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One, he didn’t have to forever punish himself. Yes, he could feel guilty about what happened, but that didn’t mean he could never be happy. And secondly…
She was meant for us.
Having been with his fair share of women, Baptiste could safely say he’d never experienced the mind-blowing, out-of-body pleasure he’d found with Daphne. She fulfilled him in the way he’d heard of but never expected. At first, she’d come across as abrasive, but he’d come to appreciate her forthright nature. There was no bullshitting in her world. She told it as it was. She didn’t tolerate idiocy, nor did she hold back. It made her choice of taking him as her lover all the more special.
Even better, she made him feel happy. Hopeful. Excited about the future.
Blah. Blah. Stop being so sappy and move faster. That witch is still out there somewhere.
A reminder that hastened his steps across the street. How long would it take Circe to heal from a broken neck? A month? A week? A day? Last time he broke a leg, it took him seventy-two hours from getting the fracture to nothing showing on his x-ray. Would she heal that quickly?
He hoped not. At least they’d destroyed her base of power. Circe now would only be able to draw on her innate power and not the pool she’d been accumulating. Still, there was cause for concern as Circe’s sadism made her wily. Baptiste might be tough, but not invulnerable. It would take just a well-timed lightning strike that would temporarily fry his nerves, or a sleep spell while he was unprotected for his ass to get taken out, leaving Daphne vulnerable. Marissa had made a good point that they could use help. But who could they trust if the CA had been compromised?
Having reached the diner, Baptiste ordered some pastries, hashbrowns, and breakfast sandwiches—minus meat for him—along with some freshly squeezed juice. While he waited, he sat on a stool, staring out the big window overlooking the main road. While it was still early, the restaurant had more than a few patrons. A prickling at his nape had him turning to scan the folks inside. No one appeared to be looking in his direction. Must be his paranoia.
No, I sensed someone watching too. Beware, Garou cautioned.
“Here’s your order,” stated the woman working the cash register.
Baptiste gathered the bag of food in one hand, tray of drinks in the other. As he exited, he eyed the cars parked. No dark-tinted SUVs like his uncle employed.
He waited for traffic to pass before starting to cross the road, noticing a sedan sitting at the exit for the resort. At his back in the diner’s parking lot, he heard the sudden start and purr of an engine as someone prepared to leave. His stride quickened to get out of the way.
He didn’t move fast enough.
A vehicle slammed into him from behind, scooping him onto the hood. The drinks flew, and the paper bag ripped. As Baptiste rolled off the hood, he had to hold on to Garou lest he shift in front of an audience. The world might know about werewolves, but the Garou? He was usually kept under wraps.
Danger!
No shit. Baptiste hit the pavement on his feet but hunched over as he tried to recover. He didn’t feel the pain yet. That would come later when the bruising blossomed.
He heard more than saw the driver’s side door of the car that hit him open. He lifted his head, ready to give the person shit, only to pause.
“Jules?” He recognized the man, part of his Pack.
“Don’t make this hard,” Jules said, holding up the dreaded tranq gun.
“How about you walk away?” Baptiste countered.
“You know I can’t do that,” Jules replied, his gaze flicking to something over Baptiste’s shoulder.
Run, you idiot.
Before Baptiste could whirl to flee, the dreaded silver net came down over him.
Not again!
“No!” he roared, pulling at the burning silver strands. Before he could even start removing it, a lasso landed over him and tightened, pulling his arms to his side. “Release me.” A growl that went unheeded. His laser-like glare didn’t do anything to deter his uncle who strutted across the road, having emerged from the car waiting by the resort exit.
“Hello, nephew.” Uncle Frederick wore a suit and sunglasses that did little to hide his emotionless face.
“Don’t you fucking hello me. Tell your goons to untie me.”
“I think not.”
“How did you find me?”
“As if I wouldn’t be watching your credit cards,” Frederick chided.
