Shift Happens(10)

“Let me introduce you to some of my pack,” Wick said. The other two stood up to join us. Wick pointed at each one and named them.

“Ryan.” The ginger nodded to acknowledge his name. “Ryan is my second,” Wick explained.

“John.” Wick pointed at the black man who clenched his jaw and balled his hands into fists. What was his problem?

“…and Jess.” Wick’s voice softened when he spoke her name.

“That’s Jessica to you,” she said in a hard flat voice.

Wick didn’t look alarmed or reprimand her; instead, his lips tugged up at one corner. He had a soft spot for this one.

Biting the urge to flip them off, I ground my teeth and managed to bite out, “Pleasure.”

From Ryan’s snort, I knew my tone came across sarcastically. It wasn’t a delight to meet them, not at all. My chances of escape decreased severely with their presence. In a one-on-one fight, I’d put money on my mountain lion against a Werewolf any day. But three? I knew my limits. I was outnumbered and outgunned.

“This is Andy.” Wick gestured to me.

“That’s Andrea to you,” I added, proving I could be equally as childish. Wick grunted, but he didn’t make any comments about my mother. Thank God.

“She will be our guest for the next couple of days while she mends,” Wick said.

“Guest?” Jessica asked in disbelief.

“He means prisoner,” I said. A spade was a spade, after all.

“She will be treated as a guest…” Wick restated before I had a chance to add anything. “But she will be guarded at all times and not allowed to leave.”

“So a prisoner minus the torture and uncomfortable accommodations?” Jessica’s dark tone made it clear she disapproved of the distinction.

“Yes,” Wick said.

“Christine’s not going to like it,” John said.

“Christine doesn’t have a say,” Wick replied.

Who the fuck’s Christine? Not liking the sudden hollow feeling in my chest, I swallowed and kept silent.

“What happens in a couple of days?” Ryan asked, his voice a husky rasp.

“She goes to see Lucien.”

All three of Wick’s Werewolves flinched. Ryan shot me a sympathetic look and John didn’t look as pissed off as before. Jessica’s face transformed into an expressionless mask. She looked away.

My stomach knotted and my throat constricted. Great. Meeting Lucien now made the top of my Things I Don’t Want To Do list.

“And then what?” Ryan asked.

Wick sighed and shrugged. “We’ll see.”

I didn’t like the sound of that. If I came out of the Lucien meeting alive, I planned to go on my merry way. Tra-la-la.

“I need to go to work to check on a few things.” Wick paused and looked around the room. Satisfied with what he saw, namely the lack of escape routes if I had to guess, he continued, “You three are to remain here and keep a close eye on her. The doors and windows stay closed and locked at all times.”

Jessica’s head snapped up. “Why?” she demanded to know. “It’s already stuffy in here.”

“Because I said so.” Wick spoke softly, but the dominance in his voice rolled across the room. I felt it and I wasn’t pack. Jessica’s body snapped to attention. I all but expected her to roll on her back and expose the soft, vulnerable tissue of her belly and neck, or start licking his face in supplication.

She merely nodded and Wick appeared satisfied with her response. Too bad.

Wick turned to me and his hand flashed out. I flinched, expecting a strike, but he gently ran a finger down my cheek. Looking at his tense mouth, I knew he’d seen my initial reaction, but he didn’t comment on it. Instead, his body relaxed and he spoke softly, not soft enough to keep it from the others, but enough to give a pretense of privacy. “Behave.”

A shiver ran down my spine as if thousands of leaf-cutter ants danced along it.

Wick straightened and gave his pack members one last meaningful look. “Ryan, I would like a word with you before I go.”

Ryan nodded and followed him out of the room. To avoid checking out Wick’s backside, I turned to face the two Werewolves in the room who openly despised me—the gruesome twosome—and no visible escape routes.





Chapter Five


The stare Jessica cast me before sitting down on the chair irritated me, like an ill-fitting sweater from a used clothing store. Instead of offering me her exposed back, she opted for a backwards stride to make it to her seat. It looked ridiculous.

John chose to stand off to my right and pace, back and forth, like a model with OCD and a limited runway, casting wary glances in my direction every third or fourth step. Burnt cinnamon wafted off him in waves. He was pissed.