But not Carnage Island.
No, they let us police ourselves.
Because they’re too chicken-shit to deal with our level of savagery.
I carefully navigate my way around the giant fountain in the middle of Rich Dick’s driveway. It’s a pompous centerpiece that I doubt anyone actually likes. But it successfully keeps me from gunning the engine—I save that for once I’m through the gate and speeding out of the neighborhood.
The tie is the first to go, the damn silk resembling a rope that I want to set on fire.
I unfasten the top button of my shirt next.
Then I hit the Dial icon on my screen.
Tieran answers on the first ring. “You on your way back?”
“Yeah,” I tell him. “Cash in pocket.”
“He count it again?”
“Yep.”
“Saves me the trouble,” Tieran drawls, and I can picture him leaning back in his office chair and kicking up his feet on his desk. He’s probably wearing jeans and no shirt. Lucky bastard. “One of these days, we’re going to have to kill him.”
“Yep,” I repeat, fully aware of that future task. “He thinks we’re brothers.”
Tieran grunts. “He’s an old fool blinded by his cash.”
“As long as he keeps paying us, he’s useful.”
“Until he starts asking questions,” Tieran returns. “Of which I’m hearing a few rumbling through the circle already.”
“Hmm,” I hum, fully prepared to turn around to handle the issue.
“Not now,” Tieran says, reading me easily even through the phone. “We’ll see how it plays out. And in the interim, we’ll indulge in the incoming shipment.”
“Incoming shipment?” I repeat.
“From the Elders,” he clarifies. “Fresh meat.”
“Female?” I ask hopefully.
Tieran wouldn’t waste my time on this unless the fresh meat’s female or someone from our past.
“Female,” he confirms. “That’s what I’ve been told, anyway. A feral little thing, too. She apparently killed her own mother.”
I whistle, intrigued. “Sounds like my kind of woman.”
I learned long ago that family isn’t about blood, it’s about loyalty. If I could kill my mother, I absolutely would. But my father already did it for me. Right before taking his own life.
Worthless fucking wolves.
“She’s a half-breed,” Tieran goes on, ignoring my interjection. “I guess her mother dabbled with a Carnage Wolf, created a mutt, and so her mate rejected her upon turning.”
I frown. “What? How old is she? Five?” That’s how old most pups are when they first shift.
“No,” he scoffs. “Twenty.”
“And she just found out about her patronage?” I ask, confused as hell. “Wouldn’t that have been obvious with her first shift?”
