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He snatched her away from his face with a roar of anger and threw her at the wall. Her skull hit the brick with a crack. Agony crashed into her head, and dots obscured her blurry vision.
She landed on her feet. But her legs, weak from the drugs, quivered so hard they almost went out from under her.
Woozy and tired, the cat nonetheless focused on her prey. She hissed. Coiled. Sprang so fast she was a blur.
The human toppled backwards, hitting the ground hard. He screamed as she dug her fangs and claws deep into his face once more. She viciously bit and—
The cat then felt something hard and cold nudge her flank. The gun. He shot her again.
Striding back into the Tavern, Alex frowned. Bree was nowhere to be seen. She wouldn’t give even a hint of a shit what Moira—who was still ranting outside to Elle—thought about anything. But he knew that being the center of all that attention would have left Bree feeling awkward and uncomfortable. He wanted to check on her; wanted to be sure she was okay.
Alex stalked over to the bar and slapped his hands on the wooden surface. “Where is she?”
Gerard gave him a wary look. “Break room. Vinnie told her to go have a minute to herself.”
Alex skirted the bar and followed her scent down the hall. But it didn’t lead him to the break room, it led him to the rear exit.
“Where’re you going?” Gerard called out, trailing after him.
Alex shoved open the door, and an array of smells assaulted him—Fox. Drugs. Blood. Pain. Fear.
Red-hot fury slammed into him as he caught sight of a large male—his face and arm both shredded and bleeding heavily—trying to drag a weak but thrashing pallas cat along the ground. Son of a fucking bitch.
Gerard yelled Vinnie’s name at the top of his lungs as he rushed back inside, but Alex barely heard him over the sound of his beast roaring in his head. The animal rushed to the surface, forcing the shift.
The wolverine narrowed his small, piercing eyes at the male who’d dared to touch his cat. The hairs on the beast’s back lifted as he bared his sharp teeth and stuck up his bushy tail. A long, deep, rumbly growl rattled out of him.
The fox shifter dropped the cat. “Oh, shit.” He ran.
The wolverine charged. His large, webbed paws thundered along the ground. The fox was fast, but not fast enough. The beast pounced, crashing into the male’s back, and shoved him to the ground.
With guttural growls sawing at the wolverine’s throat, he savagely attacked his prey, sinking his long, curved claws deep into the male’s back. He sliced through cloth and skin over and over, stomping so hard on the fox’s spine he fractured bones.
Blood oozed from the vicious, deep gashes that crisscrossed the fox’s back. The coppery scent of it rushed into the beast’s lungs. It fueled his fury. Incited and goaded him to attack again and again.
The fox tried to buck him off, but the wolverine’s stocky, muscular build was far too heavy. The male swung his arm backwards, aiming for the animal’s head. The wolverine caught the limb with his powerful jaws and clamped down, crushing bone and tasting blood. The crack mingled with the fox’s scream.
Footsteps pounded along the ground. The wolverine released the broken, mangled arm and snarled at the people approaching. They slowed but didn’t stop. When one of them got too close to the sleeping pallas cat, the wolverine snapped his teeth in warning. The female stumbled to a halt, breathing hard.
“Don’t kill the fox,” said the male at front of the group. His Alpha.
The wolverine only growled.
Vinnie Devereaux eyed his nephew’s beast warily. Not a lot disturbed Vinnie—he was born that way according to his mother—but the sound of a wolverine’s growl? That soul-chilling, hackle-raising, bone-rattling sound that he’d only otherwise heard in werewolf-themed horror movies? Yeah, that would unnerve just about anyone.
Wolverines might look like small, stocky bears when in their animal form, but they were built to kill. Their powerful, steel-trap-like jaws could crunch bone, and their sharp, curved claws were ideal for hooking, shredding, and digging. Moreover, their incredibly tough hide meant they could take a beating and keep on going.
In sum, they were hard to hurt and even harder to kill.
“No, Elle,” he said quietly to his daughter, sensing she wanted to get to Bree’s cat, who was sprawled on the ground, unconscious. He was presuming the tranquilizer gun a few feet away from her was responsible for that. “He’s not going to let anyone near her.”
Elle glared at him. “But—”
“You can hear her heart beating nice and steady. She’s fine.”
“She’s fucking drugged is what she is,” clipped Mateo. “I can smell it. And she’s hurt.”
Blood matted her long, gray coat that was tipped with white—a coat usually so fluffy and pretty with its frosted silvery appearance. “I don’t think all that blood is hers.”
