "Fuck."

Tim backed off, but in the fluorescent lighting, he looked green, like  he would retch. Well, welcome to the club. Gentry hated that fight, too.

"Get out," Tim snarled.

Rhett was laughing, and so were some of the others.

"Damn, Striker," Rhett crowed. "You never really had a shot at alpha,  did you? You just got your ass kicked by an old man." And then his voice  lost its amusement as he growled out, "You look like your dad lying  there."

Those words caused something dark to churn inside of Gentry. That  shouldn't make sense. Alpha challenges were done as wolves. But this  ugly, awful vision of Rhett fighting his dad human flashed across his  mind, and once it was there, it wouldn't let go. Something was off.  Something was wrong.

Standing over him, Tim flashed a warning with his gray-sky eyes.

Gentry swallowed hard and struggled up, then limped out the door, daring  to give the pack his back. Daring to give Rhett his exposed neck and  spine.

"Leave town quickly before you become ashes in the wind like your old man," Rhett called out.

His mind spun like a top as he made his way outside and let the door  swing closed behind him. It was snowing harder now, big, white, fluffy  flakes. His body was running too hot with the urge to Change and rip  that motherfucker's throat out. He sighed and held out his hands, lifted  his face to the black sky and closed his eyes against the cold. It  seeped into his bones and cooled the fury in his blood with each  steadying breath he took. Is this what he was now? Fighting old friends  to survive the man who'd killed his father? All he had in the world was  pride, and Rhett had just ripped it from him in front of the people he  used to care about.

"Psst."

Gentry inhaled deeply and opened his eyes. Mila stood at the corner of  the building with a bag of food. She set it down in the snow in front of  her boots. Tears were streaming down her cheeks and dripping from her  jaw line.

"That was supposed to be you," she said, her voice shaking. "You  could've saved us." He'd never seen her angry enough to hold anyone's  gaze, much less a dominant's like his. Before she turned around the  corner, she uttered, "I loved your father, but I hate you, Gentry  Striker." She held his gaze a second longer before she disappeared.

He understood hate. He felt it all the time. For his brothers. For Rhett. For this town.                       
       
           



       

It hurt being the one who was hated, though.

He texted Asher and Roman. Where the fuck are you?

He made his way to the food, yanked it out of the snow, and strode for  his truck. Someone had bashed in his headlights and broken his  windshield into a spiderweb of glass. Fuckin' pack.

He ground his teeth against the growl that snarled up from his aching  chest. His whole body hurt from not defending himself like he wanted in  that fight. Gentry tossed the bag of food onto the passenger's seat,  shut the door beside him, and glared at the Four Horsemen. And then he  screamed for as long and as loud as his broken rib would allow.

He pulled out of the parking lot. Asher and Roman wouldn't answer his  text. They never had before. He was the responsible one, the one who got  shit done, the one who took care of the hard stuff. It had always been  like that, but it shouldn't be this way now. They weren't punk kids  anymore. They were grown. All he needed was for them to show up so they  could spread Dad's ashes and go on with the rest of their lives.

Blaire would leave tomorrow. He would make it happen, but right now, he  wished to God he could make that happen for himself, too.





Chapter Four




Okay … now what?

Blaire looked around the cabin living room expectantly. She'd put away  all her things in the single bedroom, hung her sweaters by color,  organized the drawers, placed her shoes just so in the closet, put all  her toiletries in neat lines on the counter in the bathroom, and was  dressed in her sexiest pajamas. By sexiest, she meant a long-sleeved  purple sleep shirt with cartoon llamas printed on them and matching  thermal leggings. There was a zero percent chance of her getting laid if  Gentry saw her in these, so when a sudden knock echoed through the  door, she startled hard, almost spilling her glass of red wine, and then  only opened the barrier between them a crack.

Only Gentry didn't stay outside, but shoved his way in and paced along the back wall like a wild animal in a cage.

Blaire tiptoed toward the throw blanket folded neatly on the back of the moose-print couch.

"Stop right there. Don't come any closer."

Blaire froze, mid sip of her wine. When he turned and paced the other  way, she got a good look at his face, which was swollen and bloody, and  why was he limping?

"What happened to you?" she exclaimed as she approached him.

She cornered him good, and he backed up to the wall, face averted, but  she wasn't going to be put off. "You're bleeding," she murmured,  touching the short whiskers on his jaw.

Gentry grabbed her wrist. "What part confused you, woman? Stop right there, or don't come any closer?"

Blaire gulped her wine because, truth be told, she'd filled it to the tippy top, and it was sloshing. "Who did this?"

Gentry took the glass from her hand and downed the rest like a shot. Okay then.

She tried to pull his face toward her again, but he swatted her hand  away like a pesky fly. "Stop touching me, Trouble. You're making  everything worse."

"I'm making it worse? I didn't beat you, and I shared my wine with you. You're very welcome, sir."

Gentry dragged a quick glance down her pajamas and then back up to her  face. At least he didn't laugh, but it was rather rude when he said,  "I've thought about it, and you need to leave tomorrow."

"No."

Gentry looked slapped. "What?"

"I said no. The cabin is paid for, I'm not leaving my vacation, so stop being a butthole."

One blond brow arched up. "I'm sorry, did you just call me a butthole?"

"I don't cuss."

He looked down at her pajamas again. "Are those llamas?"

"Don't judge, I didn't invite you in here. I thought you were going to  pass me the food through the crack I made in the door. Wait, where is  the food?" The panic set in a little. She wasn't good just devouring  wine on an empty stomach, and already she was feeling tipsy. "You're  bleeding for mysterious reasons, and there is no food. Gentry, I was  serious about being hungry, and what happened to your face? Did you have  a bad drug deal or a bar fight or an accident?"

"B."

"What?" she asked, dumbfounded.

"Option B-the bar fight one."

"Oh. Fantastic."

"I got food. I just left it in the truck. This was a bad idea." Slowly, he covered his crotch with his hands.

Heat blazed up her neck and landed in her cheeks as she backed off a few  steps. Well, this was awkward. He made her horny, too, but she was a  girl and could hide it better. "I'm going to … "                       
       
           



       

"You aren't wearing a bra … "

She lifted her empty glass in the air. "Get some more wine."

"Your nipples are … "

"You better be about to say ‘glorious' and not ‘big,'" she muttered,  walking away. She wasn't wearing underwear either because vacation, but  he didn't have to know that.

"Are you not wearing panties either?"

"I told you I wasn't trying to invite you in!"

The wine bottle glugged and emptied completely as she filled it to the  tip-top again. She even waited for the last few drops to shake into it  before she took a long sip.

"You weren't supposed to say no." There was a frown in his deep, sexy voice.

"Does every woman tell you yes? That sounds boring, and quite frankly,  it's probably why you're still single." Yep, she was fishing. She sipped  her wine and arched her eyebrows primly as she waited for a response.

Disappointingly, he didn't take the bait. Instead, he strode directly  for the door and disappeared outside. The swinging door banged closed,  startling her all over again. Gentry wasn't a gentle man. He was stompy,  and moved too fast, and didn't care about nearly breaking everything.  Maybe he didn't know his own strength or something. Blaire craned her  neck to watch him walk with his long, deliberate strides to his truck  parked in front of her cabin. He would probably break her in the  bedroom. Rough man. Probably spanked too hard, nibbled too roughly,  grabbed too firmly, and thrusted … too … deeply.