Risky and Wild(82)

“Thank you for the cake,” I tell Fauna as she comes out of the living room, pausing for a moment in her tight black jeans and boots. She runs a hand over the tattoos on her left arm, but gives me a small smile. It looks genuine enough which is a good thing. I've liked Fauna from moment one.

There's a pause as she glances out the window and notices her daughter snuggling up to Glacier. Fauna frowns slightly before turning back to me.

“You're welcome, Deputy Mayor,” she says, putting her hand on my shoulder and squeezing tight. “It's for luck. Because girl, trust me: you're gonna need it.”





Lyric's official introduction as my old lady goes over about as well as it could considering the circumstances. For at least one afternoon, nobody brings up the fact that she's the mayor's daughter. It's a bloody fucking miracle.

“This is it?” I ask when we stop over at her place on our way home from the barbecue. A black duffel bag hangs from my left hand. It's not even half-full of clothes. “You've got only three pairs of lacy knickers in here; that's not nearly enough.”

“Don't be crude,” Lyric says, tossing a narrow eyed glare over one shoulder. “And I already told you: we're not moving in together.”

“What do you call this then?” I ask, kicking the small plastic bin on the floor in front of me. It's got a hairbrush, a stick of deodorant, a toothbrush, heaps of soap and shampoos. Lyric's been wearing a decent amount of makeup lately, but I notice she doesn't bother to pack much which is fine by me. That's one of the things I liked about her first off, the way she doesn't care about painting her face for every damn outing. She's pretty in makeup, pretty without. Doesn't matter much to me either way.

“I'm only staying with you for a few days, just until this whole … thing with the cartel and the FBI blows over.”

“Could be more than a few days, Pint-Size.” My voice sounds grave, too grave considering this is our first day being engaged, but it's true. If the Saldaña Cartel has decided they need our territory to do their business, they won't stop until we either put 'em in the ground or get the FBI to do it for us. “About Sully,” I start, but Lyric's already rising to her feet and giving me a look.

“Tomorrow at dinner, I'll get Sully straightened out.” There's a long pause as she shifts her gaze to the floor and then flicks those big green eyes up to my face. “We'll get Sully straightened out.”

I raise my brows.

“Dinner at the mayor's place? And I'm invited. Bleeding hell, Pint-Size.”

“But not with this,” she wiggles the ring at me, “just as … friends concerned with Sully's well-being. This has to happen; it's the only way I can see avoiding unnecessary violence and heartache. If Sully doesn't throw this bone to the FBI, it really could be weeks or months or even years until they figure out where to start looking. And I sure as hell don't want my town turning into some kind of drug war front.” A shiver travels down her spine. “You hear all sorts of stories about the cartels and the things they do. I can't imagine letting that happen to Trinidad.”

I take a step forward, dropping the duffel bag on the end of Lyric's bed as I slip my arms around her and pull her close, pressing my lips up against the sweet scent of her hair. She doesn't just taste like wildflowers and honey; she smells like them, too.

“Those things,” I say as I kiss my way down the side of her face. “Won't happen here. The Wolves control the underground, and in a way, we also control the city. We have family here, children and wives and houses that we've worked our arses off for.” I pull Lyric's body more tightly against mine and breathe against her ear, enjoying the shiver that works its way down her spine. “If they want in here, they'll have to go to war with us and I guarantee you, Pint-Size, that the Alpha Wolves will win.”



There's something about seeing Lyric in my bed, dressed in nothing but a loose T-shirt and a pair of panties. And it sure is something else to see her moving around in my kitchen, her hair mussy and her eyes half-lidded with sleep as she tries to figure out how to use my French press.

“Well, hello there, the future Mrs. McBride.” I slide my arms around Lyric's waist as she pours boiling water on the coffee grounds and puts the lid over the white steam.

“I prefer hyphenated names,” she says and I laugh, the sound echoing around the quiet kitchen. Outside, it's another bloody miserable morning, gray and dull, the sky like a slice of granite. Fuck, but the weather here is depressing. Good thing I have hot coffee and a hot woman to make up for it.

“You ready for a cuppa?” Lyric asks, affecting a dreadful faux British accent. I snort as I brush some hair off her neck and press my lips to her skin.