A tall man with sandy brown hair and striking green eyes was out of a jacked-up old white Ford first. The slamming door echoed through the mountains. He cast one angry look at her, and she gasped. Blood ran from his ear, down the side of his neck, and he was carrying his arm strangely. It hung limply at his side, and crimson dripped off his middle finger in a constant pit, pat, pit, pat.
“What happened?”
The anger in the man’s face faltered. “I’m Easton.” His voice was too gravelly to be completely human, and his eyes were glowing that odd green color.
“I’m Willa. Are you okay?”
He looked down at his arm, then slid a confused look at her. “I’m fine.” Easton turned and strode up a worn trail that led into the thick pine woods.
A traumatized-looking Clinton stepped out of the other side of Easton’s truck. “You sure as hell know how to make an entrance.”
“Wait, I do?” She looked at Matt and Creed, who were getting out of the alpha’s truck more slowly, then back at Clinton. “What do you mean?”
“You spent one night here, and the Gray Backs are already bleeding for you.”
“Okay,” she drawled, a snap of anger blasting through her. “That’s bullshit. Y’all bleed all the time because you won’t stop fighting. Don’t pretend that crap started happening the second I showed up.”
Clinton’s blond brows arched high, and a slow smile split his face. “You aren’t going to take my shit, are you?”
“Not yours. Your alpha’s, though? Yes. Matt told me Creed is the boss man. You’re just a peon like me,” she said to Clinton with a wink.
“Shit, girl, I like you already. What smells good?”
“Gumbo,” she called over her shoulder as she scooped andouille sausage into the pot.
Matt’s hands slid around her middle, and he rested his forehead on her shoulder from behind.
“You hurt?” she asked quietly.
“It’s nothing that won’t heal.”
With a sigh, she turned and tried to control her fear when his eyes were that unexpected blazing silver color.
A soft growl rattled his throat. “Don’t like when you smell scared.”
“Let me see.”
“Willa,” he said with a slow shake of his head.
“Hurry up before I burn my roux.”
Matt slid his inhuman eyes to the steaming pot, then lifted his shirt. Four perfect slices curved around his ribcage, probably created from Easton’s claws. Already, they were half-healed, but the bottom cut, the deepest, was still weeping red, and his white T-shirt looked like a crime scene.
“Geez, Matt,” she murmured. “Does it hurt bad?”
He nodded his chin once. “I need a minute.” He took off toward his trailer with long strides.
“What about the crawfish?” Jason asked. “They’re ready to go in.”
“You do it.”
Jason gave Willa a look that said he was shocked to his bones, and then a slow grin stretched his face. “Well, that’s a first. Maybe having you around to settle his bear won’t be so bad after all.”
Giddy and humming, Jason pulled the bag of live crawfish from the shady patch under the prep table and pulled a knife from his back pocket. Willa added some turkey sausage and chicken stock and kept a constant stir as she watched Jason dump the mud bugs into a holey bucket and run a hose over them.
Creed pulled a plastic chair up next to the stove and handed her an already opened bottle of beer. “You cooking to win my favor?”
“Shit yeah,” she muttered. The swig of cold beer tasted like heaven as it slid down her throat. “You make me nervous.”
“You didn’t look scared of blood when Matt showed you his ribs, so that’s one point in your favor. What all do you know about us?”
“Just what Matt’s told me and what I read on Cora Wright’s Web site. She was the one in charge of helping the Breck Crew come out to the public. She does question and answer forums and has a bunch of frequently asked questions on her site.”
“I know who Cora is. She advised us when we registered to the public, too.”
“Oh, right. Of course. Sorry.”
Creed took a long drink of his beer and stared thoughtfully at Jason, who was dumping a heap of pre-mixed, seasoning into the boiling pot. It was spicy enough to burn her nose from ten feet away.
“You know about claiming?” Creed asked.
The nerves were back, and if she answered him now, her voice would shake. She busied herself with tossing grandma’s secret seasoning ingredients into the gumbo. Finally, after she’d added chicken breast and okra, she answered him. “I do. At least, I think I do. Cora Wright’s—”